Fic: The Psychology of Dreaming
Title The Psychology of Dreaming
Rating R
Fandom Inception
Characters -
Pairing Arthur/Eames (one-sided)
Summery Controlling your dreams turns out to be harder than Arthur thought
The first few dreams are the hardest. Dreams are hard to control and to form when they're your own, not just changing a landscape or manipulating phsyics. The whole scene is difficult and outside Arthur's skill set. He was a learner, a people's man; fit to deal with beings, not projections. So shaping his dream world, creating everything out of nothing, is difficult.
The first time was messy. The second found colour and shape, though not nearly specific enough. And it was exhausting, leaving him sleeping deep, and dreaming of overwhelming blank blackness. By the third or fourth, he hit his stride, and started to shape his worlds. Cobb always said to be careful, don't draw from memories. Create, create, create. Try everything new.
This might be why Eames suddenly showed up beside him, lips pink and wet and warm against his ear. Arthur sucked in a quick breath, allowed himself to be pulled down and groped and fuck. Fuck.
"Eames," Arthur gulped down air, naked now, rough hands pressing all over his body and that searing mouth kissing whatever patch of skin it could. Arthur was dying, hard and dripping, never expecting how this projection would know exactly how to please him in ways he never even thought of. Like two fingers, two of them, inside him, rough and warm and scratching him from the inside out.
Another wordless shout and a half-conscious thought and Eames was fucking up into him, making him jerk and bounce and gulp down moans and scream wordlessly for his entire world to hear. A deep flush ran over his skin, burning up his ears and cheeks and opened mouth, sounds spilling out uncontrollably. Filled and pushed and jerked around, Arthur grew dizzy and fuck-drunk before he knew it, nearly screaming with how badly he needed every inch of Eames before he was going to die completely, never wake up.
A harsh bite to his nipple jerked him awake, but there was no bite. There was no one but him and the machine, now quietly lulling itself to sleep. He was clothed. He was in his room. Most importantly, he was hard as fuck all and desperate to keep dreaming.
Fucking Eames. Stupid, fucking Eames.
Relieving the pressure was easy enough, not nearly as surreal as the dream, not nearly as sweet. But it was still good, Arthur still ended up with a harsh grunt in the end and a sticky hand, and that was alright. Considering.
"You got it down yet, darling?" Eames asked the next day when he saw him, peeling an orange. Eames was a natural at dreamscaping, which fucking bugged Arthur.
"Yeah, I think I got it," he snarked back, rolling his die in his hand. Eames repulses him now.
"Proud of you," Eames had half his mouth filled with orange and winked back at him cockily.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, "How about if I grab your stupid totem, Eames."
"Oh love, that's a bit racey."
"You know what I meant."
"Alright, chill yah jets," he rolled his eyes, shoved the rest of the orange in his mouth, "Don't do nothing rash."
How could this annoying motherfucker ever end up in Arthur's dreamscape doing that. It bugged Arthur, but he just kept rolling his die and assuring himself that though psychology was the dream's playing field, not everything meant something.
Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
End.