Story Title: like the truth
Rated: NC-17 for rimming
Status: Complete || 800+
Summary: [Eames/Arthur] Your mind is deceptive, but totems never lie.
Steve's Notes: Written for the inception_kink community on LiveJournal. The original prompt was Arthur/Eames, "Now you know what rimming is." Mostly, I'm a huge fan of QaF and pretty much freaked out, even if the resulting story had nothing to do with the show.
Disclaimer: Inception © Christopher Nolan

Your designer slacks are somewhere around your ankles, your fastidiousness is rumpled like your shirt, and your pride has been lost with your cufflinks. Only the loaded dice in your hand remain, their worn red corners digging into the white of your palm. You think about dropping them onto the dining table you've been thrown across—but if this is a dream, you don't want to know, yet. You are sure this is, but there's a sliver of doubt sliced between your heart and your reason; you wonder if this could be reality.

Behind you, you feel Eames rub himself against your seam. His belt buckle is cold against your skin and the denim of his jeans is rough. Just fuck me, you want to snarl; you hate when he teases, even though he is so very good at it. You want to feel him inside you now, stretching you with his cock, making you burn slow like the end of a cigarette. Hurry the fuck up, you want to hiss but don't, because you would have to look over your shoulder and see him, his mouth slashed arrogantly across his rugged face, his pupils blown as wide as yours, his hands dark against the swell of your muscle.

This is when he drops to his knees.

It's a careless movement and it must hurt as his joints crack against the polished wood floor. You try not to jerk and look back—you don't know what he's doing and that has never boded well—so you look up instead, hyperextending your neck. The hotel's chandelier above you is warm and yellow, the light glittering off the crystals in hundreds of thousands of fragments. You try to focus on its beauty instead of the way Eames holds an ass cheek in each hand, how he spreads you apart so he can see the desperate twitch of you. He's so close you can feel his breath against your hole. It makes you tense and you begin to grind out, "What are you doing?"

But his tongue is against you and you never imagined it and you choke on the syllables crashing past your teeth. Slick and hot and clever, Eames' tongue circles your dark pink pucker with a vague pressure that is too much and not enough. You push back; he pushes forward. His nose bumps the last vertebra of your spine as his tongue pushes further and further inside you. His thumbs creep inwards too, spit slicked, and pull you wider so he can go deeper. You think it's like when he has his hard cock against you but not in you, a promise of more, yet you know it's nothing like that. Nothing compares to this.

In and out, out and in, Eames thrusts his tongue in a parody of his hips, as your hips falter. Your forehead is damp against the polished tabletop, one hand a fist and the other clawing desperately for purchase, and your legs are as far apart as they will go. Open, the edges of your vision is blurry and gray; closed, stars clamor against the darkness. You think you're not getting enough air, but your mouth is dry from too much. "Fuck," you pant. "Will—you—just—"

Eames wriggles a finger in beside his tongue, replacing the vice of his thumbs. Your body swallows it greedily, wantonly, and Eames pushes a hard, bony knuckle against the secrets you keep inside you: the need to be unraveled, the need to be pushed, the need to be used. Eames prods them again and again with his knuckle as easily as he always could with words, and it irritates you as much as it turns you on. Maybe one day it will turn you on more—but that's a distant dream.

You come without having your dick touched, the straw that broke your back a quick twist of Eames' finger. You gasp into your forearm and your hips stutter against the hard line of the table; the bruises that form will be interesting. Without meaning to, you feel your grip around your dice go slack, and they clatter across the table's surface with clicks that sound like a jerky semi-automatic.

"Well, darling," Eames murmurs as he pulls away with a pop, as he slides back up your body, as he presses a kiss to the sweaty curl of hair behind your ear. He sounds indulgent. "Now you know what rimming—what the bloody hell are those?"

Your dice tell you the truth, there in red and white, like the throbbing half moons you've dug into your palms, like your teeth cutting into your lip, like Eames' blood on your knuckles when you break his nose, and—for once—you wish you didn't know.

end.