Drabbles
For Chinese New Year, I offered free drabbles. Here's some of the results.
Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: G to PG-13
Pairings: Alec/James and one crossover
Feedback: Whatever you'd care to give.
Disclaimer: Belongs elsewhere than mine abode.
***
Barside Chat: ‘Mexico’ (Archetype)/ ‘Goldeneye’ (Tarot), PG-13, for pinkdormouse
Idly scratching at the floor with his cane, Sands tossed down another tequila shot. “Righty-o, Trevelyan. I see your explosions, and I raise you gun-sucking.”
“Gun-sucking,” the other man repeated. “Ever tried that on a moving train?”
“You think there are working trains in Mexico?” Sands snorted, jiggling his leg. Which, mercifully, didn’t jingle. Swear to the Virgin’s whoring sisters, if El ever tried to make him wear that kind of clothing again, he’d-try to withhold sex. Goddamn smoke-scented mariachi. “Anyway, old DeSoto. Might as well be a steam engine, considering how big its ass is. Bloody pool table.”
“Your blood, or someone else’s?” Alec drawled, sounding like he was prissily examining his nails. “Hanging from a bungee cord.”
Fuck, but Sands missed being able to roll his eyes. Maybe he could roll the stickass Brit’s instead. “Oh, please. That’s so late 90s. Getting a good, thorough skullfucking-” he held up a hand “-and I mean literally. Like, El goes in and just strokes my head from inside-out, voodoo-style.”
Silence. Smirking, Sands leaned back and mentally prodded the mariachi. Time to go.
~*~
“Yes, Alec?” James warily asked. Beside him, El was giving the same look to a slightly-drunk Sands.
Draping himself over the barstool, Alec gazed up from under half-lidded eyes. “James,” he purred, “Have you ever been to a Mexican graveyard? Sands assures me that they’re quite fun at night.”
* * *
Quench: Goldeneye, R, for javelle
It’s funny, really.
They’re supposed to be fighting the enemy. But the enemy are all dead, and neither James’ nor Alec’s blood has gone down.
Alec has the upper hand first, slamming his partner into the still-sticky concrete wall. Scrapes raw new red over the dull gray, then finds himself licking it as James twists out, under, tearing open their clothing as he pins Alec. But 006 is a double-0 for a reason, and he only allows a brief, furious bout of groping before he turns the tables. Lashes James across the temple, roughly kisses that dazed face till it clears. Ready to fight once more.
They wrestle against each other, rubbing flesh against flesh till it chafes and gives. Still too wound up, the two of them have no tender afterglow, no mutual bathing of wounds. They tear themselves apart, flinging on clothes as Alec turns to the console, as James wires the bombs. A blink later, they’ve thrown themselves out and down, falling past the breaking glass to the dubious safety of the ground.
Behind, in the room, dust resettles. Just taking one last breather before the explosion.
Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: G to PG-13
Pairings: Alec/James and one crossover
Feedback: Whatever you'd care to give.
Disclaimer: Belongs elsewhere than mine abode.
***
Barside Chat: ‘Mexico’ (Archetype)/ ‘Goldeneye’ (Tarot), PG-13, for pinkdormouse
Idly scratching at the floor with his cane, Sands tossed down another tequila shot. “Righty-o, Trevelyan. I see your explosions, and I raise you gun-sucking.”
“Gun-sucking,” the other man repeated. “Ever tried that on a moving train?”
“You think there are working trains in Mexico?” Sands snorted, jiggling his leg. Which, mercifully, didn’t jingle. Swear to the Virgin’s whoring sisters, if El ever tried to make him wear that kind of clothing again, he’d-try to withhold sex. Goddamn smoke-scented mariachi. “Anyway, old DeSoto. Might as well be a steam engine, considering how big its ass is. Bloody pool table.”
“Your blood, or someone else’s?” Alec drawled, sounding like he was prissily examining his nails. “Hanging from a bungee cord.”
Fuck, but Sands missed being able to roll his eyes. Maybe he could roll the stickass Brit’s instead. “Oh, please. That’s so late 90s. Getting a good, thorough skullfucking-” he held up a hand “-and I mean literally. Like, El goes in and just strokes my head from inside-out, voodoo-style.”
Silence. Smirking, Sands leaned back and mentally prodded the mariachi. Time to go.
~*~
“Yes, Alec?” James warily asked. Beside him, El was giving the same look to a slightly-drunk Sands.
Draping himself over the barstool, Alec gazed up from under half-lidded eyes. “James,” he purred, “Have you ever been to a Mexican graveyard? Sands assures me that they’re quite fun at night.”
* * *
Quench: Goldeneye, R, for javelle
It’s funny, really.
They’re supposed to be fighting the enemy. But the enemy are all dead, and neither James’ nor Alec’s blood has gone down.
Alec has the upper hand first, slamming his partner into the still-sticky concrete wall. Scrapes raw new red over the dull gray, then finds himself licking it as James twists out, under, tearing open their clothing as he pins Alec. But 006 is a double-0 for a reason, and he only allows a brief, furious bout of groping before he turns the tables. Lashes James across the temple, roughly kisses that dazed face till it clears. Ready to fight once more.
They wrestle against each other, rubbing flesh against flesh till it chafes and gives. Still too wound up, the two of them have no tender afterglow, no mutual bathing of wounds. They tear themselves apart, flinging on clothes as Alec turns to the console, as James wires the bombs. A blink later, they’ve thrown themselves out and down, falling past the breaking glass to the dubious safety of the ground.
Behind, in the room, dust resettles. Just taking one last breather before the explosion.