the contest: part 2, four clicks
Title, The Contest: Part 2, Four Clicks
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Touch
Wordcount, ~525
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths. And I am a very slow writer.
Summary, Eames is a secret jailbait genius who was dropped here from the age of chivalry. Arthur is, secretly, enamored. College AU.
Part One - The Slap Of The Glove
The pair of shot glasses had been filled, downed and clicked on the surface of the kitchen table four times.
Khan had surreptitiously switched the contents of Arthur's cup with straight Pepsi because apparently the tall, wiry guy from Guyana was in the market for a lifelong nemesis. Thankfully Thomerson didn't have Khan's moral fiber, and Arthur's drunk was well on its way to not being in-between any more. Thomerson was okay, Arthur had decided. It was enough to make Arthur go against his boyhood determination not to like anyone named Kirby.
Eames remained perfectly Eames-like, if one ignored how several layers of polish had been sandpapered off of his accent, which Arthur had never thought of as Generic British before tonight, leaving Eames sounding vaguely like something out of a Guy Ritchie movie.
And the fact that he'd been rambling about Janet Jackson for five minutes.
"Of all things to blame for the breakdown of society," Eames said, blowing air through his lips to show his derision. "Let's set the scene. You already have your cheerleaders on both sides, with their bountiful cleavage and their lovely, tiny little skirts that show their pants from sea to shining sea."
"Pants," Bickford repeated, blond hair making haphazard movements as he shook his head, grinning. "How does that even mean underwear? Fuckin' Brits. Crap like that convinces me you just like being different. I swear, it's like... hipster nation. Or something. Trendy limey shits."
Bickford had this thing about not letting people forget how much of a prick he was.
Eames raised a patronizing eyebrow. "Our culture does pre-date yours, you know."
Bickford only shrugged, and they knocked back shot number five.
"And then," Eames continued, "We've got the half-time show. The 'entertainment' in the stricter sense of the word. The male partner so boyishly alluring he posed no threat to the red-blooded amongst the viewers, those who genuinely had tuned in for the sport, the Rams clobbering the Ravens or Panthers or Siberian bloody Huskies or what have you.” Everyone started to laugh, but Eames didn’t falter in his mission. He had a point to make about this, and by God he was going to get to it. At some point. And maybe it would even include a shred of coherence. “The pairing of performers had been such that it generated no sexual heat whatsoever. When he grabbed her, it was like the neighbor kid she used to babysit for trying to cop a feel and-"
Every cell in Arthur's body went rigid as a bronze statue. Eames had chosen to reenact the event and his hand--his very warm, very Eames hand--was covering Arthur's left pectoral.
“Bad touch!” Thomerson crowed.
His eyes widening, Eames coughed, letting go within an instant. He turned away from Arthur to down shot number six with a grimace and an awkward laugh.
Arthur’s face, he knew, was probably bright red, edging toward “lobster”. Amid a largely indecipherable fog of lewd speculation and laughter, he swallowed whatever was in his cup and stalked off in search of the bathroom.
His rule about Kirbys was very much back in effect.
Part 3 - When Eyebrows Meet
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Touch
Wordcount, ~525
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths. And I am a very slow writer.
Summary, Eames is a secret jailbait genius who was dropped here from the age of chivalry. Arthur is, secretly, enamored. College AU.
Part One - The Slap Of The Glove
The pair of shot glasses had been filled, downed and clicked on the surface of the kitchen table four times.
Khan had surreptitiously switched the contents of Arthur's cup with straight Pepsi because apparently the tall, wiry guy from Guyana was in the market for a lifelong nemesis. Thankfully Thomerson didn't have Khan's moral fiber, and Arthur's drunk was well on its way to not being in-between any more. Thomerson was okay, Arthur had decided. It was enough to make Arthur go against his boyhood determination not to like anyone named Kirby.
Eames remained perfectly Eames-like, if one ignored how several layers of polish had been sandpapered off of his accent, which Arthur had never thought of as Generic British before tonight, leaving Eames sounding vaguely like something out of a Guy Ritchie movie.
And the fact that he'd been rambling about Janet Jackson for five minutes.
"Of all things to blame for the breakdown of society," Eames said, blowing air through his lips to show his derision. "Let's set the scene. You already have your cheerleaders on both sides, with their bountiful cleavage and their lovely, tiny little skirts that show their pants from sea to shining sea."
"Pants," Bickford repeated, blond hair making haphazard movements as he shook his head, grinning. "How does that even mean underwear? Fuckin' Brits. Crap like that convinces me you just like being different. I swear, it's like... hipster nation. Or something. Trendy limey shits."
Bickford had this thing about not letting people forget how much of a prick he was.
Eames raised a patronizing eyebrow. "Our culture does pre-date yours, you know."
Bickford only shrugged, and they knocked back shot number five.
"And then," Eames continued, "We've got the half-time show. The 'entertainment' in the stricter sense of the word. The male partner so boyishly alluring he posed no threat to the red-blooded amongst the viewers, those who genuinely had tuned in for the sport, the Rams clobbering the Ravens or Panthers or Siberian bloody Huskies or what have you.” Everyone started to laugh, but Eames didn’t falter in his mission. He had a point to make about this, and by God he was going to get to it. At some point. And maybe it would even include a shred of coherence. “The pairing of performers had been such that it generated no sexual heat whatsoever. When he grabbed her, it was like the neighbor kid she used to babysit for trying to cop a feel and-"
Every cell in Arthur's body went rigid as a bronze statue. Eames had chosen to reenact the event and his hand--his very warm, very Eames hand--was covering Arthur's left pectoral.
“Bad touch!” Thomerson crowed.
His eyes widening, Eames coughed, letting go within an instant. He turned away from Arthur to down shot number six with a grimace and an awkward laugh.
Arthur’s face, he knew, was probably bright red, edging toward “lobster”. Amid a largely indecipherable fog of lewd speculation and laughter, he swallowed whatever was in his cup and stalked off in search of the bathroom.
His rule about Kirbys was very much back in effect.
Part 3 - When Eyebrows Meet