ae_ldws roundup
i participated in the latest round of ae_ldws and did all six weeks, only thanks to some mega encouragement from eternalsojourn. anyway, here are 5/6 of the drabbles i did (i disliked my sixth drabble too much to put here).
Genre/Cliché: Humor
Prompt: Stalker
Word Count: up to 300
"When I told you Facebook's a good way to get to know someone, I didn't mean Facebook stalking!" Ariadne hisses over Arthur's shoulder. He's at his desk, chin in hand, scrolling balefully through all of the profile pictures on Eames' twelve different accounts.
"What?"
"I meant send him a message, or write on his wall!" She rubs at her temple. "Don't misunderstand, I like a good creep sesh too but..." she trails off, squinting at Arthur's numerous tabs. "Jesus. Are those all Eames?" Arthur nods mutely, lingering over a photo of Eames shirtless on the beach.
Ariadne smacks him upside the head. "Stop! Stalking!"
"It's my job," he winces.
"Talk to him," Ariadne demands, whisking away. Arthur hesitates before turning his attention to twelve About Me sections.
--
"Petrus and Borges?" Eames raises an eyebrow at the wine and book in Arthur's hands. "I see you found Butler in Ferrara." He smirks and walks away.
"Taylor in Perth," to the James Blake tickets.
"Wilson. He's Rio, right?" to the Cuban cigar.
Arthur brings him a Schiele painting; Eames pales. "Evans--Salzburg--likes Schiele, not me." When Arthur pivots, all shame and frustration, Eames grabs his arm. "Wait." Arthur stills. "You've made your point; you're the all-seeing eye. You can stop now," exasperated yet gentle.
"That's not my point!" Arthur flushes.
Eames raises his chin. "Then what is?"
"...Wanna ask you out," Arthur confesses stiffly.
Eames' expression barely flickers. He folds his hands. "Then find out what I like."
--
Arthur ditches Facebook and goes back to his standard ways of observation; spending days watching Eames relentlessly. At the end of the week, Arthur sets a coffee on Eames' desk.
"Is this it?" Eames asks, looking up.
Arthur slides his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."
Eames smiles. "Okay. Let's go out."
Genre/Cliché: Angst
Prompt: Empty wine glass
Word Count: Exactly 200
Arthur's at his dining table when Eames arrives, wearing a murder of a tie and passing a wineglass--empty save for the faintest Romane Conti sheen at the bottom--back and forth between his hands, nimble fingers twirling the stem. Eames finds it hard to look at him, beautiful yet grim beneath the dimmed chandelier.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks, aiming for a hollow tone. The wineglass spinning frantically between his hands, however, betrays the rest of his composure.
"I came to say goodbye," Eames finds himself whispering as he reaches and takes the wineglass from Arthur, setting it aside. He tilts Arthur's chin up with his thumb.
"Yeah," Arthur says, eyes shut, nostrils quivering. He allows Eames to take him to bed. "Stay," he gasps later, and his voice breaks as his back arches in a perfect crescent of moonlit skin.
"I can't," Eames breathes, haggard, into the space between Arthur's neck and shoulder. "I can't," despairing, bitter. He presses sticky-wet kisses to Arthur's skin, an apologetic litany of lip-trembling, soul-shuddering kisses. Arthur cries, wordless, and threads their fingers together while Eames drives home his farewell between Arthur's thighs, never able to fuck as deep as his sorrow goes.
Genre/Cliché: Fluff
Prompt: "Look at me. What do you see?"
Word Count: up to 300
Eames was in a cryptic mood, his eyes darkened like the scrape of a grey ocean wave over rock; his good cheer smote to ruin on the hard, disconcerted edges of his frowning lips. He sulked around their flat, chain-smoking and gnawing at his thumbnail. At last, he raised his head and gazed at Arthur, through the smoke of his cigarette, and said, "Look at me."
Arthur obliged, turning from his desk, because what else was he supposed to do? Expectation suspended between them before Eames asked, "What do you see?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I see...someone I know very well,” he answered with careful intonation. Eames parceled this away, demeanor unchanging, and migrated wordlessly to their balcony. Arthur gave him ten minutes alone before following him.
Eames flicked his cigarette away, sunlight dappling in warm circles across his face. "Hello, darling," he said, leaning a hip on the railing and reaching to take Arthur's hand to reel him in tight, settling his face into Arthur's shoulder. He turned to press a kiss to Arthur’s neck and smiled into the skin there, but Arthur felt the falsity.
Arthur wound his arms around Eames’ waist and held him, equal parts steady and cautious. “What was that all about?” he asked.
Eames hummed evasively.
Arthur shrugged Eames’ face up from his shoulder and pressed close, his mouth to Eames’ ear. “I see a brilliant man,” he murmured slowly. “Sometimes I see a goofball playing grown-up, sometimes an old timer in a much younger body. I see a good heart, always, even when it’s tampering with dangerous affairs.” Eames’ breathing was slow against him. “You’re not perfect, Eames,” Arthur said, “but then, that’s why you’re perfect for me.”
A moment of silence.
“You cheeseball,” Eames sighed gratefully, and tucked further into Arthur’s embrace.
Genre/Cliché: High school/College AU
Prompt: Hufflepuff
Word Count: Up to 300
"Arthur!" Eames exclaims as he barges into the dorm room. "Let me see your computer!"
"Um," Arthur relinquishes his laptop, bewildered. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm getting into Pottermore!"
"What? How? The beta version is still closed to the public."
Eames settles across from Arthur on the dodgy couch, laptop on his knees. "I flirted with the girl who sits next to me in poli sci until she gave me her account," he explains, smug. "She signed up early enough for the beta but didn't actually care. She was gonna sell her account on E-bay."
Arthur facepalms. "You flirted with a girl until she-- awesome, Eames." He tries to ignore the twinge of possessiveness in his chest.
Eames' smile is wolfish. "Good, yeah? I'm about to get sorted, oh my god."
"Fuck!" Arthur runs a hand over his head in agitation. "I'm so fucking jealous right now."
Eames spares him a glance of sympathy. "Sorry, darling. Want to watch?"
Arthur flings himself to the other side of the couch. "No! I don't want to see it. I'll die of envy," he grumps into the cushions.
"Oh hush, Arthur--it's loading! I hope I'm--" Eames' nervous energy comes to a grinding halt mid-sentence. Then, "I'm a Hufflepuff??" he thunders, "A bleeding Hufflepuff?"
Arthur rolls over. "What's the big deal?"
"I wanted to be in Gryffindor!"
"So overrated," Arthur snorts. "I hope when I get in, I get sorted to Ravenclaw."
"Hufflepuff is rubbish," Eames sulks.
Arthur sits up. "Tonks was a Hufflepuff and she was your favorite character."
Eames' mouth slants. "I s'pose." He looks at Arthur with sad eyes. "You'll love me even though I'm a Hufflyduffer?"
Arthur darts in to kiss Eames on the cheek. "I'd love you even if you were a Slytherin."
"Now that's true love," Eames grins.
Genre/Cliché: Action
Prompt: ravished
Word Count: Up to 300
Arthur follows the somnacin-trail into Eames’ head; finds him wearing grey Tapout shorts and nothing else, beating himself into bloody ribbons of saliva and tattered skin inside a boxing ring. The sight of Eames versus Eames, seething stratagem and sweating chaos from their pores, is enough to burn Arthur up and leave him ravished, flushed under his collar, leaning against the wall of the sparse gym in Eames’ mind. Watching them vie for some indefinite victory is like watching titans clash, the two figures reduced to blurs of surging muscle--barely-restrained animals chomping at the bit.
This scene isn’t new to Arthur, he’s witnessed it before; sometimes he even offers to step in when Eames can’t seem to pulverize himself to his own satisfaction. Arthur always puts up just enough of a fight to retain his dignity before allowing Eames to pummel his existence into scraping, stinging, swelling pain. When they surface, Arthur reels so hard from drowning in Eames’ strength that Eames can fuck him slow and honest--face-to-face, hands tangled together, groans arching just like their backs-- without Arthur shying away. Because it’s what Eames needs.
Arthur goes out of his mind with how good something feels when he only lets himself have it once in awhile.
Afterwards, they linger long enough to share a cigarette before cleaning up and moving onward, outward to other jobs and other cities, biding time until they can meet again.
Genre/Cliché: Humor
Prompt: Stalker
Word Count: up to 300
"When I told you Facebook's a good way to get to know someone, I didn't mean Facebook stalking!" Ariadne hisses over Arthur's shoulder. He's at his desk, chin in hand, scrolling balefully through all of the profile pictures on Eames' twelve different accounts.
"What?"
"I meant send him a message, or write on his wall!" She rubs at her temple. "Don't misunderstand, I like a good creep sesh too but..." she trails off, squinting at Arthur's numerous tabs. "Jesus. Are those all Eames?" Arthur nods mutely, lingering over a photo of Eames shirtless on the beach.
Ariadne smacks him upside the head. "Stop! Stalking!"
"It's my job," he winces.
"Talk to him," Ariadne demands, whisking away. Arthur hesitates before turning his attention to twelve About Me sections.
--
"Petrus and Borges?" Eames raises an eyebrow at the wine and book in Arthur's hands. "I see you found Butler in Ferrara." He smirks and walks away.
"Taylor in Perth," to the James Blake tickets.
"Wilson. He's Rio, right?" to the Cuban cigar.
Arthur brings him a Schiele painting; Eames pales. "Evans--Salzburg--likes Schiele, not me." When Arthur pivots, all shame and frustration, Eames grabs his arm. "Wait." Arthur stills. "You've made your point; you're the all-seeing eye. You can stop now," exasperated yet gentle.
"That's not my point!" Arthur flushes.
Eames raises his chin. "Then what is?"
"...Wanna ask you out," Arthur confesses stiffly.
Eames' expression barely flickers. He folds his hands. "Then find out what I like."
--
Arthur ditches Facebook and goes back to his standard ways of observation; spending days watching Eames relentlessly. At the end of the week, Arthur sets a coffee on Eames' desk.
"Is this it?" Eames asks, looking up.
Arthur slides his hands in his pockets. "Yeah."
Eames smiles. "Okay. Let's go out."
Genre/Cliché: Angst
Prompt: Empty wine glass
Word Count: Exactly 200
Arthur's at his dining table when Eames arrives, wearing a murder of a tie and passing a wineglass--empty save for the faintest Romane Conti sheen at the bottom--back and forth between his hands, nimble fingers twirling the stem. Eames finds it hard to look at him, beautiful yet grim beneath the dimmed chandelier.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks, aiming for a hollow tone. The wineglass spinning frantically between his hands, however, betrays the rest of his composure.
"I came to say goodbye," Eames finds himself whispering as he reaches and takes the wineglass from Arthur, setting it aside. He tilts Arthur's chin up with his thumb.
"Yeah," Arthur says, eyes shut, nostrils quivering. He allows Eames to take him to bed. "Stay," he gasps later, and his voice breaks as his back arches in a perfect crescent of moonlit skin.
"I can't," Eames breathes, haggard, into the space between Arthur's neck and shoulder. "I can't," despairing, bitter. He presses sticky-wet kisses to Arthur's skin, an apologetic litany of lip-trembling, soul-shuddering kisses. Arthur cries, wordless, and threads their fingers together while Eames drives home his farewell between Arthur's thighs, never able to fuck as deep as his sorrow goes.
Genre/Cliché: Fluff
Prompt: "Look at me. What do you see?"
Word Count: up to 300
Eames was in a cryptic mood, his eyes darkened like the scrape of a grey ocean wave over rock; his good cheer smote to ruin on the hard, disconcerted edges of his frowning lips. He sulked around their flat, chain-smoking and gnawing at his thumbnail. At last, he raised his head and gazed at Arthur, through the smoke of his cigarette, and said, "Look at me."
Arthur obliged, turning from his desk, because what else was he supposed to do? Expectation suspended between them before Eames asked, "What do you see?"
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “I see...someone I know very well,” he answered with careful intonation. Eames parceled this away, demeanor unchanging, and migrated wordlessly to their balcony. Arthur gave him ten minutes alone before following him.
Eames flicked his cigarette away, sunlight dappling in warm circles across his face. "Hello, darling," he said, leaning a hip on the railing and reaching to take Arthur's hand to reel him in tight, settling his face into Arthur's shoulder. He turned to press a kiss to Arthur’s neck and smiled into the skin there, but Arthur felt the falsity.
Arthur wound his arms around Eames’ waist and held him, equal parts steady and cautious. “What was that all about?” he asked.
Eames hummed evasively.
Arthur shrugged Eames’ face up from his shoulder and pressed close, his mouth to Eames’ ear. “I see a brilliant man,” he murmured slowly. “Sometimes I see a goofball playing grown-up, sometimes an old timer in a much younger body. I see a good heart, always, even when it’s tampering with dangerous affairs.” Eames’ breathing was slow against him. “You’re not perfect, Eames,” Arthur said, “but then, that’s why you’re perfect for me.”
A moment of silence.
“You cheeseball,” Eames sighed gratefully, and tucked further into Arthur’s embrace.
Genre/Cliché: High school/College AU
Prompt: Hufflepuff
Word Count: Up to 300
"Arthur!" Eames exclaims as he barges into the dorm room. "Let me see your computer!"
"Um," Arthur relinquishes his laptop, bewildered. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm getting into Pottermore!"
"What? How? The beta version is still closed to the public."
Eames settles across from Arthur on the dodgy couch, laptop on his knees. "I flirted with the girl who sits next to me in poli sci until she gave me her account," he explains, smug. "She signed up early enough for the beta but didn't actually care. She was gonna sell her account on E-bay."
Arthur facepalms. "You flirted with a girl until she-- awesome, Eames." He tries to ignore the twinge of possessiveness in his chest.
Eames' smile is wolfish. "Good, yeah? I'm about to get sorted, oh my god."
"Fuck!" Arthur runs a hand over his head in agitation. "I'm so fucking jealous right now."
Eames spares him a glance of sympathy. "Sorry, darling. Want to watch?"
Arthur flings himself to the other side of the couch. "No! I don't want to see it. I'll die of envy," he grumps into the cushions.
"Oh hush, Arthur--it's loading! I hope I'm--" Eames' nervous energy comes to a grinding halt mid-sentence. Then, "I'm a Hufflepuff??" he thunders, "A bleeding Hufflepuff?"
Arthur rolls over. "What's the big deal?"
"I wanted to be in Gryffindor!"
"So overrated," Arthur snorts. "I hope when I get in, I get sorted to Ravenclaw."
"Hufflepuff is rubbish," Eames sulks.
Arthur sits up. "Tonks was a Hufflepuff and she was your favorite character."
Eames' mouth slants. "I s'pose." He looks at Arthur with sad eyes. "You'll love me even though I'm a Hufflyduffer?"
Arthur darts in to kiss Eames on the cheek. "I'd love you even if you were a Slytherin."
"Now that's true love," Eames grins.
Genre/Cliché: Action
Prompt: ravished
Word Count: Up to 300
Arthur follows the somnacin-trail into Eames’ head; finds him wearing grey Tapout shorts and nothing else, beating himself into bloody ribbons of saliva and tattered skin inside a boxing ring. The sight of Eames versus Eames, seething stratagem and sweating chaos from their pores, is enough to burn Arthur up and leave him ravished, flushed under his collar, leaning against the wall of the sparse gym in Eames’ mind. Watching them vie for some indefinite victory is like watching titans clash, the two figures reduced to blurs of surging muscle--barely-restrained animals chomping at the bit.
This scene isn’t new to Arthur, he’s witnessed it before; sometimes he even offers to step in when Eames can’t seem to pulverize himself to his own satisfaction. Arthur always puts up just enough of a fight to retain his dignity before allowing Eames to pummel his existence into scraping, stinging, swelling pain. When they surface, Arthur reels so hard from drowning in Eames’ strength that Eames can fuck him slow and honest--face-to-face, hands tangled together, groans arching just like their backs-- without Arthur shying away. Because it’s what Eames needs.
Arthur goes out of his mind with how good something feels when he only lets himself have it once in awhile.
Afterwards, they linger long enough to share a cigarette before cleaning up and moving onward, outward to other jobs and other cities, biding time until they can meet again.