fic: the contest - part 1, the slap of the glove
Title, The Contest: Part 1, The Slap of the Glove
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Innocence
Wordcount, ~675
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths.
Summary, Eames is a secret jailbait genius who was dropped here from the age of chivalry. Arthur is, secretly, enamored. College AU. I hope to use the "overwhelmed" prompt on subsequent parts, as the contest continues and the participants get progressively drunker.
"We'll settle this like gentlemen," Bickford said.
Arthur blinked. "I left my dueling pistol back home in New Hampshire. Sorry. Didn't know I'd need it."
"Douche-ass." A mostly empty cup of... something flew from Bickford's hand and impacted off of Arthur's chest.
Arthur stood, spilling cards on the floor as he pushed his chair back from the kitchen table with a screech. "What the fuck."
Bickford made a kissy face at Arthur and pointed to Thomerson. Grinning crookedly, Thomerson held out a large bottle of cheap, hard booze.
"Different kind of shots, I was thinking," Bickford said, showing off the tiny gap between his two front teeth.
"No," came a voice from the couch. "No, no. No. Fuck that."
"Khan?" Bickford asked, turning and scratching his head. "What's the problem, cockblock?"
"My house," Khan said. "Fucking sixteen year old babies don't die of alcoholic poisoning in my house." Bickford made a derisive noise. "Seriously, cops come after my ass and I will end you like Twilight, Ceej. This is not happening."
"Blow yourself," Arthur said eloquently. He was seventeen. In four months he'd be eighteen. Khan was no longer his friend.
"I'm failing to get the reference, Adjai," Eames said mildly from the fully-reclined easy chair. "And, to be frank, it's a little disconcerting that you have co-dependent vampire lovers on the brain to the point where you'll bring them up apropos of absolutely nothing."
The phantom burn of everyone's eyes on him told Arthur that his laugh had been much louder than he’d intended. Possibly he was already kind of, a little bit, silly on licorice-flavored spirits. Midterms had been a bitch. This was the first night he'd avoided cracking a book in so long he couldn't even remember. His level of entitlement for this alcohol was higher than the Rockies.
Eames announced, "I'll do it. I'll be the pinch drinker." He stood up, draining the rest of his cup. A coating of foam mustached his upper lip.
"Beer before liquor, never sicker," Khan mumbled.
Eames pushed at Khan's head with two fingers. "Go find some pictures of Buffy to wank to." He came up to stand beside Arthur at the kitchen table.
"Eames," Arthur said, determined to impart some truth, "You're not actually any ol-"
Eames's apparently just sharpened elbow poked Arthur in the insides. His twelve hundred pound sneaker flattened Arthur's foot. And Arthur threatened to bust out laughing again. It wasn't common knowledge that the only reason Eames was a sophomore and Arthur a freshman was that he had skipped two grades to Arthur's one. He looked twenty-three, had no trouble buying alcohol, and was sometimes mistaken for a TA. Whereas Arthur had acquired the nickname of Doogie Howser--often shortened to the more simplistic "Doog"--upon arriving on campus last Fall and hadn't been able to shake it yet.
No one else knew about Eames but Arthur. (And the admissions office, but whatever.) The realization, and the jager, probably, had Arthur take a tiny, almost imperceptible step sideways until his left arm was warmed by the wide plane of skin left bare by Eames's sleeveless t-shirt.
When Eames said, "I'll be your champion," he leaned his head toward Arthur's as if the others couldn't hear, as if it were only the two of them in the room. The sentiment, the ridiculous gallantry, and the low rumble of Eames's voice melted Arthur's tipsy knees.
Arthur's drunk was an in-between drunk. He'd retained enough presence of mind to know that his answering grin was wide and sloppy and more suited for a six-year-old getting his first glance at his birthday cake, but he couldn't find it in him to care.
After a few seconds ticked by in silence, Eames added, "Little man," and he only laughed at the pathetic, pain-free slap to the shoulder this earned him.
Part 2 - Four Clicks
Part 3 - When Eyebrows Meet
Author, beanarie
Team, Rrrrromance
Prompt, Innocence
Wordcount, ~675
Rating, R for language
Warning, College boys are jerks with filthy mouths.
Summary, Eames is a secret jailbait genius who was dropped here from the age of chivalry. Arthur is, secretly, enamored. College AU. I hope to use the "overwhelmed" prompt on subsequent parts, as the contest continues and the participants get progressively drunker.
"We'll settle this like gentlemen," Bickford said.
Arthur blinked. "I left my dueling pistol back home in New Hampshire. Sorry. Didn't know I'd need it."
"Douche-ass." A mostly empty cup of... something flew from Bickford's hand and impacted off of Arthur's chest.
Arthur stood, spilling cards on the floor as he pushed his chair back from the kitchen table with a screech. "What the fuck."
Bickford made a kissy face at Arthur and pointed to Thomerson. Grinning crookedly, Thomerson held out a large bottle of cheap, hard booze.
"Different kind of shots, I was thinking," Bickford said, showing off the tiny gap between his two front teeth.
"No," came a voice from the couch. "No, no. No. Fuck that."
"Khan?" Bickford asked, turning and scratching his head. "What's the problem, cockblock?"
"My house," Khan said. "Fucking sixteen year old babies don't die of alcoholic poisoning in my house." Bickford made a derisive noise. "Seriously, cops come after my ass and I will end you like Twilight, Ceej. This is not happening."
"Blow yourself," Arthur said eloquently. He was seventeen. In four months he'd be eighteen. Khan was no longer his friend.
"I'm failing to get the reference, Adjai," Eames said mildly from the fully-reclined easy chair. "And, to be frank, it's a little disconcerting that you have co-dependent vampire lovers on the brain to the point where you'll bring them up apropos of absolutely nothing."
The phantom burn of everyone's eyes on him told Arthur that his laugh had been much louder than he’d intended. Possibly he was already kind of, a little bit, silly on licorice-flavored spirits. Midterms had been a bitch. This was the first night he'd avoided cracking a book in so long he couldn't even remember. His level of entitlement for this alcohol was higher than the Rockies.
Eames announced, "I'll do it. I'll be the pinch drinker." He stood up, draining the rest of his cup. A coating of foam mustached his upper lip.
"Beer before liquor, never sicker," Khan mumbled.
Eames pushed at Khan's head with two fingers. "Go find some pictures of Buffy to wank to." He came up to stand beside Arthur at the kitchen table.
"Eames," Arthur said, determined to impart some truth, "You're not actually any ol-"
Eames's apparently just sharpened elbow poked Arthur in the insides. His twelve hundred pound sneaker flattened Arthur's foot. And Arthur threatened to bust out laughing again. It wasn't common knowledge that the only reason Eames was a sophomore and Arthur a freshman was that he had skipped two grades to Arthur's one. He looked twenty-three, had no trouble buying alcohol, and was sometimes mistaken for a TA. Whereas Arthur had acquired the nickname of Doogie Howser--often shortened to the more simplistic "Doog"--upon arriving on campus last Fall and hadn't been able to shake it yet.
No one else knew about Eames but Arthur. (And the admissions office, but whatever.) The realization, and the jager, probably, had Arthur take a tiny, almost imperceptible step sideways until his left arm was warmed by the wide plane of skin left bare by Eames's sleeveless t-shirt.
When Eames said, "I'll be your champion," he leaned his head toward Arthur's as if the others couldn't hear, as if it were only the two of them in the room. The sentiment, the ridiculous gallantry, and the low rumble of Eames's voice melted Arthur's tipsy knees.
Arthur's drunk was an in-between drunk. He'd retained enough presence of mind to know that his answering grin was wide and sloppy and more suited for a six-year-old getting his first glance at his birthday cake, but he couldn't find it in him to care.
After a few seconds ticked by in silence, Eames added, "Little man," and he only laughed at the pathetic, pain-free slap to the shoulder this earned him.
Part 2 - Four Clicks
Part 3 - When Eyebrows Meet