Millirific42: Kitchen
Title: Fore
Fandom: Indiana Jones/TMNT/Fray/Milliways Bar
Prompt: [023.] Kitchen
Word Count: 244
Rating: G
The tricky Seventeenth. A sharp dog leg to the right from inside the master bedroom, to a treacherously small green on the counter beside the fridge. Scene of many a kitchen sink-hazard disaster in Jones' approach shots. He needs this. He wants this. If Angelo Jr wins this hole, the championship is his. For the third straight tournament.
You can see the concentration on Jones' face as he takes a few practice swings and eyes the fairway. He doesn't care that Angelo Jr is playing with left-handed clubs today. A match is a match.
The elephantine crowd stills on the couch grandstand. You could cut the tension with a knife...
-whup-
Indy hits the balled-up sock with the palm of his hand and it sails out of his bedroom, angling towards the mixing bowl on the kitchen counter. Stampy's beady eyes follow its progress as it spins through the air. It looks good. Indy cranes his neck out of the doorway, following the ball's ungainly flight with growing hope. If it makes it over the breakfast bar, there might be a birdie chance...
The sock bounces off Mel's head as she straightens from the fridge with an apple in hand. And drops into the open crisper drawer. She glances around with mild disapproval. Then smirks, slides the drawer shut with her foot and closes the fridge door.
"Oooh. So close," Mike intones with absolutely no sympathy, and consolingly pats the now-distraught explorer on the shoulder. "If only you'd remembered to shout fore."
Fandom: Indiana Jones/TMNT/Fray/Milliways Bar
Prompt: [023.] Kitchen
Word Count: 244
Rating: G
The tricky Seventeenth. A sharp dog leg to the right from inside the master bedroom, to a treacherously small green on the counter beside the fridge. Scene of many a kitchen sink-hazard disaster in Jones' approach shots. He needs this. He wants this. If Angelo Jr wins this hole, the championship is his. For the third straight tournament.
You can see the concentration on Jones' face as he takes a few practice swings and eyes the fairway. He doesn't care that Angelo Jr is playing with left-handed clubs today. A match is a match.
The elephantine crowd stills on the couch grandstand. You could cut the tension with a knife...
-whup-
Indy hits the balled-up sock with the palm of his hand and it sails out of his bedroom, angling towards the mixing bowl on the kitchen counter. Stampy's beady eyes follow its progress as it spins through the air. It looks good. Indy cranes his neck out of the doorway, following the ball's ungainly flight with growing hope. If it makes it over the breakfast bar, there might be a birdie chance...
The sock bounces off Mel's head as she straightens from the fridge with an apple in hand. And drops into the open crisper drawer. She glances around with mild disapproval. Then smirks, slides the drawer shut with her foot and closes the fridge door.
"Oooh. So close," Mike intones with absolutely no sympathy, and consolingly pats the now-distraught explorer on the shoulder. "If only you'd remembered to shout fore."