a.n. So, I saw Inception last night and had my mind thoroughly raped. It was fantastic, I loved every second. Which is why it's hardly surprising that I'm here posting my inane ramblings on FF net. Hope you enjoy!

disclaimer. I don't own Inception, but I sincerely hope I can someday write something even half as good as the script that inspired it.

.fantasy.

She knows she's dreaming because she doesn't know how she got here. It doesn't matter though, nothing does. Not with his lips by her ear, warmth breath ghosting over the delicate line of her neck.

They're in a hotel room. The same one he'd taken his wife to every year for their anniversary. As if she needed more proof that none of this was real. She's never been here besides that one fateful time she'd been party to his most painful recollections. She doesn't even know the city they're in let alone the name of the place.

He walks her backwards, pressing his lips to her pulse point and sucking hard as he does so. She gasps at the contact, the last vestiges of her breath gushing from her lungs as her back hits the wall. He's never gentle with her. There's too much pain, hurt and guilt inside of him. When he kisses her, touches her, she imagines it's trying to escape from his body.

It is for this very reason, that she is never gentle with him. When he draws back up her body to kiss her, she bites his lip causing him to growl in her mouth. The sound is rough and primal, and it does strange things to the temperature of the room. A molten heat begins to pool in her belly and she can feel the first beads of sweat break out across her chest.

She releases his lip and he thrusts forward, tongue not asking for entrance but demanding it. She cedes to his request and he all but sucks the life from her. It's as if she's trapped underwater or in outer space, because the lack of oxygen is all but threatening to make her pass out.

In this sense, it's more of a battle than a kiss. There's blood in it and she can taste it on her tongue, metallic and heady, along with something that is undeniably him. Masculine is the only word she can use to describe it. He's older, stronger and altogether more manly than any college boy she's ever known.

He presses into her harder, as if trying to push her into the wall or into himself, she's not sure which. It hurts a lot, and if this weren't a dream she's sure she'd be black and blue by the time they were finished. Even so, she can't help but pull him in closer. She holds him tight. Digs her nails in. Tries to convince him that she's real, she's here, and that it's her he's doing this with not some demented shade of his wife.

The heat in her belly flares when the hand that's pulling at her hair creeps downwards, skirting over her breasts, down over her stomach, to the front of her trousers. The hand creeps lower still until its right between her thighs, directly over the place she so desperately needs him. With skilled fingers, he rubs her there and she grinds against him, seeking the friction she wants and craves. All the while, he swallows her moans and holds her steady because lord knows she'd fall to the floor without his body to support her.

She tires of this teasing before long, and because it's her dream he wastes not time in ripping open her fly and shoving her trousers down around her ankles. He does the same with his own trousers and before long, she feels her feet leave the ground as he lifts her up and onto him. Again, it hurts because he's long and thick, establishing a rhythm before she's got a moment to adjust. Vaguely, she wonders why this is... She never thought herself prone to masochistic tenancies before any of this started. But then again, she hadn't been hopelessly irrevocably in love with him back then.

A few more thrusts and it starts feeling good. He's all the way in now and she can feel herself stretched to the limit, coiled tight and ready to burst. A whimper leaves her lips, almost uninhibited, compounded by the feel of his tongue as he licks the slick beads of perspiration from her chest. She holds on tight, feeling the muscles of his shoulders ripple beneath her fingers through the fabric of his shirt. He feels so strong when they're like this, utterly unbreakable. She doesn't want to think that it might have something to do with him being so far beyond repair.

Their pace increases and before long, she can hear him grunting in her ear. His cheek brushes hers with every stroke and she can't help but notice how damp he feels. For a moment, she wonders if he's crying, but she stops worrying the moment he straightens, pounding some hidden place deep inside of her. Bright colours and stars flare before her eyes all at once as she falls over the edge, taking him with her. It's so intense and perfect that she can't understand why the orgasmic kick doesn't wake her up.

a.n. So, what did you think? Pretty sure I should be writing an essay on the differences between realism and neorealism right about now, but what can I say? When the smut bunnies call...