We're All a Little Crazy
Fandom: Inception
Characters: Eames/Arthur, Yusuf, Dom, Ariadne
Rating: NC-17 (Part 1/2)
Genre: Romance, Humor, Very brief angst/hurt/comfort
Word Count: (Overall: 5,800) Part 1: 3,245; Part 2: 2,555
Warnings: Language, m/m smut, brief descriptions of violence
Disclaimer: Inception and it's characters do not belong to me. I get nothing from this in terms of money.
Notes: Eames and Arthur want to have sex, Ariadne wants Dom, Yusuf wants to be a chef, and Cobb is just oblivious. Sequel to The Exploits of a Forger and a Point Man, but can be read alone.
We're All a Little Crazy
The first time Arthur and Eames have sex doesn’t really count, according to both Arthur and Eames. They’re drunk off their asses and wallowing after a job that dragged on longer than necessary.
This is no thanks to Ariadne (the job, not the sex, or lack thereof). The problem starts when Arthur is giving her directions to a meeting place inside the dream and she’s not-so-subtly looking off in the distance.
“Is there something behind me?” Arthur asks with a frown on his face.
“Kiss me,” Ariadne orders, still gazing over his shoulder. “We could take the world by storm. He’d never forgive himself for not getting a piece of this,” she says dreamily.
“A piece-?” Arthur turns around only to see Dom attempting to kill a projection of a Bengal tiger with a spork (and while he’s obviously losing, Arthur gives him mental props for trying with limited resources). He looks back at Ari. Then at Dom, who is squinting at the unharmed tiger. His arm’s missing and it’s obvious he gave up on the utensil attack and now appears to be attempting mind control with his trademark squint.
“Yeah,” Ariadne coos. “Those eyes. Arthur, he makes getting mauled look sexy. Just look at those bedroom eyes!”
Arthur does not look. He never wants to associate bedroom eyes with getting mauled or Dom’s unnatural squint. He tells himself that if he doesn’t look, then it doesn’t count. (It does, he learns later. After the job, he finds he can’t look at Dom in fear of seeing his bedroom (NORMAL, GODDAMNIT) eyes and trying to figure out if they made Mal uncomfortable or not during sex.)
But, we digress.
The first time it happens, it’s awkward and they fumble a lot and they’re so drunk they forget it the next day.
“Did we have sex?” Arthur asks the next day, lying in bed next to Eames. And Eames, wrapped tightly in the blankets, startles and promptly falls off the edge.
“Shit,” he groans. Arthur continues looking at the area where Eames used to be.
“Did we?” he repeats.
“Are your pants on?” Eames voice floats up from the floor.
Arthur gazes down his body. “Kind of.” One pant leg is completely off his body, and the other wrinkled and creased around his calf. His boxers are dangerously low on his hips. “Kind of,” he repeats.
“Kind of?”
“Did we have sex?” Arthur asks again, because dammit he wants an answer. Right after he throws up, of course.
He stumbles to the bathroom and barely manages to get his head in the general vicinity of the toilet before he’s puking up everything from the night before.
He hears a faint retching sound and Eames enters behind him. “That sure makes me feel better about myself to see you throwing up after thinking about sex with me. Good job boosting my self-esteem.”
Arthur gags on the taste in his mouth. “You don’t need me to boost your ego. You do that well enough on your own. And why aren’t you sick? Don’t tell me the English have some built in tolerance to hangovers.”
“I might’ve already completed that task back in the hallway,” Eames admits sheepishly.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Um, Arthur?”
“Hm?”
“I think we might’ve had sex.”
“You think?”
“Well,” Eames points to the garbage can, where a tied off and obviously used condom is resting on top of a pile of tissues. “Either we had sex, or we have strange jerk-off methods when we’re plastered.” He kneels behind Arthur and places his hands on his ass.
“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur glares.
“I’m…checking you,” Eames confesses, pulling down the point man’s underwear. “I’m supposed to after sex, aren’t I? To make sure you’re okay and that nothing tore…”
Arthur slaps his hand. “Don’t touch my ass. Why do you think I’m the one who bottomed?”
“You’re obviously a catcher.”
“Don’t touch my ass,” Arthur tells him again, flushing the toilet. “Or else I’ll jam my gun up yours and fire it off, and no, my gun is not a euphemism for my penis.”
Eames releases him immediately. He’s learned the hard way that Arthur always made good on his threats. And sometimes more so.
“So you’re saying that you’d be on top?” Eames questions, still nonchalantly checking for blood stains on Arthur’s underwear, from a distance, of course. “Darling, the only time you’d be on top would be if you’re riding my dick, which I think would be a wonderful way to end this conversation.”
“Eames, I am feeling absolutely no pleasure with that idea. I just spent the last ten minutes throwing up my soul, my suit is ruined, and I can’t remember anything from last night. Sex is the last thing on my mind.”
“You look pretty hot bent over like that. If I didn’t know you were sick, I’d want to fuck you again.”
“That shouldn’t even count!” Arthur argues. “I mean, I always thought it was a cliché, but the first time should be special, you know? And the fact that neither of us can remember and are now arguing about who topped, which really doesn’t matter, honestly, but Christ. Can we just drop it? I feel bad enough without knowing my first.”
He groans, and dry heaves into the toilet.
“I think,” Eames starts, trying to quell his own rising nausea.
“No. You don’t think. You just do. Can we please just drop this and go on with our lives?”
Eames looks offended. “I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted, that I think we should just forget about this. We’ve already determined that we like each other, so this shouldn’t be as awkward as we’re making it. I agree with you. A first should be special, and memorable. What we’re getting out of this is a story that we’ll probably never tell anyone, but it’s nothing distinctive.”
“So,” Arthur begins, “we’ll forget about this. No one will know, and we’ll push it into the back of our minds.”
“Yes. Under the label: that one time we had sex, while we totally didn’t have sex.”
“Perfect. Shake on it?”
Eames holds out his hand. Arthur grasps it and they shake.
Right after Eames releases all the toxins from the previous night into the sink, of course.
* * *
The first (second) time they have (attempt) sex, it’s just as awkward and uncomfortable as the forgotten time.
Except this time they’re both sober enough to remember.
From the kissing (“I’ve never kissed someone who slobbered as much as you, Arthur.” “Shut the fuck up Eames. You’d be fine with it if I were sucking your dick.” “Well, why aren’t you?”) to the fondling (“Loosen your grip, Eames. Like, shit, yeah like that.”) to the dirty talk (“You like that?” “Of course I like it, shut up and fuck me. Jesus.”) and finally to the sex itself.
Shirts are taken off, pants are thrown aside, underwear pulled down, and bodies thrown haphazardly on a bed together.
“God, Eames move, please.”
Eames grunts. “You aren’t complaining, ah, now? I thought that-fuck-that you weren’t a bottom.”
“Christ, would you stop talking and fuck me, Eames?” Arthur drags his hips down over Eames’, drawing a low moan from both men. “Please.”
“God, got you begging for my cock, don’t I, darling?” Eames runs his hands down the point man’s back, feeling the muscles quiver and clench underneath his touch.
“I wouldn’t have to beg if you’d put it in me,” Arthur grinds out. “Don’t make me beg.”
“You want it, don’t you? Fuck, Arthur.”
“I swear to God Eames, if you taunt me one more time I’ll rip it off and hang it in my room as a keepsake and I’ll never need your sorry ass for sex, again,” Arthur spits out.
And, sadly, with the prospect of unwanted dick removal, Eames softens a bit. He pushes Arthur off him. “Shit. This isn’t working.”
Arthur stares at the ceiling. “No shit. It’s hard to have sex when one of us is flaccid,” he said drily.
“I wouldn’t be flaccid if you’d stop threatening me.”
“I wouldn’t have to threaten you if you didn’t taunt me.”
“I don’t like threats, especially from you.”
“I don’t like derisions, especially from you.”
Eames groans and pulls his pants from the pile at the foot of the bed. He throws another pair at Arthur, silently hoping they hit him in the face.
They do.
Eames does a small victory air punch in his mind.
And in real life.
“You’re a dick,” Arthur tells him.
“It appears that neither of us is getting any tonight. Want a beer?”
“I want sex.”
“I could suck you off,” Eames offers.
“You could.”
“Do you want me to?”
“I swear Eames, this is part of the reason we didn’t have sex. Yes, I want you to.”
“That’s all I needed to hear, darling,” Eames says as he starts stroking Arthur to full hardness.
“Hnn, yeah.” Eames’ hand speeds up slightly and Arthur’s breath hitches. “Christ. I thou-thought that you were, oh fuck, going to suck me off.”
“Yeah,” Eames breathes out. He licks up the underside of Arthur’s throbbing cock, dragging his tongue over the swollen head and drawing out a low moan from the point man.
“Eames, please.”
Eames, always aiming to satisfy, takes Arthur into his mouth.
“Oh, shit.” Arthur bucks slightly, but Eames holds his hips down and continues taking him in. When he’s as far as he can go, he pulls back and uses his hand to stroke from the base. “Eames.”
“Hm,” he acknowledges as he goes back down again, speed picking up. Arthur bucks again, trying to get further into the heat of Eames’ mouth, but Eames continues holding him down, his fingers creating bruises on his thighs.
“Eames, please, let me, ah, I need…”
Eames pulls off, resting his lips on the head and licking at the slit. “What do you want, Arthur? You want to fuck my mouth? You want my lips and tongue to make you come?”
“Yes,” Arthur breathes.
The forger quickly swallows his hardness down again, gaining speed much faster than before. His hand still twisting and pulling at what he can’t reach with his mouth. The other hand gently cradles and rubs Arthur’s testicles.
“Eames, shit. Nng,” Arthur gasps. “Good, so good.”
Eames pulls back, and goes down. Pulls back. Goes down. He drags one finger over the muscles of Arthur’s hole, just pressing the tip in and pulling it out.
“Oh, fuck. Close, Eames.”
Eames speeds his hand up, but continues licking at a leisurely pace. He twists his tongue over the head of Arthur’s cock, lapping at the pre-cum gathered there.
“Oh God, fuck, Eames, gonna come, gonna come,” Arthur mumbles, gasping for air. His knuckles are white as he clenches the sheets and pulls them from the corners of the bed.
The forger pulls off and quickly jerks Arthur. “Arthur,” he whispers, “do it. Come for me, darling.”
Arthur gasps and twitches as he falls over the edge, bursts of white clouding his vision, his cock spurting onto his stomach and Eames’ hand. “Eames.”
Eames strokes his stomach as Arthur catches his breath and comes down from his high.
“Jesus, Arthur.” He climbs up and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips, tangling their tongues together and letting Arthur know how good he tastes.
Arthur glances down at Eames’ obvious hardness when they pull apart. “You’re hard,” he mentions.
Eames laughs. “Anyone would be, with a show like that.”
“I want,” Arthur breathes against his lips, “to see you touch yourself.”
“Oh God.” Eames’ hand rapidly unbuttons his pants and pulls his cock out, jerking it quickly, so hard and so close already. “Arthur.”
“That’s it,” Arthur smiles. “That’s it, Eames.”
“Fuck, you’re gonna make me come if you keep talking, darling.”
Arthur laughs. “That’s the point. I want to see you touch yourself. I want to see you vulnerable. I need to see you come, Eames. Are you going to do that for me?”
Eames kisses Arthur, teeth clashing and too much tongue and a string of saliva connecting their lips when they separate. It isn’t even close to perfect, but Arthur moans greedily and that’s more than enough to make Eames’ cock jerk in his hand.
“Yes, yes. ‘M close.”
“Eames.” Arthur glides his hands down the other man’s back, drawing a sigh out. “Go faster,” he orders.
Eames picks up his pace, his hand sliding effortlessly over his slippery cock, his thumb collecting the pre-cum at his tip and adding that to the slickness.
“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, oh fuck, please, I need to come, ah, I need, I need…”
Arthur sucks his fingers into his mouth, and replaces Eames’ hand with his own. Eames grunts and pushes into Arthur’s thigh.
“That’s it.” Arthur sucks gently on Eames’ earlobe. “Come for me,” he rasps against his ear.
Three more quick jerks has Eames shuddering against Arthur’s thigh as he comes, groaning low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut and his face pinched in euphoria.
Arthur kisses him as he relaxes and wipes his hand on the bed sheet.
“Christ,” Eames mouths. His fingers are creating patterns over Arthur’s stomach.
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees. “That counts as sex, right?”
Eames contemplates this. “I think. Not sex sex, but some form of it.”
“Do you think it would count as our first?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either.”
“If we don’t know,” Eames starts.
“Then it doesn’t count,” Arthur finishes.
“We’ll have to try again sometime,” Eames propositions.
“Yeah, I’m okay with that.”
They shake on it.
* * *
The third time is the charm, or so they say in a perfect world.
Eames and Arthur are far from perfect, however, and their lives follow suit, so it’s more than plausible that instead of partaking in a “hot and sweaty fuck-fest,” as Eames so politely puts it, they instead come together in a cacophony of swears and sweaty bodies.
And not in a good way.
“Bloody hell, Arthur. You don’t need to manhandle Litlu Mig.”
Arthur stops touching him. “Did you seriously name your penis, “Mini Me” in Icelandic?” Arthur looks thoughtful. “Although I suppose if you dressed it in atrociously bright paisley it would look almost identical to you.”
Eames playfully slaps Arthur’s head. “Are you saying that my dick needs a costume before you do anything with it?”
“No,” Arthur laughs, “I’m saying that if your dick was alive, it would be impossible to tell the two of you apart.”
“I’m not a dick!”
“Mhm. Okay.”
“Shut up,” Eames pouts.
“Do you want me to continue?” Arthur asks as he starts stroking Eames again.
“You’ll kill me, dear.”
“I highly doubt that. I’d feel guilty for partaking in necrophilia.”
“You have, yeah, the worst dirty ta-ah-” Eames is cut off as Arthur wraps his lips around the head of his cock, and swiftly pulls him into his mouth. “Bloody Christ.”
“I hope not,” Arthur mumbles around a mouthful of cock. It sounds more like, “Ah mmph mmp.”
It feels amazing to Eames. And that’s when things really start changing for the worse.
Eames thrusts into the wet heat of Arthur’s mouth, the head of his cock grazing the back of the point man’s throat.
Arthur gags, not expecting the sudden jerk of Eames’ hips, but continues sucking. Eames cards his fingers through Arthur’s hair, guiding him further down his cock.
“Mrmph,” Arthur shouts, eyes wide. Eames gasps and tightens his grip.
Arthur chokes and frantically pushes at Eames’ hips, lifting himself off of his dick. He then promptly waves Eames away and dashes towards the bathroom. Hacking noises drift out of the small room.
Eames stands up, a worried frown on his face, and pulls his underwear back up. He walks over to where Arthur is, curved over the toilet and still gagging, and places his hands gently on his shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”
Arthur gives him a feeble thumbs up. “Yeah, yeah. I apparently have more of a gag reflex than I originally thought. I’m fine. Just…I don’t think it would be smart for me to continue blowing you,” he tells Eames sadly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Eames tells him gently. “I’d rather you didn’t throw up all over Litlu Mig,” he jokes.
“Oh, the poor thing,” Arthur smiles. “Sorry.”
“Want to fuck, instead?”
Blood rushes to Arthur’s cock, and he sucks his lower lip in, letting it slip back out with a small, wet sound. “Yeah.”
It’s easy to get back into the spirit of things after some making out and fondling.
“I really want to fuck you,” Eames whispers.
“Okay, yeah. Please.”
Arthur lies back on the bed, spreading his legs apart for Eames’ access. Eames’ breath catches, and he kisses Arthur, a sweet, short thing that leaves both of their lips tingling. “Suck,” he orders, moving his fingers by Arthur’s mouth. Arthur draws them in, hollowing out his cheeks and lathering the digits as much as possible, his tongue creating patterns over the fingertips. Eames’ mouth is open slightly, his eyes glazed over. He removes his fingers out and traces around Arthur’s entrance.
“Eames.”
He slides the first finger in, watching in rapture as Arthur’s facial expression changes. He waits for Arthur to loosen and relax, and curves his finger.
“Oh fuck,” Arthur pants. “More.”
Eames quickly adds another finger, feeling Arthur’s walls clench around the intrusion. “Fuck, you’re tight, darling.” He adds a third, waited for Arthur to adjust and spreads them slightly. Arthur writhes underneath him. The tip of his finger grazes over Arthur’s prostate and he watches in fascination as Arthur gasps loudly.
“Oh God, oh God, Eames. Fuck, please.”
“I bet,” Eames says, still curling his fingers against Arthur’s prostate, “that I could make you come just like this.”
“Pr-probably,” Arthur stutters.
Eames speeds up the thrusts of his fingers, making sure to hit the prostate each time. Arthur shakes beneath him, sweat glistening on his face and chest. He pulls Eames toward him and attaches their lips together. He plunges his tongue next to Eames’, curling and rolling them together. He teases the roof of Eames’ mouth and swallows down the forger’s groan.
“Close, close Eames,” Arthur says against his lips.
Eames’ fingers twitch and that’s when his hand tightens up in a familiar way. He draws in a sharp breath. “Shit.” His fingers still.
Arthur growls. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Eames.”
“Shit, sorry, wrist cramped.” He pulls his fingers out and moans in pain. “Oh, fuck.” He cradles his hand. “I didn’t wait long enough.”
“Eames.”
“Yeah, ok.” He awkwardly slips his left hand around Arthur’s cock, and just five strong pulls has Arthur coming over his hand.
“Oh.”
“Ow,” Eames mutters.
“I don’t think I want to have sex.”
Just then, Arthur’s phone buzzes.
From: Dom
To: Arthur, Eames, Ariadne, Yusuf
Sent at 8:26PM
Job in India in three days. Spread the word.
“Why does he automatically assume that we’re going?” Eames asks.
“Probably because we always do,” Arthur answers, putting his pants back on. “I’m going to head back to my apartment.”
“No sex?”
“I’m tired.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Goodbye Mr. Eames.”
“Goodbye Arthur.”
He watches the door shut, sighs, and walks towards the shower to finish masturbating under the water.
Just because Arthur won’t have sex with him, doesn’t mean he has to have blue balls.
He’s not that masochistic.
* * *
Continued in Part 2