AE-LDWS Round 3 - Drabble Roundup
Aug. 31st, 2011 11:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournI won A/E Last Drabble Writing Standing (Round 3)! I can't believe I won! ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
myxomycota has been mopping the floor with me, rightfully so. Those drabbles have been amazing. I've really enjoyed this challenge, and I can't wait to sign up again. Congratulations to everyone who submitted, because I think all of the entries have been top notch.
I'm shamelessly including my "congrats, you won" banner because I think it's pretty. :D
**Icons made by: woobie, mific, eamesie**
Title: Whose Idea Was It To Come To Liverpool?
Genre: Action
Prompt: Death by spork
Word Count: 500 exactly
Warning(s): Violence, gore
Summary: Arthur is rather terrifying
Arthur careens off a brick wall and tears down a filthy Liverpool alley, his feet kicking up dirty sprays as they slap through puddles. Rain falls half-heartedly, coldly disinterested in whether Arthur lives or dies. Three rapid shots sound: the first clangs off the dumpster to his left, the second bursts pieces off the brick beside his head. The final one tears through his shoulder and out the front, sending him stumbling forward. He clutches at it, snarling. Despite his grim determination, he slows.
In front of him a girl steps out, a bag of rubbish in her hands, looking up, startled. Arthur shoves her across the alley into the alcove opposite and runs headlong into the door she stepped out of. He hears thumping footsteps close behind him.
He finds himself in a grim sitting room, depressing furniture, cigarette-burned carpet. He takes it all in in a heartbeat before hurtling down the hallway. A few steps in he hears the thump of his pursuer bouncing off the door frame and the click of spent handgun. A muttered curse.
Arthur scrambles through the door to his right: a small, bare kitchen. He frantically opens drawers, yanks open the second before he’s tackled from behind. A clatter of utensils rains down on them as they fall.
***
Arthur’s terse voice echoes in Eames’s head: a location, then silence. The engine roars as he sinks the pedal to the floor. He rounds the last corner and sees Arthur disappear behind a corner, sees two men in grey suits following.
As the first man gains on Arthur, Eames guns the motor and with a deft handbrake turn cuts off the second. The man turns down an alleyway and Eames jumps out. He lines up the shot while he runs, arms extended. He squeezes off two shots; a hit to the waist sends the man sprawling. Eames approaches; the man is down, but just to be sure, Eames shoots out his knee before running back to the car.
He spots a woman in hysterics down an alley a few streets away. He gets out, cautiously enters the open door.
There’s no one in the sitting room. As he approaches the open door in the hallway he hears heavy breathing. He glues himself to the wall, furtively peeks around the corner.
Arthur sits, his right side soaked in blood, slumped against the cupboard. The man in grey is sprawled on his back on the ground. A vivid red pool spreads across the floor.
Arthur looks up, clutching his shoulder. “You made it,” he says. “Just in time for me not to need you.”
Eames looks down at the man, silver utensil protruding from his neck, handle-side in. “Arthur is that...”
Arthur looks at it, detached. “A spork, yes.”
“You are a frightening man, do you know that?” Eames shakes his head wonderingly. “Let’s go before the police arrive.” He grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls him up, supporting his weight as they walk back to the car.
Title: Sammati
Genre: Flangst
Prompt: Totem
Word Count: Up to 500
Warning(s): None
Summary: The hardest thing is knowing when to stop checking
The book Arthur’s reading hasn’t been able to hold his attention in a while, but he stares at it nonetheless, starting again at the first sentence of the page to get his bearings. He’s interrupted by Eames walking behind the sofa and stopping to place two guiding fingers under Arthur’s jaw, tilting his head backwards to give him an upside-down kiss. Arthur reaches a hand up to card through the hair at the back of Eames’s head. When Eames tries to withdraw, Arthur doesn’t let him. Eames grins and laughs, then gives in and kisses Arthur again, deeper. His tongue feels strange upside-down. Nice. Familiar, but new.
Before it can turn into something, Eames pulls off and this time Arthur drops his hand away. Eames presses a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead.
“Coq au vin tonight, I think.”
Arthur pulls his bookmark and marks his spot. “Mm, sounds good.”
As Eames walks to the kitchen, Arthur’s eyes wander to the bookshelf, to the copy of Tristram Shandy near the end. He thinks of the hollowed out pages inside it.
Dinner. They’ll have dinner, then watch a movie, or maybe continue that game of chess. Arthur would prefer a movie so he can put his feet on Eames’s lap, or Eames on his. It’ll be a nice way to cap off the day. After all, he’d accomplished a lot. He’d... well. He should help Eames, really.
Eames is in the long black apron dumping a pile of pearl onions into the simmering pot when Arthur steps behind him and slips his arms around.
“You look sexy in this thing. Maybe you should wear only this,” he says.
“You here to grope the chef or can you make yourself useful? Those mushrooms could use a wash. Or get me that Beaujolais from the rack.” Eames tries to sound surly but his smile bleeds through his tone.
“Well, I did come in here to help, but now that you mention it, groping sounds better,” Arthur says, sliding his hand up under Eames’s t-shirt and ruffling through his chest hair.
Eames turns around and grips Arthur’s ass, pulling him close and kissing him. “Get out of my kitchen then, you tinker. I’ll come out when it’s simmering.”
Arthur thinks of the living room, the book, the truth inside. “No, I’ll help you,” he says. “Beaujolais, you said?” Eames nods and Arthur goes to the standing rack in the corner.
He turns several bottles label-side up, looking for the right one. He sees it, puts his hand on the neck and stops. They bought this bottle together. At that... open air market. The one under the bridge on their last holiday. He remembers.
“Eames, I thought I might clear out some old things, give them to charity. Maybe some books and stuff, tomorrow.”
“Mm, okay,” Eames says, preoccupied.
Arthur closes his eyes and sighs, content. He pulls out the bottle and turns to look at Eames, bustling and busy in their kitchen.
Title: When it Matters
Genre: PWP
Prompt: Jealousy
Word Count: Up to 500
Warning(s): None
Summary: The time to talk is when you’re balls-deep in your sometime-fuck-buddy. The problem is, you both might be too distracted to say all the words in your head.
Arthur’s thumbs spread Eames’s ass open wide as he sinks his cock in. Eames stands bent over, one knee on the bed. “Fuck, look at that,” Arthur says, pressing on the rim of Eames’s hole with one finger not quite hard enough to breach. “I know,” he says, stopping his breath for a second before letting it go. “...that when we’re down there in Fischer’s head...”
Craning his head around, Eames grunts out, “Is now really the time?” He tries vainly to push back onto Arthur’s cock but Arthur’s grip holds him still.
Arthur slides his palm up Eames’s back, like he’s surveying the territory. “Yeah, now is absolutely,” he bottoms out and stops moving, “the time to say this.” He leans over and brushes his lips on Eames’s back, not quite a kiss. “I know what you do sometimes when you improvise. When you have to be a distraction. I don’t like it.”
Eames makes an irritated sound like he’s to put Arthur in his place but Arthur interrupts with a hand wrapping around Eames’s cock. “Shh, just listen. I know you’re only doing what you have to.” He gently rolls his fingers around Eames’s tight sac. “But I need you to remember this.” He withdraws his cock halfway and presses back in to emphasize his point. “When you need it, when it’s not for work, you come to me.” He moves his hand to jack Eames’s cock lightly.
Those hips start moving again as Arthur uses one hand to brace himself on Eames’s hip, the other holding Eames open a little to watch himself disappear up inside. Eames dangles his head forward, unable to contain his groans as he rolls his hips again and again into Arthur’s thrusts. Eames tenses, too close a few times but Arthur squeezes him at the base and stops the cresting until he calms. After several close calls, when Eames is no longer in danger of spilling too soon, Arthur grips tight, slams in and comes with a violent shudder.
When Arthur flops forward on the bed, Eames climbs onto him, straddles, and puts his cock in Arthur in one smooth, tight slide. He fucks him hard, taking full advantage of the knowledge that Arthur lets Eames simply take what he needs, that Arthur’s always been able to take whatever Eames dishes out.
What Eames doesn’t say, what he’s never said, is that for the past year Arthur’s been who he turns to when he’s tired of making decisions. That when he’s close to seducing a mark, it’s the memory of Arthur’s solid, warm presence that calls him back to himself, stops him shy of his usual distraction tactics. That those three months in Mombasa had been utterly dry.
When he’s close, he roughly turns Arthur’s head and looks him in the eye moments before coming, breathing hard against Arthur’s lips. He never does respond to Arthur’s words.
myxomycota has been mopping the floor with me, rightfully so. Those drabbles have been amazing. I've really enjoyed this challenge, and I can't wait to sign up again. Congratulations to everyone who submitted, because I think all of the entries have been top notch. I'm shamelessly including my "congrats, you won" banner because I think it's pretty. :D
woobie, mific, eamesie**Week 1
Title: Whose Idea Was It To Come To Liverpool?
Genre: Action
Prompt: Death by spork
Word Count: 500 exactly
Warning(s): Violence, gore
Summary: Arthur is rather terrifying
Arthur careens off a brick wall and tears down a filthy Liverpool alley, his feet kicking up dirty sprays as they slap through puddles. Rain falls half-heartedly, coldly disinterested in whether Arthur lives or dies. Three rapid shots sound: the first clangs off the dumpster to his left, the second bursts pieces off the brick beside his head. The final one tears through his shoulder and out the front, sending him stumbling forward. He clutches at it, snarling. Despite his grim determination, he slows.
In front of him a girl steps out, a bag of rubbish in her hands, looking up, startled. Arthur shoves her across the alley into the alcove opposite and runs headlong into the door she stepped out of. He hears thumping footsteps close behind him.
He finds himself in a grim sitting room, depressing furniture, cigarette-burned carpet. He takes it all in in a heartbeat before hurtling down the hallway. A few steps in he hears the thump of his pursuer bouncing off the door frame and the click of spent handgun. A muttered curse.
Arthur scrambles through the door to his right: a small, bare kitchen. He frantically opens drawers, yanks open the second before he’s tackled from behind. A clatter of utensils rains down on them as they fall.
***
Arthur’s terse voice echoes in Eames’s head: a location, then silence. The engine roars as he sinks the pedal to the floor. He rounds the last corner and sees Arthur disappear behind a corner, sees two men in grey suits following.
As the first man gains on Arthur, Eames guns the motor and with a deft handbrake turn cuts off the second. The man turns down an alleyway and Eames jumps out. He lines up the shot while he runs, arms extended. He squeezes off two shots; a hit to the waist sends the man sprawling. Eames approaches; the man is down, but just to be sure, Eames shoots out his knee before running back to the car.
He spots a woman in hysterics down an alley a few streets away. He gets out, cautiously enters the open door.
There’s no one in the sitting room. As he approaches the open door in the hallway he hears heavy breathing. He glues himself to the wall, furtively peeks around the corner.
Arthur sits, his right side soaked in blood, slumped against the cupboard. The man in grey is sprawled on his back on the ground. A vivid red pool spreads across the floor.
Arthur looks up, clutching his shoulder. “You made it,” he says. “Just in time for me not to need you.”
Eames looks down at the man, silver utensil protruding from his neck, handle-side in. “Arthur is that...”
Arthur looks at it, detached. “A spork, yes.”
“You are a frightening man, do you know that?” Eames shakes his head wonderingly. “Let’s go before the police arrive.” He grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls him up, supporting his weight as they walk back to the car.
Week 2
Title: Sammati
Genre: Flangst
Prompt: Totem
Word Count: Up to 500
Warning(s): None
Summary: The hardest thing is knowing when to stop checking
The book Arthur’s reading hasn’t been able to hold his attention in a while, but he stares at it nonetheless, starting again at the first sentence of the page to get his bearings. He’s interrupted by Eames walking behind the sofa and stopping to place two guiding fingers under Arthur’s jaw, tilting his head backwards to give him an upside-down kiss. Arthur reaches a hand up to card through the hair at the back of Eames’s head. When Eames tries to withdraw, Arthur doesn’t let him. Eames grins and laughs, then gives in and kisses Arthur again, deeper. His tongue feels strange upside-down. Nice. Familiar, but new.
Before it can turn into something, Eames pulls off and this time Arthur drops his hand away. Eames presses a soft kiss to Arthur’s forehead.
“Coq au vin tonight, I think.”
Arthur pulls his bookmark and marks his spot. “Mm, sounds good.”
As Eames walks to the kitchen, Arthur’s eyes wander to the bookshelf, to the copy of Tristram Shandy near the end. He thinks of the hollowed out pages inside it.
Dinner. They’ll have dinner, then watch a movie, or maybe continue that game of chess. Arthur would prefer a movie so he can put his feet on Eames’s lap, or Eames on his. It’ll be a nice way to cap off the day. After all, he’d accomplished a lot. He’d... well. He should help Eames, really.
Eames is in the long black apron dumping a pile of pearl onions into the simmering pot when Arthur steps behind him and slips his arms around.
“You look sexy in this thing. Maybe you should wear only this,” he says.
“You here to grope the chef or can you make yourself useful? Those mushrooms could use a wash. Or get me that Beaujolais from the rack.” Eames tries to sound surly but his smile bleeds through his tone.
“Well, I did come in here to help, but now that you mention it, groping sounds better,” Arthur says, sliding his hand up under Eames’s t-shirt and ruffling through his chest hair.
Eames turns around and grips Arthur’s ass, pulling him close and kissing him. “Get out of my kitchen then, you tinker. I’ll come out when it’s simmering.”
Arthur thinks of the living room, the book, the truth inside. “No, I’ll help you,” he says. “Beaujolais, you said?” Eames nods and Arthur goes to the standing rack in the corner.
He turns several bottles label-side up, looking for the right one. He sees it, puts his hand on the neck and stops. They bought this bottle together. At that... open air market. The one under the bridge on their last holiday. He remembers.
“Eames, I thought I might clear out some old things, give them to charity. Maybe some books and stuff, tomorrow.”
“Mm, okay,” Eames says, preoccupied.
Arthur closes his eyes and sighs, content. He pulls out the bottle and turns to look at Eames, bustling and busy in their kitchen.
Week 3
Title: When it Matters
Genre: PWP
Prompt: Jealousy
Word Count: Up to 500
Warning(s): None
Summary: The time to talk is when you’re balls-deep in your sometime-fuck-buddy. The problem is, you both might be too distracted to say all the words in your head.
Arthur’s thumbs spread Eames’s ass open wide as he sinks his cock in. Eames stands bent over, one knee on the bed. “Fuck, look at that,” Arthur says, pressing on the rim of Eames’s hole with one finger not quite hard enough to breach. “I know,” he says, stopping his breath for a second before letting it go. “...that when we’re down there in Fischer’s head...”
Craning his head around, Eames grunts out, “Is now really the time?” He tries vainly to push back onto Arthur’s cock but Arthur’s grip holds him still.
Arthur slides his palm up Eames’s back, like he’s surveying the territory. “Yeah, now is absolutely,” he bottoms out and stops moving, “the time to say this.” He leans over and brushes his lips on Eames’s back, not quite a kiss. “I know what you do sometimes when you improvise. When you have to be a distraction. I don’t like it.”
Eames makes an irritated sound like he’s to put Arthur in his place but Arthur interrupts with a hand wrapping around Eames’s cock. “Shh, just listen. I know you’re only doing what you have to.” He gently rolls his fingers around Eames’s tight sac. “But I need you to remember this.” He withdraws his cock halfway and presses back in to emphasize his point. “When you need it, when it’s not for work, you come to me.” He moves his hand to jack Eames’s cock lightly.
Those hips start moving again as Arthur uses one hand to brace himself on Eames’s hip, the other holding Eames open a little to watch himself disappear up inside. Eames dangles his head forward, unable to contain his groans as he rolls his hips again and again into Arthur’s thrusts. Eames tenses, too close a few times but Arthur squeezes him at the base and stops the cresting until he calms. After several close calls, when Eames is no longer in danger of spilling too soon, Arthur grips tight, slams in and comes with a violent shudder.
When Arthur flops forward on the bed, Eames climbs onto him, straddles, and puts his cock in Arthur in one smooth, tight slide. He fucks him hard, taking full advantage of the knowledge that Arthur lets Eames simply take what he needs, that Arthur’s always been able to take whatever Eames dishes out.
What Eames doesn’t say, what he’s never said, is that for the past year Arthur’s been who he turns to when he’s tired of making decisions. That when he’s close to seducing a mark, it’s the memory of Arthur’s solid, warm presence that calls him back to himself, stops him shy of his usual distraction tactics. That those three months in Mombasa had been utterly dry.
When he’s close, he roughly turns Arthur’s head and looks him in the eye moments before coming, breathing hard against Arthur’s lips. He never does respond to Arthur’s words.
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no subject
Date: 2011-08-31 08:51 pm (UTC)I loved all of these. I even voted two of them (guess I missed a week). :D I really like the understatedness of the totem one. It would have been so easy to be heavy-handed there and you kept it light.
I'm glad you had fun playing with the limits and structure.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-31 09:04 pm (UTC)Yeah, the form is really interesting. I like limitations and parameters. I'd love to try even shorter stuff. I'll give it a go the next round, I think.