Have You Seen My Marbles?

AO3 Meme

2015-09-27T23:57:12Z

Via reeby10

Top 5 Hits

Right In Front of Your Face, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 8295 hits. Phil and Clint get engaged and go out together to spread the news, but everyone is just shocked to hear they're together. --My first fic in the Marvel fandom, and my most popular fic ever. I think it's because it inverts a common trope for this pairing.

A Rock and a Hard Place, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 6783 hits. Clint didn't even know why he kept hoping for some spark of humanity in his captors. Anybody who would kidnap and breed omegas and then sell the resulting children obviously didn't have a soul. He promised himself he would see them in hell. He was going to send them there himself. --A/B/O, non-con. A fic full of things I don't usually write.

Every Word A Caress, Harry Potter, Draco/Harry, 3171 hits. Draco uses his words to orgasmic effect. --Dirty talk, explicit sex. A very recent fic, so the fact that it's third for hits is a little surprising

Mirror, Mirror, Teen Wolf, Isaac/Stiles, 2548 hits. Isaac makes Stiles watch. --Dirty talk, watching. A very short fic and my first published smut.

Living It Up When I'm Going Down, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 2536 hits. Imagine your OTP stuck in an elevator after they've had a fight. --Very short, with only some kissing/making out.

Top 5 Kudos

Right In Front of Your Face, 591 kudos

A Rock and a Hard Place, 271 kudos

Living It Up When I'm Going Down, 226 kudos

Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 214 kudos. Phil likes Clint more than he should, so he's just going to distance himself until he gets things under control. Too bad Clint isn't cooperating. --A fun little fic, no smut to speak of.

My Hero, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 208 kudos. Clint's circus days come in handy when he has to keep himself and Coulson from plunging to their deaths. --Another fun little fic with no smut.

Top 5 bookmarks

Right In Front of Your Face, 99 bookmarks

A Rock and a Hard Place, 40 bookmarks

My Hero, 20 bookmarks

Baby, It's Cold Inside, MCU, Clint/Coulson, 19 bookmarks. In which Clint does not freeze his balls off, despite Natasha's best efforts. --No smut again, but this time I had fully intended to include it. I ran out of time before my deadline and ended up doing a fade to black.

Every Word A Caress, 18 bookmarks

I suppose it's not surprising that most of my fics with the most hits have smut in them. The fact that my fics with the most kudos mostly don't have smut tells me what I already know - that I'm not very good at writing smut. The bookmarks just seem random after my top two popular ones.

Graphics repost

2015-02-16T18:23:37Z

Trying my hand at graphics

2015-02-14T19:46:18Z

I made these to go with a Valentine's Day fic.

ereshai @ 2013-08-31T16:24:00

2013-08-31T21:24:42Z

marvel_bang

We need artists for the Marvel Big Bang.

What Have I Been Doing With My Time?

2013-06-23T17:40:06Z

The short answer...Teen Wolf and zombies.

Here's what I wrote for zombi_fic_ation:

At the End of All Things-Teen Wolf, Scott & Stiles brOTP, warning for sad :'(

Baby, It's Cold Outside-Original fic, lots of swearing, some zombie violence

Necessity-Avengers, Nick Fury, warning for some zombie violence

I was also participating in fullmoon_ficlet for a while, which is a weekly Teen Wolf prompt community. All of my contributions can be found here.

You know you want it

2013-03-09T22:47:49Z

March 31st, The Dead Will Rise! @ zombi_fic_ation

ereshai @ 2012-09-14T23:26:00

2012-09-15T04:26:28Z

Stealing from my flist :)

Comment and I will...

1. Tell you why I friended you.
2. Associate you with something.
3. Tell you something I like about you.
4. Tell you a memory I have of you.
5. Associate you with a character/pairing.
6. Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
7. Tell you my favorite userpic of yours.

Inception Reverse Bang: This Thing, I Don't Know What It Is, Ariadne/Eames

2012-07-31T15:07:33Z

Fic Title: This Thing, I Don't Know What It Is
Author: ereshai
Pairing(s): Ariadne/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4300
Warnings: None

Summary: Ariadne has been pulled into one of Eames' jobs. It doesn't look like it's going to end well.

A/N: Thanks to chromonym for the awesome, last minute beta.
Link to art: Art by cunning_croft

Okay. I'll tell you what I know about Eames. But I don’t know where to start. I’m not a storyteller. There’s a reason I’m an architect.
I don’t know much about him. We didn’t exactly become best friends on the Fischer job. I saw him once or twice after that, but we didn’t spend any time together. We knew each other. No, we knew of each other.
Okay, okay, I’ll get on with it.
I’ll start with my vacation.
It was really bright outside. I mean, when I left the airport. I couldn’t really see anything for a moment. And I was so angry that the airline had lost my luggage. Isn’t that such a stupid cliché? Anyway, I was pretty distracted. And then, there he was.

“Ari! How was your flight?” Suddenly, there was a warm hand on her hip and a soft kiss on her cheek.
“What?” Ariadne stepped back, away from the stranger’s touch. Only it wasn’t a stranger. “Eames, what are you doing here?”
“Now, darling, did you really think I would forget to pick you up? Is this what you think of me?” He looked around. “No luggage?”
“No, no luggage. What is going on?” What were the odds that his presence was just a coincidence?
Eames stepped closer and put his arms around her in a loose hug. “Just play along, will you?” he whispered in her ear. “The gentleman by the taxis – don’t look – is a twitchy little fuck. I need a reason to be here that’s nothing to do with him. You were sent by the gods in answer to my rather blasphemous prayers.” Wow. Really a coincidence, then.
Ariadne belatedly returned his hug. “Are you involving me in something criminal?” she murmured.
“Only briefly. You don’t mind, do you? I shall take you to dinner to make up for it.” He stepped back and grinned at her.
“It better be a really nice restaurant.” She reached out and brushed a bit of lint from his jacket. He threw an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the curb where several taxis were waiting.
“You know it doesn’t matter to me if you walk about with nothing on whilst you’re visiting, but really, not even a carry on?” His voice was a shade too loud and teasing. They were standing next to a balding man wearing glasses and a horrible plaid coat. Ariadne assumed this was Eames’ target. He did look a little twitchy. He glanced at them briefly, then resumed his anxious glances at the taxis.
“My luggage is somewhere in the South Pacific, apparently on a much needed vacation. The airline assures me it will arrive soon.”
“Perhaps if they get their thumbs out of their arses. Shall I go in and sort them out?” Eames pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“No, I don’t think that would help. Let’s just get out of here.” She shifted her weight and adjusted her purse. What were they waiting for?
“We’ll make do, then. I’ll lend you a shirt to sleep in.” He tapped a cigarette out of the pack and put it to his lips. He was reaching for his lighter when she grabbed the cigarette and shoved it back in the pack.
“We agreed. You don’t smoke around me.” She wondered how to convey her allergy to smoke without blowing Eames’ cover, but he only raised an eyebrow at her.
“Sorry, I forgot, love. Bad habits die hard. If you were here more often, I’m sure I would remember.”
She was saved from answering by the arrival of a hotel car. The twitchy man picked up the briefcase by his feet and got in. Eames watched the car pull away.
“That answers that question. Well, I must be getting on. I’ll look you up later for that dinner.” Eames flung himself into one of the waiting taxis. He gave her a little wave as it drove off.
Ariadne lifted her hand in response. Dinner. Right. He didn’t even know where she was staying.

*****

I honestly thought that would be the end of it. Eames is what he is, and I knew he wasn’t serious about dinner. So I wasn’t expecting to see him again, unless it was by pure chance.
I was renting a house during my stay, and a car, too, so I could get around. The house was a nice little place just outside of town, with a gorgeous view of the water and private access to the beach – anyway, a few days later, I went out to do a few errands when I ran into Eames again. Literally.

Ariadne had never driven a convertible before. Putting the top down had been a bit of a struggle, nowhere near as easy as the rental agent had made it look, but it was worth it. The sun was warm, the breeze was refreshing, and her hair was going to be a tangled mess by the time she got home. Not that she had anyone to impress with perfectly styled hair. She mentally added ‘scarf’ to her shopping list. Maybe driving gloves, if they weren’t ridiculously expensive.
There wasn’t an official posted speed limit, so she let loose a little on the drive into town. Definitely not good for her hair, but exhilarating all the same. She slowed as she approached an intersection on the outskirts of town; she had the right-of-way, but she’d seen how people drove on this stretch of road.
Her caution paid off. Another car came barreling down the cross street toward the intersection, swinging wide to make the turn into her street. She slammed on the brakes. The other driver did the same and they both came to a screeching halt, Ariadne’s bumper only inches away from the other car’s driver’s side door.
She dropped her forehead to the steering wheel and took several deep, shuddering breaths. She decided she could give herself a few moments to quietly freak out. It wasn’t every day she was almost killed in a car accident, after all. As soon as she got her internal screaming out of the way, she was going to tear the other driver a new asshole.
“Ari, fancy running into you like this.” Eames’ amused voice cut through her inner litany of insults that she was planning to use to great effect.
“Eames? What the hell? What the hell!” Ariadne lifted her head and glared at him.
“I need a lift. Would you mind terribly?” He jogged around the car and jumped into the passenger seat.
“What’s wrong with your car? You’re just going to leave it there? In the middle of the road?” She shifted in her seat, easing upon the brake pedal, only to slam it back down again when the car started to move forward. There was a slight jolt when the bumper scraped against the other car. “Sorry, I may have scratched it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It isn’t mine.” He shrugged. “I really do need to be elsewhere, as quickly as possible. It might be best if you were elsewhere, as well.”
“What did you do, Eames?” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Not a bloody thing. But there are a few people who would like to do bloody things to me, and they weren’t that far behind. So, less talking and more driving, if you would be so kind.” He craned his neck, looking in the direction from which he had come.
“Fine. But you are going to explain this to me. And you still owe me dinner.” Ariadne put the car in reverse, angled it around the other car, and continued on her way into town.
“Certainly. I hadn’t forgotten. I just need to run a quick errand in a few hours’ time, and then I’m yours to do with as you will.” He winked at her and sank low in his seat. “You might want to run a comb through your hair first.”

*****

Of course, it wasn’t a quick errand. And I didn’t get an explanation. Or dinner. A sandwich from a vending machine does not count.
Eames spent a lot of time looking at his watch. Oh, that was funny. Anyway, he came with me while I did my errands, which didn’t take very long. It’s a good thing I wasn’t buying food. God, that would have made the whole situation that much worse. A rental car trunk full of rotting food? No, thank you. At least I got the car back the next day.
Like I said, my errands didn’t take very long. We drove around for a while afterwards, looking at historical buildings. The church there is beautiful, by the way. You should see it. So, it was late afternoon when Eames asked if I would drive him to the ferry. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t have just driven him there right away, I mean, the ferry makes regular trips to the island. I also didn’t understand why I had to get on the ferry with him. You see, not a quick errand. I figured out why it had to be that particular trip and why I had to be there fairly quickly though.

“Was that Mr. Twitchy?” Ariadne and Eames were leaning against the rail, Ariadne looking out toward the distant island, Eames facing the cars lined along the deck.
“Giving my wedding tackle a nickname already? Couldn’t you come up with something a little less injurious to my ego? At least wait until you’ve had a look.” He spoke almost absently, his eyes scanning the crowd.
“Ha. Ha. You know what I mean. The man from the airport. He’s wearing that plaid thing.” She turned to mimic Eames’ pose, arms folded across her chest.
“You’re too clever for me.” He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, but dropped them back in again immediately.
“Are you going to explain anything at all?”
“Why would I do that? Look, I’m dying for a fag. I’ll be over there with the rest of the lepers.” He pointed at a group of people at the back of the ferry, all of them smoking. “Don’t wander off, yeah?”
Ariadne let out a sigh as she watched him walk away. She wanted to see the island anyway.
The crossing was uneventful. Eames showed no interest in knowing Mr. Twi– Mr. Plaid’s whereabouts, so she followed suit. She explored the ferry a little, since she had never been on one before.
When they finally disembarked on the island, Eames pulled out a brochure for a driving tour.
“Let’s take in the local scenery.” He directed her toward the first landmark.
Ariadne allowed him to dictate their course and how long they spent at each point of interest. He barely glanced at them, preferring to check his watch incessantly. She thought he might be waiting for the sun to go down.
She was proven correct when he directed her onto an overgrown dirt road that led through a sparse forest almost as soon as the sky darkened. The crawled along, the headlights barely illuminating the trail before them.
“Stop here.” There were lights visible through the trees not too far away.
“Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Short, Bald, and Plaidsome has something to do with this?” Ariadne let her head fall back against the headrest.
Eames opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight, leaving her to wonder exactly when and how it had been placed there. It hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Are you coming, or would you rather wait here?”
“Why should you get to have all the fun? Let’s go.” Ariadne got out and waited for him in front of the car. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
“And now you’re misquoting the Bard. I may be forced to lose you amongst the trees.” He switched the flashlight on and started walking toward the distant lights. She hurried to catch up to him, threading a finger through one of his belt loops as soon as she caught up with him.

*****

You probably know as much as I do about that night. We didn’t actually see much; security guards chased us away before we got too close to the house. That really didn’t seem to bother Eames, though. I was just happy there weren’t dogs.
By the time we got back to the dock, the last ferry had gone. There were a few places we could have stayed, or we could have slept in the car. But Eames decided we needed to not be on the island, just in case someone was looking for us. He stole a motorboat, and he got us back to the mainland. He even took us right to the beach near my rental house. That’s not as easy as it sounds. Once I was ashore, he pushed the boat out far enough that it would drift away. I wonder if the owner ever got it back.

Eames was soaked from the chest down after guiding the boat to open water, and then wading back to shore. It was the darkest hour of the night, and it made the walk to the house seem that much colder. Ariadne shivered in sympathy, and little from her wet shoes.
“Do you-“ she began.
“Let’s get me out of these wet things, hmmm? You haven’t lost your house key, have you? That would be the perfect ending to our little adventure.”
“Of course I have my key.” Ariadne fished her key ring out of her purse, unlocked the door, and let them in. “Let me get you a towel.”
She left him dripping in the foyer. She made her way through the dark hallway and into her equally dark bedroom.
“I’ll just stand here in the dark, shall I?” he called after her.
“I didn’t want to attract attention,” she called back.
“From the fish? The local wildlife? Tree fairies? Your nearest neighbor is on the other side of a fucking forest.”
She fumbled in the linen closet located in the master bathroom. Her fingers found terrycloth. She grabbed it and hurried back to Eames.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m just a little paranoid. Like we’re being watched, or something.” She held the towel out to him, resisting the urge to throw it in his face.
“If we are being watched, they've already seen us. Just turn on a bloody light, would you?” He grabbed the towel from her and she reached behind him to flip the light switch.
Eames had already stripped off his jacket and shirt, and he was drying his chest and shoulders. Ariadne bit back a laugh when she saw she had given him one of the aggressively floral-print towels she had bought a few days before.
“I wouldn’t have thought these would be to your taste.” He draped the damp cloth on the doorknob and unbuckled his belt. She whirled around to face the dark hallway when he reached for the button of his trousers.
“They were on sale. This place came furnished, but there was only one towel set. I didn’t want to do laundry every day, so…” There was a splat as his wet clothing hit the floor.
“Fascinating. Now, could I trouble you for a shower?”
“Sure.” Without looking back, she led him through the house to the guest bathroom, pointedly turning on every light as they went. “I’ll get another towel for you, and I suppose you can borrow my robe until your clothes are clean.”
“Dare I hope it’s silky and skimpy?” He walked around her into the bathroom. She looked away, but not before she caught a glimpse of his naked ass from the corner of her eye.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s long and fluffy.” Ariadne turned to go, mentally sorting through her laundry for anything she could safely wash along with Eames’ clothes. She was almost at the end of the hallway when Eames spoke.
“Ariadne.” She turned automatically. He stood in the doorway, only partially hidden by the door. He was…fit. Very fit. She raised a brow at him.
“You are allowed to look. I promise you won’t offend my sensibilities.”
“Well, now that I have your permission…” She rolled her eyes and turned away again, leaving him smirking after her.

*****

I fell asleep waiting for him to get out of the shower. He was gone when I woke the next morning, and my rental car was in the driveway. I guess the ferry starts running pretty early. He did leave a ‘thank you’ note for doing his laundry, along with a few dirty dishes in the sink.
After that, I decided it was only a matter of time before I saw him again. He had set me up as part of his cover, and I was sure he would need me to achieve his ultimate goal. Not that I had any idea what that might be. But I was willing to do fake tourist couple things with Eames. The rest of my vacation was turning out to be really boring.
I was right. A few days later, Eames was at my front door. He seemed to know that the airline had finally recovered my luggage, because he asked me if I had packed anything fancy. Apparently, we were making an appearance at a casual get-together. We ended up going through my entire wardrobe. It didn’t take long, and he reluctantly approved one of my outfits.
Of course, Eames showed up in a suit and tie for this so-called casual party. We have very different definitions of the word.

“I feel really underdressed next to you.” Ariadne shifted uncomfortably at Eames’ side. They stood on the terrace outside the very house they had failed to sneak into only a few nights earlier. Eames had a glass in his hand, but he wasn’t drinking.
“Hmm.” He was staring out across the manicured lawn at the trees. The forest didn’t look nearly as forbidding in the daylight.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, her voice low. “What am I doing here?”
He finally turned his attention on her. “We’re here to have a good time, of course.” He raised his glass to his lips and drained it in one long gulp. “I have business to see to. You should mingle.”
“Mingle.”
“Yes, mingle.” He turned and offered her his arm. She stared at him for a long moment, but when he said nothing more, she allowed him to escort her into the house.
“Should I mingle with anyone in particular?” she muttered through her fixed smile. He led her to the buffet, then leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“What a silly question,” he said. “Talk to whomever you like.” He winked at her and walked away.
Ariadne mingled. Office parties – and office politics – had prepared her well. She chatted, she smiled; she moved on to another group and did it again.
She was thinking of going back to the buffet when two suit-clad men approached her.
“You will come with us.” A firm hand on her elbow stilled her automatic refusal. She nodded weakly.
They led her from the room. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what this is about?” she asked as they climbed a narrow staircase at the back of the house. Neither of them answered. Her stomach churned.
They finally stopped in front of a closed door at the opposite end of the house. One of the men knocked, and then opened the door without waiting for an answer. A firm hand on her shoulder moved her into the room.
It was sparsely furnished – bookcases lined two of the walls, and a row of filing cabinets sat behind a large desk. At a desk in the middle of the room sat Mr. Plaid. Her escorts led her to an uncomfortable looking chair in front the desk, one man flanking her as she sat, the other moving to stand by the door.
“So, Ariadne, is it? Yes, I know who you are. And I am aware of Mr. Eames, as well.” Mr. Plaid, not actually wearing plaid, was going through a set of papers. He hadn’t looked at her yet.
“I’m sorry we crashed your party. We didn’t mean any harm.” She decided to play it cool and clueless. She certainly had the clueless part covered.
“You will be dismayed to discover that Mr. Eames is nowhere to be found. He has abandoned you.” He finally looked at her, his lips stretched in a humorless smile.
Her mouth suddenly dry, she could only stare at him. All of a sudden, Eames’ failure to tell her anything made terrifying sense.
“You will tell us everything you know about your...companion.” Mr. Plaid’s voice was mild, but Ariadne heard the underlying threat.
“Okay.” She seated herself in the chair he had indicated and took a deep breath. “I'll tell you what I know about Eames. But I don’t know where to start…”

*****

“And here we are. That’s all I know.” She looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
“Do you think this little ruse has gained you anything? You see, I am well aware that I am dreaming. Your accomplice will not succeed. My secrets are heavily protected.” Mr. Plaid stood up and leaned over his desk. “Tell me what you are after. Tell me, or I will force it from you.”
The man behind her grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the chair. He dragged her closer to the desk, and placed her hand on top of it, holding it there with an iron grip on her wrist.
“Tell me! What are you trying to steal from me?” Her captor pulled a gun and pressed it to her hand. She closed her eyes. She only had to hold out for a few more moments.
“I may not have been completely honest about my relationship with Eames. Or about anything I just told you.” Soon, it had to be soon.
“Do not think to put me off with that paltry confession. Who hired you? Who is trying to buy my secrets?” The gun was digging into her flesh. She didn’t want to be shot, even if it was only a dream. She tried to pull away, straining against the projection’s hold.
“Actually, Eames and I have been working together for a long time.” Strains of O, Canada filled the air, and she suppressed a groan. Eames was still on his anthem kick. Literally.
“Do you think I will not do whatever I must to get what I want? Especially in a dream. I could do such things to you.” He leered, and she shivered.
Ariadne abruptly stopped trying to pull away from the man holding her, and threw herself against him. Off-balance, he stumbled to the side, losing his grip on her. She hooked a foot behind his ankle and shoved him hard, knocking him to the floor.
“Don’t kill her,” Mr. Plaid shouted. She whirled around in time to see the other projection moving toward her, gun drawn. She backed away from all three men, stopping only when her legs hit a small table. She reached down to steady herself.
“Why are you making this more difficult than it needs to be? You owe no loyalty to your employers. Your partner has abandoned you. Tell me what I want to know, and it will go well for you.” Mr. Plaid sat down. “Put her back in the chair. We have much still to discuss.”
The two men began walking toward her. Ariadne groped the tabletop behind her, her fingers finally finding what she was searching for. She grabbed the butt of the newly conjured gun and whipped it in front of her, firing at the projections. One of them fell to his knees, holding his shoulder, while the other one writhed on the floor, his hands clutching his stomach. She checked her watch.
“Okay, gotta go now.” She closed her eyes.
Ariadne woke up to Eames smiling face.
“Thank god,” she groaned.
“Was it terrible, then?” He removed the lead from her arm and started packing up their PASIV, his movements quick and efficient from long practice.
“Not as bad as it could have been.” She sat up and glanced at their sleeping mark, who was dressed in the same plaid jacket he had worn in part of the dream. “He’s kind of twisted. He knew it was a dream, though, so he may wake himself. We should get out of here.”
“Stop mucking about and we can go.” He took her hand, and pulled her to her feet.
“Did you get them?” she asked as they hurried out of the apartment.
He grinned at her and pulled her around a corner. “Have a look.” He looked around quickly, and pulled a small velvet bag from his jacket pocket. She took it from him and opened it. Light glinted off of a handful of small, perfect diamonds. She smiled up at him. He leaned down and gave her swift kiss.
She closed the bag and handed it back to him. “Hopefully, he’ll be so focused on who’s supposedly trying to steal his secrets that he won’t notice these are gone right away.” The started walking again, trying to hurry without being too obvious about it.
“No hope of that.” They went past the bank of elevators to the door leading to the stairwell.
“What did you do?” she asked as she followed him down the stairs.
“I may have left him a little note. To thank him for contributing to the cause.” He reached back and grabbed her hand.
“Cause? What cause?”
“Save Manchester United Supporters From Themselves Fund.”

Inception Fic: Well, That Was Unexpected

2012-07-04T12:26:47Z

Written for Zombie Fest 2012 @ zombi_fic_ation

They ran down a city street. Close set buildings loomed on either side, acting as a funnel. They could move forward or go back the way they had come, and the gathering horde behind them eliminated back as an option.

Suddenly, there was a wall behind them, blocking the street completely.

“Eames, stop changing things!” Ariadne whispered furiously.

“Or what, projections will start chasing us? We’re past that, hadn’t you noticed?” Eames stopped in front of an abandoned store. The mannequins in the window, previously dressed for a day at the beach, were now wearing combat fatigues and displaying automatic weapons, safely behind wire mesh reinforced glass. “In here. Handguns alone aren’t going to take us very far.”

Ariadne followed Eames through the door; Arthur and Cobb stumbled in behind them, Cobb held upright only by his arm draped across Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur’s grip on his middle. Once they were inside, Arthur lowered Cobb to the floor behind a counter.

“Eames, help me block the door.” He started to pull at a heavy wooden cabinet, trying to drag it in front of the glass door. Outside, projections staggered down the street towards the store.

Eames put down the shotgun in his hands and went to help him. Between the two of them, they soon had it in place. When they were done, Arthur leaned against the cabinet and sighed heavily. Eames rested a moment, as well, before going back to his gun ‘shopping’.

“I don’t understand. I thought projections are supposed to try to get rid of the dreamer. Why did they go after Cobb? Why not Eames?” Ariadne darted quick looks between Arthur and Eames, waiting for an explanation.

“Projections will attack any foreign presence, if they – we – draw the wrong kind of attention. An even better question, my dear, is why are Mr. Jacobs’ projections turning up as zombies? Arthur? Any thoughts?” Eames lined up several firearms along the top of a long table and started placing boxes of ammunition next to them.

“Nothing like this turned up in his history. We gave him an empty city to populate, and his subconscious gave us zombies. Maybe he watched a zombie flick recently.” Arthur joined Eames at the table, looking over his choice of weapons. “Are you going to leave anything for us, Mr. Eames?”

“I might be persuaded to share.” Eames began to load bullets into a clip. Arthur nodded thoughtfully, and added a few smaller handguns to the table.

“Ariadne, could you check on Cobb, please?” Arthur pulled out a box of shells and started loading them into the shotguns.

“Sure.” Ariadne approached the back of the store. All she could see of Cobb was his bloody shoe and part of his leg stretched out on the floor. “Cobb?” She crept around the end of the counter that hid him and knelt down beside him.

“Hey,” he whispered. His eyes opened for a moment before falling shut, as if his lids were too heavy to lift. His breathing was fast and shallow. The arm of his jacket was torn, and his shirtsleeve was pushed up, revealing an oozing bite mark on his forearm.

“That looks nasty.” She searched the clutter under the counter, finally spotting a first-aid kit under a pile of papers. She pulled out medicated wipes, gauze pads, a bandage, and antibiotic ointment. “I’m going to clean you up. This is probably going to hurt.”

He nodded weakly, and she started cleaning the wound, working as quickly as she could. Cobb winced occasionally, but he was mostly silent except for his labored breathing. Ariadne slathered ointment on the bite, covered it with the gauze, and wrapped the bandage around his arm. “I should tell you, I don’t actually know first aid.”

He huffed a little laugh at her and waved her away. “I’ll…just…rest. A little.”

Ariadne went back to Arthur and Eames, who were still loading ammunition into the various weapons laid out before them. They were steadfastly ignoring the constant low moaning and the intermittent thumps coming from outside.

“Cobb isn’t doing very well. Why is this affecting him so badly?” She grabbed a double shoulder holster from a nearby rack and adjusted it to fit. She picked up one of the handguns in front of her, checked the clip and the chamber, holstered it, and then repeated the process with a second gun.

“He was bitten by a zombie,” Arthur said absently.

“I know, but we’re dreaming.” Ariadne grabbed an ammo pouch with a long shoulder strap and began filling it with grenades. She wasn’t sure a real gun store would carry grenades, but she didn’t care. Eames had certainly thought of everything.

“Ariadne, what happens when a zombie bites someone?” He put down the extra clip he had just finished loading and faced her. He leaned one hip against the table and folded his arms across his chest.

“Zombies aren’t real, Arthur.” She looped the ammo pouch across her body for easy access.

“Humor me.” The moaning grew louder as more projections gathered outside, and the intermittent thumps became almost rhythmic thudding.

“Fine. If you’re bitten by a zombie, you turn into a zombie. In movies.” She refrained from rolling her eyes at him. Barely.

“Exactly. Most people in our culture know that. It’s an accepted fact.” Arthur turned back to the table and started outfitting himself with as many weapons as he could safely carry. Eames was doing the same nearby.

“But zombies aren’t real.”

“In the dream, anything can be real. Including zombies. Cobb’s subconscious is reacting the way it thinks it should.” Arthur grabbed some of the extra clips he had loaded and handed them to her. She tucked them into the side pockets of the pouch.

“He’s turning himself into a zombie?”

“Essentially.”

“If we’re going to finish this job, we’ll have to leave him.” Eames finally joined the conversation.

Ariadne wanted to protest, but she knew Eames was right. Cobb, in his condition, would just slow them down. “Maybe we should consider…calling it off?” Even as she said it, she knew both men would veto the suggestion.

“No.” “No bloody way.”

“All right, all right. I just thought I’d throw that out there.” She picked up an assault rifle and slung it across her body, opposite the pouch full of grenades. She adjusted it so it hung behind her, the barrel pointed at the ground, where she could easily pull it into firing position.

“If Cobb dies, he’ll wake up, right? Because, as freaky as this dream is, it’s still a dream, and the same rules apply. Right?”

Arthur hesitated before saying, “Right.”

“And with that vote of confidence, who’s the lucky bastard that’s going to break the news to him?” Eames smirked at Arthur.

“I’ll tell him. He’ll understand. He wants this job done as much as we do.” Arthur checked his watch. “We have just under three hours before Yusuf gives us the kick. Less than that before they break through the windows. Let me-“ He broke off, staring toward the back of the store.

Ariadne turned and saw Cobb shuffling toward them. Something about him was…off. His eyes, she decided. Somehow they were blindly staring and utterly focused at the same time. He lifted his arms as he came closer, his hands curling into claws.

“Cobb,” she began, but Arthur pulled her back. Eames stepped forward, a pistol aimed at Cobb’s head.

“Well, this is an utter cock-up. So much for the rules, eh, Arthur?”

“Eames, wait!” Ariadne yelled.

“Not now, Ari. I’ve got a Cobb zombie to dispose of.” He steadied his grip and started to squeeze the trigger.

“But what if killing him like this sends him into limbo?” Ariadne pulled out of Arthur’s grasp and grabbed Eames’ arm.

“Then you can go and fetch him out again.” Eames stepped away from her and fired.

A small hole appeared in Cobb’s forehead, and a spray of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments splattered the wall behind him. He staggered back a step, and then crumpled to the ground. Blood began to pool under his head.

“What have you done?” Ariadne whispered.

“Nothing that I wouldn’t want done for me, if it comes to that. Let’s go, we’ve a job to finish. We’ll use the back door.” Eames walked to the back of the store, casually stepping over Cobb’s body.

“Arthur?”

“It’s done. We’ll deal with the fallout if and when we have to. Just…try not to get bitten.” Arthur followed after Eames. He hesitated briefly at Cobb’s corpse, then continued.

Ariadne looked around helplessly for a moment. A loud, splintering crack from the storefront window behind her made her jump, and she hurried after Arthur without looking back.

Also on AO3

Original Fic: My Boy

2012-07-02T14:55:41Z

Written for Zombie Fest 2012 @ zombi_fic_ation

Tommy staggers toward her, hands reaching for her, his mouth wide with laughter. “Mama!” She catches him in her arms and hugs him tightly.

“Tommy! My boy!”

She comes awake slowly. She’s never in a hurry to wake up these days. A quick, habitual glance at the clock on the wall reminds her that it stopped long ago. It doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t have anywhere to be. There’s nothing she has to be doing. It’s always the same time in this underground room, anyway. Time to sleep; time to remember things – people - that are gone.

She sits up in the bed and contemplates the shirt and pants she’s wearing. They are still relatively clean, so she puts on her shoes. Always be ready to run, Tommy -Tom- had told her, and she is. She snags her aluminum bat from where it is leaning against the bedside table before she unbars the door and leaves the room.

Upstairs, the light showing through the cracks of the boarded-up kitchen window tells her it’s daylight. Her stomach grumbles at her. She opens the pantry cupboard. There is plenty to eat, if she had electricity to cook anything. She props her bat within arm’s reach and pulls out the last of the food she can eat without heating. Green beans. She pops the lid and shovels forkfuls of the mushy vegetables into her mouth until, all too quickly, they’re gone. She chokes down the leftover liquid with a grimace. Waste not, want not. Not true; she still wants.

“I can’t put it off any longer,” she whispers. She hasn’t spoken aloud in days - the sound of her own voice almost breaks her; she wants to shout, scream, laugh hysterically, anything to shatter the silence in the house.

Instead, she picks up her bat and climbs the stairs to the second floor.

Tom would have preferred to make the second floor their hideout – hideout, like bank robbers – but he couldn’t destroy the staircase without damaging the structural integrity of the house. They had briefly considered leaving, but nowhere was really safe anymore, and here they had home field advantage. According to Tom, anyway. They had managed to survive for months. She wasn’t sure why her survival was important, but she hadn’t wanted her son to be alone. Now, though…

She stops in the middle of the hallway. She leans her bat against the wall and reaches up to pull the string hanging from the trapdoor in the ceiling. The door swings down easily, the ladder unfolding smoothly in front of her. She climbs up into the attic, which is really little more than a crawlspace. A walkway of wooden planks runs the length of the space under the highest point of the roof. Fluffy pink insulation fills the gaps between the joists of the unfinished floor. The trapdoor swings shut automatically. The quiet thunk makes her jump, even though she is expecting it.

At the front of the house, there is a little round window. She creeps up to it and peeks out. The street is empty. She watches, her eyes drawn to every movement. It’s slightly windy. A rabbit darts across the street as if it’s being chased. She focuses on the yard it came from intently, but nothing else appears, to her relief. Wild dogs are just as difficult to deal with as…other things. Her attention is constantly pulled to the far end of the street, where a bundle - clothes, they’re just clothes - is lying against the curb. A loose bit of fabric occasionally flaps in the breeze. She tries to ignore it; she knows there’s no threat and she can’t let it distract her from real dangers. She wishes, as she does every time she performs this task, that she could just go out and get rid of the…it. Or that the wild dogs would drag it away – but they won’t touch it, they won’t go near it – or that it would turn to dust and blow away. Or that this was all just a dream.

She watches long after she should stop. The air is stifling, warm and somehow sticky in her throat. Suddenly, she can’t get enough air in her lungs. She backs away from the window and scrambles over to the trapdoor, almost throwing herself down the stairs. Her feet get caught in the bottom rung, and she ends up sprawled on the floor. The air on the second floor isn’t really that much cooler, but she sucks in several desperate breaths. Once her frantic breathing slows, she pulls her foot out from between the rungs of the stairs and waits for them to fold up.

Time to go. She hauls herself to her feet, and enters the bedroom at the back of the house. The room is impersonally inviting; it used to be the guest room. On the bed, there is a hiker’s backpack. She grabs it and goes to stand by the window overlooking the backyard. The back seems to be just as quiet as the front, and she doesn’t spend nearly as much time watching as she had in the attic. There really isn’t any point. The window is open slightly to accommodate the hooks of the emergency fire escape ladder hanging from the sill. She pulls it up the rest of the way and drops the backpack to the ground below.

It’s not until she has one leg out the window that she realizes she doesn’t have her bat. I suppose I should be worried that I forgot it. But she can’t seem to make herself care. She retrieves the weapon and, with another quick check of the yard, climbs outside.

At the bottom of the ladder, she stops for a moment to take a deep breath. The fresh air feels so good after being cooped up in the house, despite the ever present undertone of rot. She scoops up the backpack and puts it on, adjusts the straps a little, and then fastens the belt around her waist.

There are still houses in the neighborhood that they haven’t looted for food and other supplies. Instead of approaching any of them, she walks to the end of the street, where that damned bundle is fetched up against the curb. She hesitates as she gets closer, half expecting it to lunge for her, but it doesn’t move. Its skin is pulled tight over its bones and its hair has fallen out in clumps. Almost half of its face had been torn off, leaving the bone of its skull visible. There is a small round hole in its forehead. Its lips are pulled back, revealing a set of jagged teeth. The upper half of its torn shirt is stained brown with dried blood; it is still partially tucked in, but it’s loose enough to flap in every stray breeze. Its pants are also stained and shredded, and one of its shoes is missing. The corpse isn’t recognizable anymore, but she remembers who he was. He had lived a few more houses down the street. She’d always had so much trouble remembering his name when they would cross each other’s path. She wishes she could remember it now.

“Sorry about this,” she whispers. She hooks a foot under his – its – midsection and rolls it over onto the curb. It is surprisingly light, and she continues to flip the body using her foot and the bat, moving it across the sidewalk and into the overgrown lawn of what used to be a tidy duplex. As soon as a quick check shows that it is no longer in view of her house, she turns away from it and walks down the street.

She decides not to try any of the unsearched houses. Tom had always done most of the work when they needed supplies – breaking down doors if necessary, checking for…danger, carrying the lion’s share of the food. She had mostly trailed behind him with her bat ready, feeling entirely useless. When he had decided they needed things that they couldn’t find in their own neighborhood, she had stayed behind, expecting him to be gone for perhaps a day. That had been two weeks ago.

There is a little neighborhood store a few blocks away. It had carried a little of everything, including groceries – most likely looted long ago, but she thinks it’s worth a look. Maybe Tom had gone there.

She tries to remember that just being outside is dangerous, but the sun is shining, and the slight breeze keeps her from getting too hot. It’s almost like the walks she used to take just after her husband had died, except for the absolute silence. At least I’ll be able to hear them coming. She looks for possible hiding places, just as Tom had taught her, but she thinks her potential choices might also be death traps.

A short time later, she is almost at her destination. She rounds a corner and sees one of them standing in front of the general store. It sways, off-balance, as it paws at the glass door. There’s something familiar about it. Of course it looks familiar. It probably used to be someone I passed on the street every day. But the jacket it’s wearing is the same color as Tom’s, the one he was wearing the day he left. And its shoes are the same brand. And its hair is the same color. She tries to convince herself that its pants are not like the pair Tom was wearing that day, but she honestly can’t remember.

It turns toward her, and the tiny flicker of hope she hasn’t been able to crush, the hope that Tom might be alive somewhere even after all this time, dies. Because it’s him, and for the first time in three years, she’s glad her husband is dead. Glad he has been spared the horror the world has become, but moreso that he never had to see this – their son dead, his body mangled and bloody, his eyes, once so like his father’s, now covered in a milky film. Their son, who isn’t looking at her with love, or even that fond irritation that had developed near the end of the hellish teen years; who isn’t seeing her at all. Who is driven toward her by some terrible hunger that she doesn’t understand.

Tom staggers toward her, hands reaching for her, his mouth wide as he moans. Her bat falls from her nerveless fingers. She holds her arms out to him.

“Tommy. My boy.”

Also on AO3

Zombie Fest Prompt Claim Post is open!!!

2012-04-24T17:04:22Z

April 8, the dead will rise at zombi_fic_ation

Go. Claim. Write. You know you want to.

Oh, yeah!!

2012-04-08T17:36:16Z

April 8, the dead will rise at zombi_fic_ation

Yes, I have lost my marbles

2012-02-22T20:33:17Z

I signed up for heroinebigbang. Mini-bang, to be precise. "Only" 5000 words. Except the longest thing I've written since I started writing again a few months ago is at about 2300 words. And I chose to write in a fandom that I haven't written for yet. I wasn't going to do it, but then I got this idea, and...
How much have I written, you ask? Mostly I've jotted down ideas and written out some dialogue.
I have the rest of the day off, and my son is currently napping (as in actually asleep, not just 'resting'). Am I writing? No, I am wasting time on Facebook, LJ, and putting games on my new Kindle Fire.
Now that I've called myself on this procrastinating behavior, will I start writing? No. I am going to take a nap.

Word meme

2012-01-31T01:44:00Z

Borrowed from goddessofbirth

Kind of want to see who is actively reading my posts,so, if you read this, leave me a one-word comment about your day that starts with the third letter of your LJ USERNAME. Only one word please, then repost so i can leave a word for you.

Inception Fic: Two Hail Marys and an Our Father

2011-11-22T06:24:30Z

Rating: G
Note: Written for this prompt on inception_kink
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the characters involved.

Cobb and Eames hurried along the sidewalk, not quite shoving through the crowd of pedestrians strolling past the shops and restaurants. They turned a corner, increasing their pace until they were able to duck into an alley.
“Think they saw us?” Cobb asked as he peered around the side of the building he was leaning against.
“We had a good start, we may have lost them,” Eames replied as he, too, peeked out into the street.
“We’ve got to get back to the hotel. Are you familiar with this part of the city?” Cobb started walking toward the other end of the alley, Eames trailing behind him.
“Not precisely. But aren’t all American cities basically the same?”
“Not helping. We have to get across town. We can’t walk all the way back. We need to find a cab.”
“Good luck with that at this time of day.”
“Shit. Fine, we’re walking, for now.”
They walked through the city, Cobb turning at random corners, zigzagging their way in the general direction of their hotel. The business district gave way to homes with toy-littered front yards and older model vehicles parked on the street.
“We won’t get a cab in this neighborhood unless we call -“ Cobb began to speak when Eames suddenly yanked him behind a tall bush. “What the hell, Eames?”
“I thought I saw a familiar car. I’d rather not take any chances.” Eames peeked through the leaves. “I don’t think they saw us. They aren’t coming this way.”
“If it’s them.”
“We need to disappear. Two blokes like us in this neighborhood? We stick out like sore thumbs.” Eames looked around, then starting walking to the nearest house with a clothesline in the back yard. “I fancy a new wardrobe. You?”
“Fine, maybe you’re right.” Cobb hurried to catch up to him.
“I know I am, love.”
The first yard they checked had bed sheets hanging on the line, the next had baby clothes.
“Doesn’t anyone hang out their wash anymore?” Eames muttered as he walked to the next yard.
“Of course, what do call the sheets and the onesies?” Cobb looked over his shoulder, checking the street.
“I call that pretentious bullshit. People wanting their sheets to smell like sunshine, shite like that. Where are the actual bloody clothes that people actually bloody wear?” Eames kicked a crumpled pop can out of his way, sending it rattling across the pavement.
“Just keep looking. There has to be something we can use."
They finally hit paydirt at the end of the block. The house was surrounded by a ten foot tall privacy fence, but the gate was unlocked. When Eames stuck his head in the yard, he saw clothing rippling in the breeze.
“I think our luck has changed,” he said, slipping inside. Cobb followed, pulling the gate closed behind them.
On the line hung several brightly colored sundresses, three bras and two shapeless pieces of black cloth that Cobb couldn’t quite place as clothing.
“I don’t think either of us can pull off spaghetti straps, Eames.”
“Hang on, don’t be so hasty. What’s this?” He held up the black cloth. Cobb squinted at it.
“Is that…?”
“A cassock. You know, priests wear them.” He jerked it off the line and grabbed the other one.
“Why does this woman have priests’ robes?”
“Maybe she takes in washing. How should I know? We can use these.” Eames held up the second set of robes. “Oh.”
“What? What now?”
“It isn’t a cassock.” Eames tossed it over to Cobb.
Cobb held it up, noting the fuller skirt and lack of collar. “This better not be what I think it is.”
Eames pulled a smaller black piece of cloth from the line and tossed it to Cobb. “I’m afraid it is. So, Sister Dom, shall we?”
“Why am I the nun? You should be the nun.” He threw the habit and wimple back at Eames.
“I couldn’t possibly. I haven’t shaved in three days. You, however,” he approached Cobb and shoved the bundle of fabric at his chest, “have cheeks as smooth as an infant’s bottom. Obviously, you are the nun.”
“This thing won’t fit me. You’re shorter, you should wear it. You can keep your head down; no one will notice the beard.” Cobb made no move to take the habit, staring directly into Eames’ eyes.
“Shorter by five bloody centimeters. You’re slimmer, it will fit you better. These things are fairly large.” Eames smirked. “I do wonder if these belong to a woman, after all. And I think they came from a costume shop.”
Cobb attempted to glare Eames into submission a moment longer before responding. “Why would anyone…Never mind, I get it. Thanks for the image.”
“At least we know they’re clean. Just put the damn thing on.” Eames shoved the bundle at his chest again.
“We’ll play for it.” Cobb held out his fist. “On three?”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself, Dom, you know I’m going to win.” Eames tucked both costumes under one arm and held out his own fist. “On three.”
Both men shook their fists as Cobb counted to three. Cobb kept his fist clenched, while Eames opened his hand, fingers spread apart in a V.
“Right, I win. Get dressed and let’s go.” Eames handed the habit to Cobb and started to pull the cassock over his head.
“What the hell? Rock beats scissors, Eames. I win.” Cobb tugged at the fabric, pulling it out of Eames’ hands.
“I threw Spock, darling, and Spock vaporizes rock. I win.” Eames yanked the robes back and put them on.
“Spock? What? That’s not even… What?” Cobb sputtered.
“You don’t know rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock? Do you have a life at all?” Eames grinned at Cobb’s confusion.
“Fine, best two out of three.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, darling. Besides, I haven’t got time to explain it to you. Put that habit on and let’s get going.” Eames crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “I haven’t got all day, you know.”
“I wish Arthur was here,” Cobb muttered as he pulled the habit over his head.
“While I do think the dear old stick in the mud would make a stunning nun, that is completely beside the point.”
“We will be discussing this later, Eames.”
“Certainly, my child. But for now, I really think you should take a vow of silence. Let’s go.”
Eames opened the gate and walked confidently out onto the sidewalk, Cobb trailing reluctantly behind him.

Inception Fic: Arthur/Eames - My Love is as a Fever

2011-10-30T08:12:37Z

This is not my preferred pairing, but the magic word Shakespeare caught my eye, and here we are. Also, there is little to no smut, because I have yet to attempt writing it, and I didn't want to ruin the story. Written for this prompt on inception_kink. The title is taken from William Shakespeare's Sonnet 147. The sonnets I used in this story were found at www.shakespeare-online.com. Quotes from plays were found at www.brainyquote.com. I do not own Inception.

It was all Arthur’s fault, Eames decided.

It wasn’t enough he used those lovely big words – like specificity, God, he loved a man with a brain – but then Arthur started quoting.

“Getting close to this one’s going to be bloody difficult, Arthur. The man didn’t trust his own mother. We’ll have to do this the hard way.” Eames threw the mark’s file down on his desk and rubbed his eyes.

“‘Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work,’ as the poet said. We’ll figure it out, Eames.” Arthur turned back to his laptop, leaving Eames to stare at him with more than a little lust. Not that Arthur seemed to notice.

Big vocabulary, quotes, his competency in, well, everything, his lithe, muscular body…Eames stopped himself before lost control completely. He knew he was a good actor, but he must have given himself away in a thousand different ways. Arthur had to know Eames wanted him. The problem was that Arthur was brilliant at everything, including hiding what he was feeling from everyone else.

Almost everyone else. Arthur had given himself away in a thousand ways, too, at least to Eames. Covert glances, lingering touches, those little half smiles, standing just a little bit too close… it was enough to give him hope and make him tear his hair out in frustration at the same time. So Eames decided to change the game. Enough with letting Arthur move at his own pace. They would both be twenty years in their graves before he even hinted that he saw Eames as more than a slightly (okay, perhaps more than slightly) annoying, sometime coworker.

**

Arthur sat at his desk, going over some bit of research or another. It was the end of a very long day, and he had his head propped on his hand while he flipped through the pages. Eames came up behind him.

“Finished for the day, Eames?” He didn’t look up from the file.

Eames leaned down and murmured in his ear, “’O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!’”

Arthur didn’t respond for a few long moments. “Romeo and Juliet, act two, scene two. Was there something you wanted, Mr. Eames?”

Eames grinned. “’Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”

“Once again, act two, scene two. From a play where two people kill themselves at the end. Are you trying to tell me something?”

Maybe Romeo and Juliet wasn’t the way to go. “Just saying good night, darling.”

“Good night, Mr. Eames.”

Eames sauntered away, his confidence in his plan in no way shaken. Shakespeare had written more than one play.

**

He tried again the next day. Arthur, being Arthur, was straightening out some nightmare of logistics, scheduling, and payoffs that frankly gave Eames a headache. And a raging erection as he watched Arthur coolly arrange everything as if it were a Sunday picnic. Sheer, bloody competence. Eames wanted to lick him everywhere. He wanted Arthur to lick him everywhere. He’d be very good at it.

Arthur was looking over their architect’s models when Eames came up behind him again. He didn’t wait for Arthur to acknowledge him before he whispered in his ear, “’Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! And when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.’” He had decided early in his plan that he had to create intimacy between them, and what could be more intimate than sweet nothings, or in this case, Shakespearean quotes, whispered in your ear? He fought to keep his hands from Arthur’s hips – as much as he longed to touch him, he didn’t think Arthur was ready for that. And Eames wasn’t sure he would be able to let him go once he did get his hands on him. Arthur had to make the first physical move in this game.

“Othello, act three, scene three. A man who kills his wife in a jealous rage, and then kills himself. What are you trying to tell me, Mr. Eames?”
Arthur turned his head and looked at him, one brow raised. For a moment, their faces were just inches apart. Eames could feel Arthur’s breath on his lips and he drew back.

“Nothing, darling. Just trying to pay a compliment.”

“I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Eames smirked at him, undeterred. “Possibly not. See you tomorrow, love.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the building, whistling. So, no Othello. Well, there was plenty more where that came from.

**

Eames was bored. His part in the impending extraction was set; he had no more preparations to make, other than practicing his forge in the dreamscape, and he could only do that so many times before he lost his bloody mind. Nobody else really had much to do, either, except Arthur, who never seemed to stop working. Eames, Terry, their extractor, and John, their architect, were sitting around, swapping stories of past extractions gone horribly wrong.

Eames had just finished the story of his first job, when he had discovered his talent for forging in dreams, embellished only slightly. Terry and John were laughing, but Eames heard Arthur’s soft hmph of disbelief. Terry launched into the story of his first job as Eames ambled over to Arthur’s desk.

He leaned over, inhaling Arthur’s subtle scent, then whispered, “’ Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.’” He was raising the stakes a little with what could almost be considered a challenge, but he was willing to risk pushing Arthur away if success meant winning Arthur himself.

Arthur stilled, and then continued taking notes. “Hamlet, act two, scene two. A man who drove his lover to suicide and was then murdered. I’m impressed, Eames, you’ve managed to indirectly reference death through Shakespeare three times in as many days. Is this a variation of the black spot? Are you planning to kill me?”

Eames sighed impatiently. Arthur was being deliberately obtuse. “If I was going to kill you, love, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to warn you first.” He walked away before his frustration boiled over into a very public – and physical - demonstration of what he really wanted.

Perhaps the plays weren’t the right source. He’d start on the sonnets tomorrow.

**

Eames had to put his plan on hold. The job had finally come together, and while he was not opposed to the occasional double entendre on the job, he was professional enough not to distract Arthur while they were working in a dream. Not that Arthur would allow himself to be distracted. But Eames was professional enough not to try. Or, at least, not try very hard.

With a successful extraction behind them, the team went their separate ways. Eames knew he would be seeing Arthur on their next job, which would be starting in about a month. That gave him more time to polish his delivery. The sonnets he had chosen were sure to do the trick.

**

And here they were again. They fell into a routine whenever they worked together, even though the setting was always different. Not only were their work patterns the same, but their interactions, as well. The good-natured sniping back and forth, avoiding what they really wanted to say, wanting each other, but neither willing to be the first to give in. Eames knew it had to end soon, if only for his sanity’s sake. And for Arthur’s sake, as well. If the man kept clenching his jaw like that, his teeth were going to crack.

“Eames, do you still have the file on the mark’s ex-wife? It’s not on my desk, where it should be.” Arthur strode over to Eames’ desk and stopped in front of it, his arms crossed.

“Right here, sweeting.” Eames handed the file to him.

“Did you just call-? That’s new.” Arthur flipped through the pages absently.

“Just keeping you on your toes, love.” Eames leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head.

“I see. Please return any and all files to my desk when you’re done with them. I’m not asking you to alphabetize them, just place them somewhere, anywhere, on my desk.” He turned and walked back to his desk.

“’Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.’” Eames began quietly, just above a whisper. Arthur stopped abruptly.

Eames continued, “’Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.’”

Arthur turned and looked at him, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “Sonnet 57. What are you up to, Mr. Eames?”

Eames did not respond. He looked into Arthur’s eyes, his face solemn. Perhaps Arthur thought he wasn’t serious. Perhaps that had been the problem all along. Eames knew he tended to make light of situations, but in this game, he was playing for keeps. He tried again.

“’When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’”

Arthur walked back, dropping the file carelessly, and planted his hands on the desk, looming over him. “Sonnet 29. Say what you mean, Eames. Stop using someone else’s words.”

“I didn’t think you’d respond well to ‘I want you naked and moaning under me,’ Arthur, though I did think that was a bit better than ‘I want to fuck your brains out.’”

Arthur blinked. “Is that all you want?”

Eames leaned forward in his chair. “That and more. And I want it for the rest of our lives.” He couldn’t believe that had come out of his mouth. Someone much less smooth and confident than himself had taken over his brain.

Arthur reached out and put his hands on either side of Eames’ face. He had one quick, panicked thought, He’s going to snap my neck like a chicken!, before Arthur’s mouth came down on his in a gentle kiss. Despite their awkward position, the kiss deepened, becoming a desperate tangle of lips, teeth, and tongues. Eames stood up and wrapped his arms around Arthur, hauling him up onto the desk, never breaking the kiss.

Finally, Eames pulled away and rested his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, his chest heaving. Arthur’s breathing was just as labored. They stayed in each other’s arms for minutes? hours? It wasn’t long enough for Eames.

“Eames,” Arthur said when he could speak normally. “Why Shakespeare?”

“What do you mean, why Shakespeare? You started it.” Eames stepped back and frowned at him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Arthur hopped off the desk and straightened his waistcoat.

“You quoted him at me first. That thing about mortals and hard work.” He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on.

“Eames, that was Horace.” Arthur grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and draped it over his arm. He opened the door and waited for Eames to catch up.

“I thought his first name was William.”

“It was. Horace was a Roman poet during the time of Augustus.”

They walked out of the building together, shoulders brushing.

“I don’t really care. Your hotel room, or mine, darling?”

Inception Fic: Arthur/Ariadne - Elevator

2011-10-23T21:25:53Z

I'm not sure about this, but here it is. Surprisingly, it's sort of what I had in mind when I started writing it. My stuff usually runs away from me.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the characters involved.

He stands at the back of the elevator, a man in a suit surrounded by men and women in suits. Floor by floor, the doors open and close as people leave and others enter. He automatically evaluates everyone who steps onto the elevator, alert to any possible threat. He does not look at her when she enters. He does not focus on the pale pink of her cheek or the way her dark hair brushes against it as she adjusts the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. He shifts, putting a couple of office workers between them when her disinterested gaze sweeps around the small space as she turns to face the doors. His eyes do not linger on the curve of her back, her waist, her hips; he does not react when the flow of people (ding, in and out) comes between them.

There is very little conversation; murmured greetings and see-you-laters are exchanged, after-work drinks proposed and accepted. She is speaking in low tones to the person next to her. He does not strain to hear her words; he does not let the melody of her voice play in his ears and send shivers down his spine. He does not wish she would turn to him and say his name.

The elevator is becoming more crowded. She shuffles backward without looking, making room for more people, moving closer. She stops directly in front of him. He does not use the growing crowd as an excuse to step closer to her, to feel the warmth radiating from her body. He does not reach out his hand to feel the softness of her skin, or run his fingers through the silk of her hair.

They continue their ascent. At each stop, more people leave, and fewer get on. She does not move. He does not lean forward to inhale the delicate fragrance of her hair and the intoxicating blend of lotion and warm skin that is uniquely her.

By the time the elevator reaches the top floor, they are the only two people on it. They have not acknowledged each other in any way. When the doors open, she turns to look at him, a small smile on her face. He does not press his lips to hers, sliding his tongue into her mouth and tasting the remnants of her toothpaste mixed with her morning coffee and lip gloss, silencing her breathy gasp of surprise. He does not nibble and lick his way down her neck, or suck her tender flesh into his mouth, leaving his mark.

He smiles back at her. “Ready to get to work?”

Inception Fic: Arthur/Ariadne - You Can Never Find a Good Babysitter

2011-09-28T14:58:20Z

Might as well have this on my journal, too.

Warning: FLUFF

Originally posted by ereshai at arthur_ariadne

Title: You Can Never Find a Good Babysitter
Rating: G
Summary: Arthur and Ariadne need someone to watch their kids
Note: My first fanfic ever. I wrote it to fill this prompt at inception_kink. This is an all-dialogue piece.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception or the characters involved.

Security system. Gated community. Bodyguards.

Diary of a Young Girl, or Love in a Time of Zombies

2011-09-16T21:54:31Z

Dear Diary,
            My dad is trying to ruin my life. Destroy it utterly. One ‘suspicious’ news report, and I’m confined to quarters. Well, the house, anyway, which is just as bad. McD’s is nowhere near Longcrest St, it’s all the way across town, and I would be perfectly safe, if anything is even really going on. D is going to be there tonight. The Bitch will be there, too, but I know if I could just talk to D, he’d forget all about her. She’s head cheerleader, shouldn’t she be dating the quarterback or someone equally brainless? People should date their intellectual equals. I truly believe that. Dad is so paranoid. If I hadn’t seen that news report myself, I would think he just made it up to keep me from having a life. He told me I could date once I turned 16, and that’s only a few weeks away. Just in time for prom. And if I want to go with an actual guy, I have to start working on potential dates now. Dad just does not understand that. He probably doesn’t want me to date until I’m 30. But, really, I bet he’s been reading that stupid guide again. Like I said, paranoid. I’d burn that fucking book if I didn’t think he had it practically memorized anyway. Sometimes I think Mom was right when she told the judge Dad was nuts. But not too crazy to make lots of money, which Mom really loves, because she only makes an appearance when she wants more. Great, I’m thinking about my bitch mother again. Like I’m not already depressed tonight. Better go call Em and let her know I can’t go to McD’s as planned, thanks Dad.

Dear Diary,
            One benefit of having a crazy father is I didn’t have to go to school today. No school, yay, but stuck in the house, boring. Em’s bringing my assignments, and she’s going to tell me all about McD’s last night. Maybe D dumped the Bitch right in front of everyone. Right, and maybe the dead really are walking.

--

It’s official, insanity is a communicable disease. (See, Mr. L, I can spell it if I feel like it) Dad’s buddies came over today, and I don’t think they’re leaving, since they brought their assorted wives, children and belongings. I am not sharing my room with any runny nose brats. Maybe when Em comes over, I can talk Dad into letting her stay for a while, since an ‘outbreak’ is, well, breaking out. Now they’re all sitting around trying to decide what class this outbreak is. Apparently, four is bad. My vote is class zero, because Dad and his buddies are loonies, and there are no such things as zombies. At least they have a specific psychosis and they aren’t running around biting people at random like those guys on the news. Hell, I learned not to bite when I was 2. Grow up. At least they’re not shooting people, those crazies. I mean the ones on the street, not the ones in the house. Maybe I should be worried, Dad and his buddies have a lot of guns.

--

So Em finally got here with my schoolwork, way more than there should be. Nothing monumental happened at McD’s last night, figures. I didn’t miss anything except a chance to get D to notice me and how much smarter than the Bitch I am. Em said a lot of kids didn’t show up at school today, and some who did were all bandaged, like on their hands or arms. Em was even attacked by one of those loonies last night! Well, not really attacked, but one of them did scratch her wrist a little when he tried to grab her. The police were trying to round him up, and Em and the rest of them stopped to watch. The police stopped him before he could really do any harm, though. I could tell Em was a little freaked out, and considering how hysterical her mother is, I’m surprised she let Em go to school today. It’s only a little scratch, but it did look really red. I helped Em clean it up and changed her bandage, and then she wanted to go home. I think she had a fever, too. I hope she’ll be all right. Can zombies be made through scratches? Maybe I’ll read Dad’s stupid book.

Dear Diary,
            Well, the news didn’t come out and say zombie, but the phrase ‘dead people getting up and walking around, attacking the living’ does bring the word to mind. I guess Dad isn’t psycho. I called Em’s house, but no one answered. I even worked up the nerve and dialed D’s number, too, but I got the machine. I suppose all this stuff going on, zombies and everything, means that prom is cancelled. I had this great dress picked out, too. My date wouldn’t have looked at any other girl, and if I just went with Em like we talked about, it would have made all those boys who didn’t ask me wish they had. Em and I were going to the mall today to see if it’s still there. The dress, I mean. I guess I won’t be going anywhere with Em ever again, though. I’ll never have a boyfriend.

Dear Diary,
            Dad is making me stand a watch. Sure, I can shoot and all that, I mean, Dad started teaching me when I was little, but why do I have to stand around in the dead of night and be all bored? None of the Wives are taking a watch, just because they’re taking care of the household chores and the kids, blah blah blah. Well, being on watch is better than washing dishes.
Zombies killed: 3 (none by me)

Dear Diary,
            I shot a zombie today. It is so much easier to hit a paper target than a moving one. I guess I should have let Dad take me hunting all those years ago, but, eww, gross, I didn’t want to shoot any defenseless animals. Still, I’d know how to hit a moving target if I had. Whatever, it isn’t like I won’t get plenty of practice now. All this stress is making me break out so bad. I’m going to run out of concealer, and I don’t think Dad will make a supply run for makeup, no matter how awful I look.
Zombies killed: 10 (1 mine – Mrs. Ellis from down the street, mean old bitch)

Dear Diary,
            Some of the neighbors tried to get in today, but most of them were obviously bitten and Dad wouldn’t let them. They kept pounding on the gate and whining to be let in, so Dad took a shot at them to make them leave. I told him to just shoot them now and save us the trouble later, but Dad is so squeamish. Whatever, what do I know? What I do know is, all the racket attracted more dead-heads (my own word).
Zombies killed: a lot (5 mine for sure – no one familiar, but one had a fucked-up face so I couldn’t be sure)

Dear Diary,
            I shot the Bitch today. She, or her corpse, whatever, came stumbling down the street, right up to our place. Nailed her right between her big, formerly blue, eyes. Brainless, even as a zombie, she just stood there while I took aim. It’s not every day a teenage girl’s dream comes true. Ding-dong, the Bitch is dead. I started to call Em, but then I remembered she’s probably dead. The phones are out anyway.
Zombies killed: 12 (only 2 mine, but the Bitch makes up for it)

Dear Diary,
            I was right. Em is dead, and now she’s really dead. I didn’t think I would have such a problem putting her down, but I couldn’t do it. One of Dad’s buddies did it. I don’t feel much like writing anymore today.
Zombies killed: EM

Dear Diary,
            We had a burning today. Dad said it was a calculated risk, but leaving all those corpses around was a health hazard for sure. No one got hurt, but all that smoke and noise, whatever, really pulled in the dead-heads. Every shot just brings more, too. They must be really close. I don’t think we’ll get much sleep tonight, there’s too much noise. The little snots are all sniveling with their mommies. I learned how to shoot when I was the same age as some of the older kids, why can’t they?
Zombies killed: who knows, but a lot mine (Dad calls me Dead-eye, like when I was little)

Dear Diary,
            I saw D. today! Even as a zombie, he is so cute. With all the dead-heads around, no one noticed that I didn’t shoot him. I wish. . . It doesn’t matter, but I can still look at him. Em would. . . None of it matters.
Zombies killed: didn’t bother to count

Dear Diary,
            Dad raised another group of survivors on the radio today, and we’re going to join forces or whatever. They don’t have a safe place, so they’re coming to us. I guess that means I have to share my room for sure now. I hope there’s another girl my age in the group, but they’re probably all old guys like my dad and his buddies. Maybe I won’t have to stand watch when they get here, not that I mind doing it so much anymore, it’s the only way I have any time to myself.
Zombies killed: gazillions, don’t I wish

Dear Diary,
            We cleaned out the neighborhood pretty good today, just to clear the way for the group coming in. Dad led a team out and I posted on the roof. Dad says I’m the best sniper we’ve got. He’s right. We probably didn’t get them all, but one or two will be a lot easier to handle than a horde. And I didn’t see D. at all. Maybe he’s still out there. I kinda hope so.
Zombies killed: a shitload

Dear Diary,
            It’s been a crazy few days. The travelers came in running and led a new bunch of dead-heads right to our door. Not really a big deal, but, please, a day or two without them would be nice. Some of them were bit, so Dad wouldn’t let them in no matter how much their friends yelled at him. Duh, don’t they know bite=dead? Like I said, a lot of yelling, but finally one guy, the leader I guess, just said fine and they left their wounded outside. And of course, all this was happening with the dead-heads breathing down their necks. Or moaning, whatever. Once they were all in, I put the wounded out of their misery. I was right, not one girl my age in the group. There is this one guy, though. He’s no D, but D. isn’t looking so hot these days, either. I think I’ll put him out of his misery if I ever see him again. I wonder how old this new guy is.
Zombies killed: not enough
***********
First time posting on LJ, hope I didn't screw it up.

So, here's something I wrote a few years ago. It's got zombies, which seems to be what I'm writing, when I write at all.