Fic: The Sugar Mill
Nov. 24th, 2011 02:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oroburos69Title: The Sugar Mill
Fandom: Inception/Left 4 Dead
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Summary: Eames and Arthur run into trouble in the sugar mill.
Warnings: Non-consensual sex with a smoker (zombie).
Author's Note: Written for the Inception Kink Meme on LJ. Prompt: I want a Left for Dead AU. With Arthur being taken advantage by a smoker or a tank or something.
The weeping is getting closer.
Arthur freezes, his back pressed into the corner, empty and useless machine gun warm against his side. The fuel sloshes inside the green plastic container, directing the rain into a thick channel straight down his back.
The shadows of the crumbling brick walls hide as many details as the pouring rain. The witch is out there, and he can't see her. He lost track of Cobb five minutes ago, hasn't heard Adraine since she ran during the horde attack on the elevator.
Eames should be in the security hut, grabbing a pipe bomb. That was before the witch started crying. Hopefully he's found a corner.
The another set of wails start up, these ones closer. A second witch stumbles blindly through the rain, gnarled hands curled up in front of her face. Arthur snaps the flashlight off before she can notice him, his hands shaking so bad that the light glances off her gray and rotting flesh.
She growls, glowing red eyes seeking him out though the gloom and fog. Arthur shoves the flashlight in the interior pocket of his suit and grabs the machete in a two handed grip. If the Witch attacks, he'll only have one chance to take her down.
The wind picks up, screaming though the crumbing building, putting a thick layer of mist and fog between Arthur and her. She sobs, sounding heart-broken, and heads away from him, toward the other witch's cries.
Arthur blinks in disbelief, but edges out of his corner, taking the path half-hidden by vegetation and rusting iron, located securely behind the witch. He can see the lights in the security hut, diffused through the rain. Eames should be back by now.
A hacking cough echos through the abandoned buildings behind him, and Arthur breaks into a run, not pausing to look back.
A thick band of flesh curls around his ankle, tripping him. The added weight of the fuel-tank drives Arthur into the ground hard enough to knock the machete from his grasp, and the breath from his lungs. Arthur attempts a wheezing scream, ignoring the possibility of a witch hearing. He can't hear himself over the pounding rain and the frantic beating of his heart.
The tongue starts reeling him in, dragging Arthur over wet grass and the rotting humus beneath it. Arthur twists, digging his fingers into the muddy ground and straining for the distant gleam of the machete. "Eames," he gasps, forcing the sound through lungs that feel too tight.
The tongue wraps around his other ankle and yanks, dragging Arthur closer. A witch's dry dying death-rattle echos from right next to Arthur, and he freezes, face down in the mud, too scared to fight the smoker. It's a question of whether he'd rather die being strangled or being torn into bloody shreds, and Arthur knows his preference.
He's pulled through a dripping wet stand of ferns, and the smoker stops, its tongue pulling back. Arthur scrambles away, into the corner that he can feel more than see, wedging himself against the comforting weight of brick and mortar before daring to look back, to look up at the creature. Its appearance draws a gasp that should be a scream. The rotting tumors on the infected's shoulders are writhing, each one split open like a little mouth, tiny tongues flailing in the dim light.
Arthur grabs the flashlight from his suit pocket, fully prepared to beat the mutated monster to death with it if he had to. It coughs, smoke filled breath pouring from too many mouths, then edges forward, the thick protrusion of its tongue reaching blindly through the dark, rubbing along the sleeve of Arthur's suit. He snarls, as much with fear as rage, and hits the tongue with the flashlight.
The smoker shrieks, and slams its tongue into Arthur's arms, knocking the flashlight out of his hand. The tongue curls around him, hot saliva leaking though rain-soaked clothes to Arthur's skin, thick and viscous. The tongue lengthens, falling out of the thing's mouth and wrapping around him again and again, pinning his arms to his sides, the all-important fuel tank faintly jostled, sloshing lazily.
The mobile tip of its tongue searches, sliding into his pockets, up his sleeves. Arthur struggles, biting his lip to keep quiet, the faint red-glow of witch's eyes coming from his right. The smoker grows impatient, and reaches out, clawing through what had been a very nice shirt before the zombie apocalypse. The tip of its tongue slides down Arthur's chest, slick with rain water and spit, tracing looping circles across his skin.
The smoker makes a sound of frustration, and reaches toward Arthur's pants, long ragged nails shredding the cloth, exposing Arthur to the air. Its tongue dives down immediately, rubbing long wet line down his legs, between them. It's thick and rubbery against Arthur's soft cock, the length of it slipping back, pressing against his hole, sliding inside him in a slippery rush. It gets wider fast, driving up into him, nesting inside his intestines, moving and twitching so hard that Arthur can feel his stomach move, the skin bulging outward from the weight and mass of the penetrating tongue.
Arthur shouts out, suddenly willing to die by a witch's claws if it means not dying like this. The smoker laughs, great gusts of smoke pouring from its mouth, and pulls open the front of its tattered over-coat, revealing a rotten cock, listing half-way to attention, pus streaming from the wrinkled tip. A trio of tiny tongues writhe around it, lapping eagerly at the base.
This time, Arthur screams.
A shotgun goes off, and the smoker's head explodes, fragments of blood and rot raining down on Arthur. Smoke hisses out of its mouths, flooding the area in yellow green miasma.
"Shit Arthur," Eames says, shoving shells into the shotgun. "What the fuck did it do to you?"
Arthur snarls at him, trying to pull his arms free from the slowly loosening coils of tongue. "Get it off of me," he says. He thinks he can feel it moving inside him still, which is ridiculous, because it's dead.
Deader.
"Fuck, it's inside you?" Eames whispers, his voice hushed by the sobbing of a witch in the distance. He flicks on his flashlight and swings it around behind him, watching for the gleaming eyes of the infected.
"Get it out," he gasps, and pulls and shoves against the tongue wrapped around him. Arthur manages to slide the lowest loop off his arms, the rest of the length of tongue wrapped around his chest quickly following. It falls to the ground, the weight of it pulling part of the tongue from his ass. It feels obscene. Arthur bites his lip to keep from screaming and reaches between his legs to get the rest.
It takes way too long to pull its tongue out, and the thing lashes like it's still alive when he yanks it free.
Arthur spends a good moment rubbing his hands clean on his pants before he looks up.
Eames has the shotgun at his shoulder, and Arthur's machete strapped to his side. He glances over and waves toward the security hut. "There's ammo in there. You ready?"
Arthur nods, and wraps his jacket around his waist to cover the gaping holes in his pants. "Let's go," he says, ignoring the thick trickle of moisture dripping down the inside of his leg.
Eames hands him the machete, and motions for Arthur to lead the way.
Arthur does.
"I have pain pills, if you need them," Eames offers as he fills his pockets with shotgun shells. "I'd offer you a first aid kit, but I had to use mine earlier."
Arthur shakes his head in refusal, grabbing a bile jar from the shelf. The security hut is warm and dry. It's tempting to stay, but the infected are gathering again. If they intend to survive, they need to get back to the boat. "Let's go. See if we can find Cobb and Adraine."
"They're probably stuck in a closet again," Eames says, adjusting the straps holding the fuel tank to his back. "I'll never understand how such a bright girl manages to lock herself inside so many closets."
Arthur nods in agreement, and re-loads his gun. "You ready?"
"Yes." Eames lets Arthur take the lead again, obviously covering his back. Arthur rather appreciates that, his skin still crawling in revulsion. "Arthur, did I ever tell you about the time my friend Yusuf and I--"
"Not now, Eames," Arthur cuts him off, a trace of a smile hidden in the corner of him mouth.
Fandom: Inception/Left 4 Dead
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Summary: Eames and Arthur run into trouble in the sugar mill.
Warnings: Non-consensual sex with a smoker (zombie).
Author's Note: Written for the Inception Kink Meme on LJ. Prompt: I want a Left for Dead AU. With Arthur being taken advantage by a smoker or a tank or something.
The weeping is getting closer.
Arthur freezes, his back pressed into the corner, empty and useless machine gun warm against his side. The fuel sloshes inside the green plastic container, directing the rain into a thick channel straight down his back.
The shadows of the crumbling brick walls hide as many details as the pouring rain. The witch is out there, and he can't see her. He lost track of Cobb five minutes ago, hasn't heard Adraine since she ran during the horde attack on the elevator.
Eames should be in the security hut, grabbing a pipe bomb. That was before the witch started crying. Hopefully he's found a corner.
The another set of wails start up, these ones closer. A second witch stumbles blindly through the rain, gnarled hands curled up in front of her face. Arthur snaps the flashlight off before she can notice him, his hands shaking so bad that the light glances off her gray and rotting flesh.
She growls, glowing red eyes seeking him out though the gloom and fog. Arthur shoves the flashlight in the interior pocket of his suit and grabs the machete in a two handed grip. If the Witch attacks, he'll only have one chance to take her down.
The wind picks up, screaming though the crumbing building, putting a thick layer of mist and fog between Arthur and her. She sobs, sounding heart-broken, and heads away from him, toward the other witch's cries.
Arthur blinks in disbelief, but edges out of his corner, taking the path half-hidden by vegetation and rusting iron, located securely behind the witch. He can see the lights in the security hut, diffused through the rain. Eames should be back by now.
A hacking cough echos through the abandoned buildings behind him, and Arthur breaks into a run, not pausing to look back.
A thick band of flesh curls around his ankle, tripping him. The added weight of the fuel-tank drives Arthur into the ground hard enough to knock the machete from his grasp, and the breath from his lungs. Arthur attempts a wheezing scream, ignoring the possibility of a witch hearing. He can't hear himself over the pounding rain and the frantic beating of his heart.
The tongue starts reeling him in, dragging Arthur over wet grass and the rotting humus beneath it. Arthur twists, digging his fingers into the muddy ground and straining for the distant gleam of the machete. "Eames," he gasps, forcing the sound through lungs that feel too tight.
The tongue wraps around his other ankle and yanks, dragging Arthur closer. A witch's dry dying death-rattle echos from right next to Arthur, and he freezes, face down in the mud, too scared to fight the smoker. It's a question of whether he'd rather die being strangled or being torn into bloody shreds, and Arthur knows his preference.
He's pulled through a dripping wet stand of ferns, and the smoker stops, its tongue pulling back. Arthur scrambles away, into the corner that he can feel more than see, wedging himself against the comforting weight of brick and mortar before daring to look back, to look up at the creature. Its appearance draws a gasp that should be a scream. The rotting tumors on the infected's shoulders are writhing, each one split open like a little mouth, tiny tongues flailing in the dim light.
Arthur grabs the flashlight from his suit pocket, fully prepared to beat the mutated monster to death with it if he had to. It coughs, smoke filled breath pouring from too many mouths, then edges forward, the thick protrusion of its tongue reaching blindly through the dark, rubbing along the sleeve of Arthur's suit. He snarls, as much with fear as rage, and hits the tongue with the flashlight.
The smoker shrieks, and slams its tongue into Arthur's arms, knocking the flashlight out of his hand. The tongue curls around him, hot saliva leaking though rain-soaked clothes to Arthur's skin, thick and viscous. The tongue lengthens, falling out of the thing's mouth and wrapping around him again and again, pinning his arms to his sides, the all-important fuel tank faintly jostled, sloshing lazily.
The mobile tip of its tongue searches, sliding into his pockets, up his sleeves. Arthur struggles, biting his lip to keep quiet, the faint red-glow of witch's eyes coming from his right. The smoker grows impatient, and reaches out, clawing through what had been a very nice shirt before the zombie apocalypse. The tip of its tongue slides down Arthur's chest, slick with rain water and spit, tracing looping circles across his skin.
The smoker makes a sound of frustration, and reaches toward Arthur's pants, long ragged nails shredding the cloth, exposing Arthur to the air. Its tongue dives down immediately, rubbing long wet line down his legs, between them. It's thick and rubbery against Arthur's soft cock, the length of it slipping back, pressing against his hole, sliding inside him in a slippery rush. It gets wider fast, driving up into him, nesting inside his intestines, moving and twitching so hard that Arthur can feel his stomach move, the skin bulging outward from the weight and mass of the penetrating tongue.
Arthur shouts out, suddenly willing to die by a witch's claws if it means not dying like this. The smoker laughs, great gusts of smoke pouring from its mouth, and pulls open the front of its tattered over-coat, revealing a rotten cock, listing half-way to attention, pus streaming from the wrinkled tip. A trio of tiny tongues writhe around it, lapping eagerly at the base.
This time, Arthur screams.
A shotgun goes off, and the smoker's head explodes, fragments of blood and rot raining down on Arthur. Smoke hisses out of its mouths, flooding the area in yellow green miasma.
"Shit Arthur," Eames says, shoving shells into the shotgun. "What the fuck did it do to you?"
Arthur snarls at him, trying to pull his arms free from the slowly loosening coils of tongue. "Get it off of me," he says. He thinks he can feel it moving inside him still, which is ridiculous, because it's dead.
Deader.
"Fuck, it's inside you?" Eames whispers, his voice hushed by the sobbing of a witch in the distance. He flicks on his flashlight and swings it around behind him, watching for the gleaming eyes of the infected.
"Get it out," he gasps, and pulls and shoves against the tongue wrapped around him. Arthur manages to slide the lowest loop off his arms, the rest of the length of tongue wrapped around his chest quickly following. It falls to the ground, the weight of it pulling part of the tongue from his ass. It feels obscene. Arthur bites his lip to keep from screaming and reaches between his legs to get the rest.
It takes way too long to pull its tongue out, and the thing lashes like it's still alive when he yanks it free.
Arthur spends a good moment rubbing his hands clean on his pants before he looks up.
Eames has the shotgun at his shoulder, and Arthur's machete strapped to his side. He glances over and waves toward the security hut. "There's ammo in there. You ready?"
Arthur nods, and wraps his jacket around his waist to cover the gaping holes in his pants. "Let's go," he says, ignoring the thick trickle of moisture dripping down the inside of his leg.
Eames hands him the machete, and motions for Arthur to lead the way.
Arthur does.
"I have pain pills, if you need them," Eames offers as he fills his pockets with shotgun shells. "I'd offer you a first aid kit, but I had to use mine earlier."
Arthur shakes his head in refusal, grabbing a bile jar from the shelf. The security hut is warm and dry. It's tempting to stay, but the infected are gathering again. If they intend to survive, they need to get back to the boat. "Let's go. See if we can find Cobb and Adraine."
"They're probably stuck in a closet again," Eames says, adjusting the straps holding the fuel tank to his back. "I'll never understand how such a bright girl manages to lock herself inside so many closets."
Arthur nods in agreement, and re-loads his gun. "You ready?"
"Yes." Eames lets Arthur take the lead again, obviously covering his back. Arthur rather appreciates that, his skin still crawling in revulsion. "Arthur, did I ever tell you about the time my friend Yusuf and I--"
"Not now, Eames," Arthur cuts him off, a trace of a smile hidden in the corner of him mouth.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-25 07:41 pm (UTC)This is dirtybadwrong and yet so good. I blame your writing style and your sense of whatever you're writing about for sucking me into things like this and persuading me that it isn't really that bad. Y'know, if you squint, tilt you head to the side and remember that it is. Good job.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-01 06:19 am (UTC)And yeah...this is another of my late night kink memeing things. They always go so much further than I would in the light of day. (NGL, this actually squicks me hard, but I'm still pretty proud of it).