Inception Big Bang - ALMOST LOL
When I signed up for IBB I was stupid audacious, and thought I could do two. I was chugging along pretty well until the fall season of games came out, and a mighty bit of procrastination later it became clear I'd have to sacrifice one or the other in order to make the deadline. My actual, finished IBB is going up tomorrow, but I decided I wanted to post a snip from the IBB Left Behind, just to obligate myself to finish it, because after writing 13k I don't want to forget that it's been a lot of fun.
Fandom: Inception
Title:We Weren't Born Cruel
Words: ~2100 (of 13k so far)
Rating: PG-13 (this snip only)
Pairings/Characters: Eames/OMC/OFC
Warnings: Makin' out. The fic itself is going to have a warning list a mile long when it's done.
Summary: Just a snip from a fic that's been postponed but not abandoned. It's not the beginning, or the end, and likely won't make much sense, but if you happen to take a peek, comments welcome.
It was a balmy evening in late October when a particular party of six came to the Sea Basket: two couples well into middle age, and a younger couple, no older than Eames himself. They were a mix of Indian, French, American, and refreshing British accents. As Eames waited on them for the evening he overheard a curious conversation.
"I cannot believe," said the elder of the two French women, "that you could come all the way down here, to Africa, and want to spend your entire time..." She glanced left and right. "Sight-seeing."
"We spent all day at Table Mountain," said the beautiful Indian woman beside her. "And tomorrow we're going to Hermanus to look for whales, no? This is our only chance to...enjoy the night life."
Eames' eyebrows perked as he refilled their glasses. Everyone at the table was keenly aware of his presence, and he was extremely curious as to the meaning behind their amateurish codes. Normally he would have interjected with a suggestion--getting the tourists out of their hotels was quickly becoming a specialty of his--but instead he moved on to the next table, cleaning up the leftover dishes out of what most people would consider hearing range.
"Table Mountain really was beautiful," said the young American. "I bet it would be even better at night, though."
The young woman beside him took his hand, and Eames couldn't help but smile at the impressive hunk of diamond adorning her left ring finger. "Yes, I agree. I think we should definitely go."
"And no one better than Dom to take us there," the British man agreed. "I've said it before, but it's never stopped being true that it's the youngest of us that have the greatest imaginations." Seeing the sour look on the woman beside him, he added, "But if you'd like to take in some music, we could walk by the pier first, get a drink..."
"No, it's fine." She gulped down the rest of her wine. "Let's go back to the room and get ready." She reached for her purse and pawed through it. "Which suite are we in? Mal and I will go on ahead."
Eames snuck a peek, just in time to see the name Commodore printed across a room key. "It's 313," said 'Mal.' With no room to protest, she kissed her new husband and stood from the table. "Bring me back some dessert." Though she looked reluctant, the third woman of their party joined them, and the three of them left together.
The men called Eames over to place a dessert order, which he happily took back to the kitchen. While it was being prepared, he snuck out a side door and pulled out his cell phone. "313 at the Commodore," he related to Sullivan. "They're finishing dessert now, but they're planning on going out. The women are wearing rocks. Were you able to get that new toy you were talking about?"
"Ja, and it is beautiful," said Sullivan proudly. "But it is your catch. I will let you take this one."
"Yeah? Finally starting to trust me?" Eames licked his lips. "Just let me have Piam. The two of us can handle it."
Sullivan laughed. "I will see if she is available for you."
The door behind him opened, and Eames started, expecting it to be an angry night manager. It was the young American. Both stared at each other for a beat, and then the young man smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."
Eames flashed a smile of his own. "It's all right. I'm not supposed to be on break." He bid Sullivan a quick goodbye and hung up. "Looking for the rest room?"
"Sort of." He shifted awkwardly and finally blurted out, "You wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you, would you?"
He was handsome, Eames had to give him that much: young-looking, even boyish, with blonde hair in his eyes and a natural charm. "It's your lucky night," Eames said, pulling a mostly crumpled box of cigarettes out of his pocket. "There's just two left--take'm."
"Thanks, but I'll only have time for one." He accepted, and held still as Eames lit it for him. He breathed in and out with deep, almost sensual relish. "Damn."
Eames lit the other for himself--he wouldn't get much out of it before he had to get back to work, either, but it was worth it if it meant getting something out of the kid. "Your wife making you quit?" he supposed.
"We both are, as soon as this vacation is up." A hint of a blush colored his cheeks. "It was one of the things we promised ourselves, you know...in case we have kids."
He was adorable. "How long you been married?"
"Four days." He laughed. "This is kind of our honeymoon."
"With your in-laws? Brave."
"I couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet Dr. Gavde," he said, but then stopped, as if that had been too much. He took a quick breath of his cigarette. "And the country, it's amazing. I'm already looking forward to coming back someday."
"I hope you do." Eames grinned. "And stop by here again, of course. I can give you some suggestions if you want to see some real Cape Town night life."
His eyes sparked with interest. "Definitely."
The door opened again, but that time it was the night manager, and both men hastily snuffed out their cigarettes like schoolboys caught behind the storage shed. They shared a childish smile and split up.
***
Eames and Tung got off on the third floor, laughing and leaning on each other, stopping every few doors for long, tongue-swirling kisses. Sullivan was right: she was a tiger. She knew what he wanted before even he did, and she toyed with him, sweet and infuriating. It took some time for them to reach the end of the hall, but when they did Eames abruptly took charge. He took Tung by the hips and pushed her up against the door to room 313 with a stern clatter.
Tung flashed teeth. The thick heel of her boot made another impressive bang on the door as she braced herself and pulled Eames against her. With a groan Eames leaned in, nibbling her throat, hiking her skirt up to give the security cameras a glimpse of her toned thigh. "Hear anything?"
Tung turned her ear to the door, and when a buck of Eames' hips rattled it yet again, she held her breath. A few beats passed. "Nothing." She kneaded Eames' strong shoulders. "No one."
Perfect. It was just after ten in the evening--late enough that anyone planning on going out would have left, too early for anyone on a honeymoon trip to consider calling it a night. The hotel staff had shifted to the evening crew after the dinner rush ended just after nine. And even if someone had been in the room, opened the door to Eames and Tung sucking the teeth out of each other's mouths, surely a newlywed American boy wouldn't suspect thievery over a horny waiter's night out. Eames was a fucking genius.
He slipped his hand up the back of Tung's shirt, and plucked from beneath her bra strap a card attached to a cable. With their twisting bodies blocking the camera's view of the door, he shoved the card into the slot. "In," he whispered, and she let her head fall back with a quiet whimper, conscious of her role as decoy.
Eames stroked her thigh, distracted momentarily from the job at hand; act or not, it was hard to stay focused with Tung panting and churning in his arms. He groped his way up under her skirt, and had to pause to remember the right sequence of keys he needed to press on the keypad strapped to her panties.
The machine went to work, and Eames kept his hand in place, afraid that otherwise he might accidentally press something with his cock. He turned his lips against Tung's ear and spoke in well-rehearsed Zulu: "When we're done, I'm going to take you home and get you pregnant."
Tung sputtered and laughed, her hair sticking to the corners of her mouth. "Salla taught you that?" she asked in Afrikaans.
"Yeah." Eames beamed with his victory. "Did you like it?"
"Yes." She yanked his head back for a lip-melting kiss. "Yes, give me daughters," she teased, and they laughed.
Her panties beeped, and without breaking their kiss Eames replaced the card in her bra and nudged the door handle with his elbow. Tung wrapped her legs around him as the door swung inward, her weight shifting, and Eames grunted happily as he carried her inside. He didn't make it more than three steps.
The room wasn't empty. Eames immediately spotted a man's head rising over the back of a chair, and he halted, Tung still twisted around him. A story sprang to his lips, a string of excuses, but they didn't come, even as the seconds ticked by and the chance of discovery increased. He could feel Tung holding her breath. When nearly half a minute had passed and still the man did not seem to acknowledge the intrusion, Eames carefully let Tung down and crept forward, despite her anxious-eyed protests.
The man wasn't alone: another three chairs were nearby, all occupied, and the two older women were stretched out on the bed. None stirred as Eames approached. Eames feared that they had stumbled onto some gruesome murder scene--even a trap--but then he saw the tubes. Each of the six occupants had an IV tube taped to the inside his or her wrist. He followed them, down to a strange contraption of glass and plungers and a blinking LED clock reading 11:13.
Tung tip-toed up behind him. She took in the bizarre scene with wide eyes and tugged on Eames' sleeve. "Let's go."
"Wait." Eames waved his hand in front of the face of the young American, but he still did not stir. "They're all pretty high on something." He shot Tung a look. "Is this how you shoot up in Cape Town?"
Tung shook her head emphatically. "Let's go."
"Not until we get what we came for." Eames handed her a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. "Clean up. I'll...handle this."
Tung made a face, but she tugged the gloves on and hurried toward the luggage. As she checked the most obvious places for jewelry and traveler's checks, Eames got a closer look at the machine. He had been around all manner of drugs since he was a teenager--knew better than to try most--but he didn't recognize the amber substance in the bottles, nor its unusual method of delivery. His curiosity ached, and he looked to the young American. "Honeymoon halfway around the world and you're shooting up with your in-laws," he murmured. "I've seen everything."
Tung slipped a few necklaces over her head and tucked them down the front of her blouse. "Eames."
Eames glanced to the clock: 9:52 and ticking down. He spurred into action, gloving up before relieving the men of their neckties to use as ligatures. There weren't enough to go around so he began stripping the beds, tying the men to their chairs with sheets and pillow cases. When Tung began to protest in her own language Eames cut her off. "We're taking it. Whatever it is, it's got to be worth something." He smirked to himself as he flipped the sheets over his victims' faces. "Sullivan will love it."
Tung continued to curse, but she followed suit, tying the two women together at the ankle using a pair of trousers pulled from a suitcase. None of the bindings would last long, but they were sturdy enough to keep a couple tourists immobilized long enough for an escape. When everything was secure, Eames tiptoed into the center of the mess of tubing and took a deep breath.
He pulled the IV out of the older men first. Blood dribbled from their wrists, but they were slow to respond, grumbling as if roused from a deep sleep. From there Eames and Tung moved swiftly through the others. Within seconds all six were free of the needles, a faint tug on each sent the tubes whirring back into the device. As the men and women groggily came into awareness of their situation, Eames packed the machinery into its suit case carrier and snapped it shut.
"What's going on?" asked one of the women. "Are we still under?"
Tung snatched a pair of earrings and a man's watch off the dresser and headed for the door. Eames started after, but as he passed between two of the chairs, the young American managed to stretch his hand and catch Eames' sleeve. "Who's there?" he demanded with sterner authority than Eames had thought could come out of that boyish face. He struggled, and the sheet began to slip from his face. "I know we're awake!" Eames yanked free and he and Tung fled from the room.
Years later, Eames would remember it as how he met Dom Cobb.
There. Now I'm obligated to finish.
Fandom: Inception
Title:We Weren't Born Cruel
Words: ~2100 (of 13k so far)
Rating: PG-13 (this snip only)
Pairings/Characters: Eames/OMC/OFC
Warnings: Makin' out. The fic itself is going to have a warning list a mile long when it's done.
Summary: Just a snip from a fic that's been postponed but not abandoned. It's not the beginning, or the end, and likely won't make much sense, but if you happen to take a peek, comments welcome.
It was a balmy evening in late October when a particular party of six came to the Sea Basket: two couples well into middle age, and a younger couple, no older than Eames himself. They were a mix of Indian, French, American, and refreshing British accents. As Eames waited on them for the evening he overheard a curious conversation.
"I cannot believe," said the elder of the two French women, "that you could come all the way down here, to Africa, and want to spend your entire time..." She glanced left and right. "Sight-seeing."
"We spent all day at Table Mountain," said the beautiful Indian woman beside her. "And tomorrow we're going to Hermanus to look for whales, no? This is our only chance to...enjoy the night life."
Eames' eyebrows perked as he refilled their glasses. Everyone at the table was keenly aware of his presence, and he was extremely curious as to the meaning behind their amateurish codes. Normally he would have interjected with a suggestion--getting the tourists out of their hotels was quickly becoming a specialty of his--but instead he moved on to the next table, cleaning up the leftover dishes out of what most people would consider hearing range.
"Table Mountain really was beautiful," said the young American. "I bet it would be even better at night, though."
The young woman beside him took his hand, and Eames couldn't help but smile at the impressive hunk of diamond adorning her left ring finger. "Yes, I agree. I think we should definitely go."
"And no one better than Dom to take us there," the British man agreed. "I've said it before, but it's never stopped being true that it's the youngest of us that have the greatest imaginations." Seeing the sour look on the woman beside him, he added, "But if you'd like to take in some music, we could walk by the pier first, get a drink..."
"No, it's fine." She gulped down the rest of her wine. "Let's go back to the room and get ready." She reached for her purse and pawed through it. "Which suite are we in? Mal and I will go on ahead."
Eames snuck a peek, just in time to see the name Commodore printed across a room key. "It's 313," said 'Mal.' With no room to protest, she kissed her new husband and stood from the table. "Bring me back some dessert." Though she looked reluctant, the third woman of their party joined them, and the three of them left together.
The men called Eames over to place a dessert order, which he happily took back to the kitchen. While it was being prepared, he snuck out a side door and pulled out his cell phone. "313 at the Commodore," he related to Sullivan. "They're finishing dessert now, but they're planning on going out. The women are wearing rocks. Were you able to get that new toy you were talking about?"
"Ja, and it is beautiful," said Sullivan proudly. "But it is your catch. I will let you take this one."
"Yeah? Finally starting to trust me?" Eames licked his lips. "Just let me have Piam. The two of us can handle it."
Sullivan laughed. "I will see if she is available for you."
The door behind him opened, and Eames started, expecting it to be an angry night manager. It was the young American. Both stared at each other for a beat, and then the young man smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."
Eames flashed a smile of his own. "It's all right. I'm not supposed to be on break." He bid Sullivan a quick goodbye and hung up. "Looking for the rest room?"
"Sort of." He shifted awkwardly and finally blurted out, "You wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you, would you?"
He was handsome, Eames had to give him that much: young-looking, even boyish, with blonde hair in his eyes and a natural charm. "It's your lucky night," Eames said, pulling a mostly crumpled box of cigarettes out of his pocket. "There's just two left--take'm."
"Thanks, but I'll only have time for one." He accepted, and held still as Eames lit it for him. He breathed in and out with deep, almost sensual relish. "Damn."
Eames lit the other for himself--he wouldn't get much out of it before he had to get back to work, either, but it was worth it if it meant getting something out of the kid. "Your wife making you quit?" he supposed.
"We both are, as soon as this vacation is up." A hint of a blush colored his cheeks. "It was one of the things we promised ourselves, you know...in case we have kids."
He was adorable. "How long you been married?"
"Four days." He laughed. "This is kind of our honeymoon."
"With your in-laws? Brave."
"I couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet Dr. Gavde," he said, but then stopped, as if that had been too much. He took a quick breath of his cigarette. "And the country, it's amazing. I'm already looking forward to coming back someday."
"I hope you do." Eames grinned. "And stop by here again, of course. I can give you some suggestions if you want to see some real Cape Town night life."
His eyes sparked with interest. "Definitely."
The door opened again, but that time it was the night manager, and both men hastily snuffed out their cigarettes like schoolboys caught behind the storage shed. They shared a childish smile and split up.
***
Eames and Tung got off on the third floor, laughing and leaning on each other, stopping every few doors for long, tongue-swirling kisses. Sullivan was right: she was a tiger. She knew what he wanted before even he did, and she toyed with him, sweet and infuriating. It took some time for them to reach the end of the hall, but when they did Eames abruptly took charge. He took Tung by the hips and pushed her up against the door to room 313 with a stern clatter.
Tung flashed teeth. The thick heel of her boot made another impressive bang on the door as she braced herself and pulled Eames against her. With a groan Eames leaned in, nibbling her throat, hiking her skirt up to give the security cameras a glimpse of her toned thigh. "Hear anything?"
Tung turned her ear to the door, and when a buck of Eames' hips rattled it yet again, she held her breath. A few beats passed. "Nothing." She kneaded Eames' strong shoulders. "No one."
Perfect. It was just after ten in the evening--late enough that anyone planning on going out would have left, too early for anyone on a honeymoon trip to consider calling it a night. The hotel staff had shifted to the evening crew after the dinner rush ended just after nine. And even if someone had been in the room, opened the door to Eames and Tung sucking the teeth out of each other's mouths, surely a newlywed American boy wouldn't suspect thievery over a horny waiter's night out. Eames was a fucking genius.
He slipped his hand up the back of Tung's shirt, and plucked from beneath her bra strap a card attached to a cable. With their twisting bodies blocking the camera's view of the door, he shoved the card into the slot. "In," he whispered, and she let her head fall back with a quiet whimper, conscious of her role as decoy.
Eames stroked her thigh, distracted momentarily from the job at hand; act or not, it was hard to stay focused with Tung panting and churning in his arms. He groped his way up under her skirt, and had to pause to remember the right sequence of keys he needed to press on the keypad strapped to her panties.
The machine went to work, and Eames kept his hand in place, afraid that otherwise he might accidentally press something with his cock. He turned his lips against Tung's ear and spoke in well-rehearsed Zulu: "When we're done, I'm going to take you home and get you pregnant."
Tung sputtered and laughed, her hair sticking to the corners of her mouth. "Salla taught you that?" she asked in Afrikaans.
"Yeah." Eames beamed with his victory. "Did you like it?"
"Yes." She yanked his head back for a lip-melting kiss. "Yes, give me daughters," she teased, and they laughed.
Her panties beeped, and without breaking their kiss Eames replaced the card in her bra and nudged the door handle with his elbow. Tung wrapped her legs around him as the door swung inward, her weight shifting, and Eames grunted happily as he carried her inside. He didn't make it more than three steps.
The room wasn't empty. Eames immediately spotted a man's head rising over the back of a chair, and he halted, Tung still twisted around him. A story sprang to his lips, a string of excuses, but they didn't come, even as the seconds ticked by and the chance of discovery increased. He could feel Tung holding her breath. When nearly half a minute had passed and still the man did not seem to acknowledge the intrusion, Eames carefully let Tung down and crept forward, despite her anxious-eyed protests.
The man wasn't alone: another three chairs were nearby, all occupied, and the two older women were stretched out on the bed. None stirred as Eames approached. Eames feared that they had stumbled onto some gruesome murder scene--even a trap--but then he saw the tubes. Each of the six occupants had an IV tube taped to the inside his or her wrist. He followed them, down to a strange contraption of glass and plungers and a blinking LED clock reading 11:13.
Tung tip-toed up behind him. She took in the bizarre scene with wide eyes and tugged on Eames' sleeve. "Let's go."
"Wait." Eames waved his hand in front of the face of the young American, but he still did not stir. "They're all pretty high on something." He shot Tung a look. "Is this how you shoot up in Cape Town?"
Tung shook her head emphatically. "Let's go."
"Not until we get what we came for." Eames handed her a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. "Clean up. I'll...handle this."
Tung made a face, but she tugged the gloves on and hurried toward the luggage. As she checked the most obvious places for jewelry and traveler's checks, Eames got a closer look at the machine. He had been around all manner of drugs since he was a teenager--knew better than to try most--but he didn't recognize the amber substance in the bottles, nor its unusual method of delivery. His curiosity ached, and he looked to the young American. "Honeymoon halfway around the world and you're shooting up with your in-laws," he murmured. "I've seen everything."
Tung slipped a few necklaces over her head and tucked them down the front of her blouse. "Eames."
Eames glanced to the clock: 9:52 and ticking down. He spurred into action, gloving up before relieving the men of their neckties to use as ligatures. There weren't enough to go around so he began stripping the beds, tying the men to their chairs with sheets and pillow cases. When Tung began to protest in her own language Eames cut her off. "We're taking it. Whatever it is, it's got to be worth something." He smirked to himself as he flipped the sheets over his victims' faces. "Sullivan will love it."
Tung continued to curse, but she followed suit, tying the two women together at the ankle using a pair of trousers pulled from a suitcase. None of the bindings would last long, but they were sturdy enough to keep a couple tourists immobilized long enough for an escape. When everything was secure, Eames tiptoed into the center of the mess of tubing and took a deep breath.
He pulled the IV out of the older men first. Blood dribbled from their wrists, but they were slow to respond, grumbling as if roused from a deep sleep. From there Eames and Tung moved swiftly through the others. Within seconds all six were free of the needles, a faint tug on each sent the tubes whirring back into the device. As the men and women groggily came into awareness of their situation, Eames packed the machinery into its suit case carrier and snapped it shut.
"What's going on?" asked one of the women. "Are we still under?"
Tung snatched a pair of earrings and a man's watch off the dresser and headed for the door. Eames started after, but as he passed between two of the chairs, the young American managed to stretch his hand and catch Eames' sleeve. "Who's there?" he demanded with sterner authority than Eames had thought could come out of that boyish face. He struggled, and the sheet began to slip from his face. "I know we're awake!" Eames yanked free and he and Tung fled from the room.
Years later, Eames would remember it as how he met Dom Cobb.
There. Now I'm obligated to finish.