Prompts. And strawberries.
Jul. 27th, 2008 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gmtaslashThe Prompts Game: Bridget and Trojie set each other challenges for really daft ficlets. Here are the first four. Three stick to the original brief of one of us prompts and the other writes; the fourth required both our talents to bring to fruit. Pun really sort of intended there, actually.
Title: It Smells of Wet Dog
Author: Bridget
Rating: M to be safe
Prompt: Remus/Sirus, involves motorbike, argument about the smell of wet dog, and James walking in at entirely the wrong time
'It's not,' Sirius declared, sniffing haughtily. 'I'll prove it to you.'
'And how exactly do you plan to do that?' Remus returned. 'Shove your nose up the exhaust and breathe deeply? Because I have to say, while the relief from the stench of wet dog would be a blessing, I'd rather you didn't gas yourself.'
'My motorbike does not smell of wet dog!' Sirius was adamant. So adamant, in fact, that they had been having this argument for half an hour; half an hour that could have been put to much better use, Sirius thought.
Remus sighed, for what felt like the millionth time.
'It does, Sirius, and you know it. It reeks of it. The flat reeks of it. You reek of it. Frankly, it amazes me every time you walk down the street without getting mobbed by bitches in heat.'
'No one else has complained,' Sirius said petulantly, folding his arms and scowling, lips twisting into a pout that had Remus's insides flipping over.
'Lily has. Frequently. And I didn't say I was complaining.' Remus leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. Their eyes met, and locked.
'Fine,' Sirius said at last. 'I'll prove it to you,' and he turned, bending at the waist until his nose was level with the motorbike's exhaust.
The view, Remus couldn't help admitting to himself, was exquisite. He'd always been fond of Sirius's arse, ever since it had first caught his attention during the wrestling match in third year that had afterwards required some forty minutes in a cold shower before he'd been able to go down to dinner. Later, when sixth year had Happened and words had been said, he'd come to know it further, and privately decided that one day he was going to have his name tattooed on it. And now it was there, right in front of him, wriggling tantalisingly. He did what any man would do, and pounced.
As his body tumbled through the air towards Sirius's delectable rump, his ears caught the sound of footsteps outside, a hand on the doorknob, and, distracted, he fell against Sirius, landing atop him in a tangle of limbs. Sirius grinned up at him, licking his lower lip in a most obscene fashion.
'It does smell of wet dog,' Sirius breathed huskily. 'And so do you.'
There was a strangled yelp from the doorway.
'Although I really ought to check all over, just to make sure.' Sirius's eyes glinted wickedly, and Remus couldn't look away, though he knew he should, should get up, explain himself, try desperately to explain what he was doing on the floor with Sirius and - oh, Merlin - an erection, should make James see, understand that this was not what it looked like, except that this was exactly what it looked like. But he couldn't move, transfixed by Sirius's grey eyes, and when Sirius leaned up to kiss him, none of it seemed to matter any more, and he was barely aware of the thump of a body hitting the ground.
'Moony,' Sirius asked in his sultriest voice a few moments later, 'be a darling and shift James, would you? He's fainted right on top of the motorbike, and Lily will kill me if he goes home smelling of wet dog.'
Title: Elven Sensibilities
Author: Trojie
Rating: G
Prompt: Legolas, Gimli, the Boots of Reasonably Priced Love and a Burleigh & Stronginthearm.
'Crossbows go against all the Elven rules about war.'
'Och, what Elven rules about war? The only one I recall is 'shoot the other bugger before he shoots you'.'
Legolas sniffed. 'It sounded better in Sindarin.'
'That's as may be, but it doesn't explain why you dislike this fine piece of engineering,' said Gimli, hefting the genuine Burleigh and Stronginthearm crossbow with its walnut stock and engraved silver facings.
'It's got less range and a longer reload time than a longbow,' said Legloas resolutely. 'And you got it from the same place you got those boots, and they look distinctly unhygienic.'
'They came from a highly reputable establishment,' said Gimli shiftily.
'Run by women, and you know what demons for cleanliness and efficiency they are. That's why Frodo likes their company so much.'
'It's the six inch iron heel that worries me most,' said Legolas.
Title: Cheesy
Author: Trojie
Rating: M again
Prompt: Nadal/Riker. A piece of cheese. Bonding. Theoretically.
William Riker was trying out a new holodeck programme; playing tennis with some of the great players of the 21st Century. They were thrashing him. He wasn't overly surprised, but kept playing anyway. The last player to come out to trounce him was a young Spanish man; Rafael Nadal. Riker eyed him, thinking hmmmmmm ... getting this one sweaty will be entertaining.
After being utterly defeated, Riker went over to where the youth was towelling himself off. Of course, he waited a few moments before speaking - no harm appreciating a nice figure and a healthy quantity of manly perspiration ... Nadal turned around, and raised an eyebrow. Riker caught himself about to blush, and turned it into a knowing grin.
'Computer ... load Nadal into programme Riker 11.'
The scene abruptly changed to a rustic outbuilding. The door was open, showing a beautiful sunny day outside and a tennis-court in the stately gardens beyond.
Riker moved across to a table, laden with bottles of wine and plates of cheese, fruits, pate and other sundry comestibles. He chose a glass of wine, and tipped it in Nadal's direction.
'Your health, my boy,' he said, and drank deeply. Nadal followed suit.
Several bottles of wine later, and they were attempting tennis again.
Despite a decent case of the staggers, Nadal was still beating Riker hollow.
'I think I should take you back inside,' said Riker, panting. 'At least I know my way around a well-laden table better than you.'
'I doubt it, old man,' said Nadal, also panting, although somewhat less. 'Although you're welcome to try.'
***
'And what's this one, then?' asked Riker, almost lolling over the table, and waving a wedge of cheese at Nadal. Nadal eyed it woozily, and took another slurp of wine.
'Gouda?'
'Nope.'
'Gruyere?'
'Nope.'
'Brie?'
'Nope.'
Nadal seemed to be having trouble focussing. 'Pate de fois gras?'
Riker broke into helpless laughter, and fell face first into the tzatziki. Nadal pulled him out, and wiped the dip from his beard.
'You are a stupid old man,' the Spaniard said fondly.
'Less of the 'old', thank you,' said Riker, and yanked Nadal into a kiss.
Title: Checkmate
Author:gmtaslash
Rating: M?
Prompt and A/N: Caspian, Edmund, a game of chess and a strawberry tart. Puns on 'tart' appreciated. Originally a challenge from Trojie for Bridget, it became a tag-team ficlet. We should start calling ourselves Team Pevensie Porn. Srsly. Features slutty!Caspian and lots of innuendo. And soft fruit. And, in case you noticed, no, we don't play chess. Feel free to correct our moves.
'Your move,' Caspian said, leaning back from the board and reaching for the bowl between them. Edmund leaned forward, just as far as Caspian has leaned back, and studied the game intently. The casual observer might have assumed some sort of magnetism, though Edmund himself would have attributed their movements merely to an abiding interest in the outcome of the game.
'Swine,' he breathed, after deep cogitation. Caspian merely smiled. As Edmund pondered, his fingers trailing over first rook, then bishop, across to queen, and flitting back to rook again for a moment, before pulling back and resting against his lip, Caspian helped himself to a strawberry, and delicately bit into it. The deep red juices trickled down his chin, but Edmund didn't notice. He frowned.
'Pawn to queen four,' he announced eventually. Caspian's grin widened.
'Once more, you walk into my trap.'
Edmund raised an eyebrow. Caspian's only response was a quirk of his own, coupled with a rapid knight to king's pawn and another strawberry, this time bitten slowly and with some relish. Edmund exhaled deeply.
'Good strawberies?' he ventured, after a time.
'Exquisitely tart,' Caspian replied, before popping another between his lips and sucking it in a manner Edmund would have called most wanton, had he been accustomed, at such a tender age, to such notions. He deftly moved his rook forwards, and turned a most smug look upon Caspian.
'Check.'
Caspian eyed the chequered board, his gaze resting a moment on his intricately carved jade queen, before flicking up toward Edmund. His hand stole inexorably forth toward the bowl of strawberries once more. Bringing it to his lips, allowing his tongue to caress the tender swollen red tip, and finally biting into its succulent juices with a delicate press of an incisor appeared to be wholly lost on Edmund.
'Knight to king's three.' Caspian relaxed back in his chair once more, satisfied, for the time being, that both games were his. Both games and strawberries, in fact. He smiled a little to himself.
Edmund frowned at the chessboard, oblivious to Caspian molesting the strawberries. The young King's chin rested on his hand, and he glared at the chess game as if he could win it with the power of his mind entirely.
'Knight to king's four, check,' he said at last, finally looking up at Caspian with a triumphant grin. Caspian mentally kicked himself; Edmund had managed to look up at the exact moment between swallowing the last strawberry and picking up the next, and so had no opportunity to take stock of Caspian's clever tongue and delicate fingerwork.
Caspian leaned over the board, examining his options. His attention had, admittedly, been a little diverted throughout the past ten or so strawberry-encrusted moves, and Edmund's check was a logistical nightmare. He furrowed his brows, trying to spot a way out. There would have to be one; Edmund always left one. The bishop could go, but that would sacrifice the rook. A few pawns could be made to take one for the team. But then he would be left wide open to Edmund's viciously straightforward and open attack; there was nothing for it. He would have to sacrifice the queen. But then...
It was worth it, Caspian decided, as he always decided.
'Check,' he announced, reaching for the final strawberry with one hand while swapping Edmund's knight for a queen with the other.
Edmund eyed the board with some suspicion. His eyes marked all possible escape routes, and saw the folly inherent in all. There was no escape; Caspian had him once more.
'Mate,' he announced, moving the final piece into position, and raising his eyes at last, to lock with Caspian's, offering a silent challenge. Caspian couldn't resist. Staring still at Edmund, he allowed his fingers, sticky with strawberry juice, to play over his king piece. He ran his tongue over his lips, and noted with an internal smirk how Edmund's pale - oh, so deliciously pale, and freckled too - face took on a faint tint of pink.
Caspian knocked his king over. 'Game's yours,' he said, affecting an uncaring smile. 'And what will you claim as a prize?' he mused, almost to himself. Strawberry-stained fingers steepled in front of him, and then he tapped at his lower lip, apparently thinking. 'Yes, what will you claim?'
Edmund still had not let his gaze fall from Caspian's face. He reached out, and took Caspian's king in his hand. Flexing his fingers around it, he stared intently at Caspian, who would not meet his eye. So he was going to play it like that, Edmund realised, and he drew the king toward him, fingertips stroking its carved edge.
'I think,' said Edmund, lifting the piece to his mouth, 'that I'll claim your king.' He allowed the piece to touch his lower lip, just for a moment, and his eyes danced wickedly as Caspian finally raised his own to meet that piercing blue stare.
'Indeed, my lord?' Caspian asked, feigning an air of nonchalant subservience. 'I feel it is incumbent upon me, as lord of all the Telmarines of Narnia, to protest at this wanton display of unseemly power.'
Edmund merely raised an eyebrow.
'In fact, I would be wholly failing my subjects, as their king, were I to allow them to be taken by force, by such a skilled, commanding general as yourself.'
'Then perhaps, my lord Caspian, it would suit you well to protect your people as best you see fit.' Edmund's lip quirked upwards; perhaps in challenge, perhaps betraying his role in their game. Caspian chose to view it as the latter.
'One usually engages in diplomacy before out and out war however, my lord,' he ventured, measuring up the distance between himself and the chess piece, shining with moisture from Edmund's lips, that was hovering so temptingly before him.
'But when diplomacy fails, we must resort to strength perforce,' said Edmund. 'Come sir, defend your subjects.'
Caspian leaned forward again, his eyes enchanted by his stolen king. Edmund, seeing the focus of his opponent's attention, smiled once more, his lips raising in one corner in a manner Caspian knew was both designed to infuriate and sent by the Lion solely to try his resolve. This time, he failed the test.
'What is that delightful phrase your people use?' he breathed, his lips dancing so close to Edmund's the king could almost taste them, wanted to taste them. Edmund swallowed.
'Bugger this for a game of soldiers,' he managed, before tilting his head towards Caspian, unable to maintain the pretence of the game any longer.
'Yes.' Caspian's eyes sparkled as their lips met. 'Quite.'
Title: It Smells of Wet Dog
Author: Bridget
Rating: M to be safe
Prompt: Remus/Sirus, involves motorbike, argument about the smell of wet dog, and James walking in at entirely the wrong time
'It's not,' Sirius declared, sniffing haughtily. 'I'll prove it to you.'
'And how exactly do you plan to do that?' Remus returned. 'Shove your nose up the exhaust and breathe deeply? Because I have to say, while the relief from the stench of wet dog would be a blessing, I'd rather you didn't gas yourself.'
'My motorbike does not smell of wet dog!' Sirius was adamant. So adamant, in fact, that they had been having this argument for half an hour; half an hour that could have been put to much better use, Sirius thought.
Remus sighed, for what felt like the millionth time.
'It does, Sirius, and you know it. It reeks of it. The flat reeks of it. You reek of it. Frankly, it amazes me every time you walk down the street without getting mobbed by bitches in heat.'
'No one else has complained,' Sirius said petulantly, folding his arms and scowling, lips twisting into a pout that had Remus's insides flipping over.
'Lily has. Frequently. And I didn't say I was complaining.' Remus leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. Their eyes met, and locked.
'Fine,' Sirius said at last. 'I'll prove it to you,' and he turned, bending at the waist until his nose was level with the motorbike's exhaust.
The view, Remus couldn't help admitting to himself, was exquisite. He'd always been fond of Sirius's arse, ever since it had first caught his attention during the wrestling match in third year that had afterwards required some forty minutes in a cold shower before he'd been able to go down to dinner. Later, when sixth year had Happened and words had been said, he'd come to know it further, and privately decided that one day he was going to have his name tattooed on it. And now it was there, right in front of him, wriggling tantalisingly. He did what any man would do, and pounced.
As his body tumbled through the air towards Sirius's delectable rump, his ears caught the sound of footsteps outside, a hand on the doorknob, and, distracted, he fell against Sirius, landing atop him in a tangle of limbs. Sirius grinned up at him, licking his lower lip in a most obscene fashion.
'It does smell of wet dog,' Sirius breathed huskily. 'And so do you.'
There was a strangled yelp from the doorway.
'Although I really ought to check all over, just to make sure.' Sirius's eyes glinted wickedly, and Remus couldn't look away, though he knew he should, should get up, explain himself, try desperately to explain what he was doing on the floor with Sirius and - oh, Merlin - an erection, should make James see, understand that this was not what it looked like, except that this was exactly what it looked like. But he couldn't move, transfixed by Sirius's grey eyes, and when Sirius leaned up to kiss him, none of it seemed to matter any more, and he was barely aware of the thump of a body hitting the ground.
'Moony,' Sirius asked in his sultriest voice a few moments later, 'be a darling and shift James, would you? He's fainted right on top of the motorbike, and Lily will kill me if he goes home smelling of wet dog.'
Title: Elven Sensibilities
Author: Trojie
Rating: G
Prompt: Legolas, Gimli, the Boots of Reasonably Priced Love and a Burleigh & Stronginthearm.
'Crossbows go against all the Elven rules about war.'
'Och, what Elven rules about war? The only one I recall is 'shoot the other bugger before he shoots you'.'
Legolas sniffed. 'It sounded better in Sindarin.'
'That's as may be, but it doesn't explain why you dislike this fine piece of engineering,' said Gimli, hefting the genuine Burleigh and Stronginthearm crossbow with its walnut stock and engraved silver facings.
'It's got less range and a longer reload time than a longbow,' said Legloas resolutely. 'And you got it from the same place you got those boots, and they look distinctly unhygienic.'
'They came from a highly reputable establishment,' said Gimli shiftily.
'Run by women, and you know what demons for cleanliness and efficiency they are. That's why Frodo likes their company so much.'
'It's the six inch iron heel that worries me most,' said Legolas.
Title: Cheesy
Author: Trojie
Rating: M again
Prompt: Nadal/Riker. A piece of cheese. Bonding. Theoretically.
William Riker was trying out a new holodeck programme; playing tennis with some of the great players of the 21st Century. They were thrashing him. He wasn't overly surprised, but kept playing anyway. The last player to come out to trounce him was a young Spanish man; Rafael Nadal. Riker eyed him, thinking hmmmmmm ... getting this one sweaty will be entertaining.
After being utterly defeated, Riker went over to where the youth was towelling himself off. Of course, he waited a few moments before speaking - no harm appreciating a nice figure and a healthy quantity of manly perspiration ... Nadal turned around, and raised an eyebrow. Riker caught himself about to blush, and turned it into a knowing grin.
'Computer ... load Nadal into programme Riker 11.'
The scene abruptly changed to a rustic outbuilding. The door was open, showing a beautiful sunny day outside and a tennis-court in the stately gardens beyond.
Riker moved across to a table, laden with bottles of wine and plates of cheese, fruits, pate and other sundry comestibles. He chose a glass of wine, and tipped it in Nadal's direction.
'Your health, my boy,' he said, and drank deeply. Nadal followed suit.
Several bottles of wine later, and they were attempting tennis again.
Despite a decent case of the staggers, Nadal was still beating Riker hollow.
'I think I should take you back inside,' said Riker, panting. 'At least I know my way around a well-laden table better than you.'
'I doubt it, old man,' said Nadal, also panting, although somewhat less. 'Although you're welcome to try.'
***
'And what's this one, then?' asked Riker, almost lolling over the table, and waving a wedge of cheese at Nadal. Nadal eyed it woozily, and took another slurp of wine.
'Gouda?'
'Nope.'
'Gruyere?'
'Nope.'
'Brie?'
'Nope.'
Nadal seemed to be having trouble focussing. 'Pate de fois gras?'
Riker broke into helpless laughter, and fell face first into the tzatziki. Nadal pulled him out, and wiped the dip from his beard.
'You are a stupid old man,' the Spaniard said fondly.
'Less of the 'old', thank you,' said Riker, and yanked Nadal into a kiss.
Title: Checkmate
Author:
gmtaslashRating: M?
Prompt and A/N: Caspian, Edmund, a game of chess and a strawberry tart. Puns on 'tart' appreciated. Originally a challenge from Trojie for Bridget, it became a tag-team ficlet. We should start calling ourselves Team Pevensie Porn. Srsly. Features slutty!Caspian and lots of innuendo. And soft fruit. And, in case you noticed, no, we don't play chess. Feel free to correct our moves.
'Your move,' Caspian said, leaning back from the board and reaching for the bowl between them. Edmund leaned forward, just as far as Caspian has leaned back, and studied the game intently. The casual observer might have assumed some sort of magnetism, though Edmund himself would have attributed their movements merely to an abiding interest in the outcome of the game.
'Swine,' he breathed, after deep cogitation. Caspian merely smiled. As Edmund pondered, his fingers trailing over first rook, then bishop, across to queen, and flitting back to rook again for a moment, before pulling back and resting against his lip, Caspian helped himself to a strawberry, and delicately bit into it. The deep red juices trickled down his chin, but Edmund didn't notice. He frowned.
'Pawn to queen four,' he announced eventually. Caspian's grin widened.
'Once more, you walk into my trap.'
Edmund raised an eyebrow. Caspian's only response was a quirk of his own, coupled with a rapid knight to king's pawn and another strawberry, this time bitten slowly and with some relish. Edmund exhaled deeply.
'Good strawberies?' he ventured, after a time.
'Exquisitely tart,' Caspian replied, before popping another between his lips and sucking it in a manner Edmund would have called most wanton, had he been accustomed, at such a tender age, to such notions. He deftly moved his rook forwards, and turned a most smug look upon Caspian.
'Check.'
Caspian eyed the chequered board, his gaze resting a moment on his intricately carved jade queen, before flicking up toward Edmund. His hand stole inexorably forth toward the bowl of strawberries once more. Bringing it to his lips, allowing his tongue to caress the tender swollen red tip, and finally biting into its succulent juices with a delicate press of an incisor appeared to be wholly lost on Edmund.
'Knight to king's three.' Caspian relaxed back in his chair once more, satisfied, for the time being, that both games were his. Both games and strawberries, in fact. He smiled a little to himself.
Edmund frowned at the chessboard, oblivious to Caspian molesting the strawberries. The young King's chin rested on his hand, and he glared at the chess game as if he could win it with the power of his mind entirely.
'Knight to king's four, check,' he said at last, finally looking up at Caspian with a triumphant grin. Caspian mentally kicked himself; Edmund had managed to look up at the exact moment between swallowing the last strawberry and picking up the next, and so had no opportunity to take stock of Caspian's clever tongue and delicate fingerwork.
Caspian leaned over the board, examining his options. His attention had, admittedly, been a little diverted throughout the past ten or so strawberry-encrusted moves, and Edmund's check was a logistical nightmare. He furrowed his brows, trying to spot a way out. There would have to be one; Edmund always left one. The bishop could go, but that would sacrifice the rook. A few pawns could be made to take one for the team. But then he would be left wide open to Edmund's viciously straightforward and open attack; there was nothing for it. He would have to sacrifice the queen. But then...
It was worth it, Caspian decided, as he always decided.
'Check,' he announced, reaching for the final strawberry with one hand while swapping Edmund's knight for a queen with the other.
Edmund eyed the board with some suspicion. His eyes marked all possible escape routes, and saw the folly inherent in all. There was no escape; Caspian had him once more.
'Mate,' he announced, moving the final piece into position, and raising his eyes at last, to lock with Caspian's, offering a silent challenge. Caspian couldn't resist. Staring still at Edmund, he allowed his fingers, sticky with strawberry juice, to play over his king piece. He ran his tongue over his lips, and noted with an internal smirk how Edmund's pale - oh, so deliciously pale, and freckled too - face took on a faint tint of pink.
Caspian knocked his king over. 'Game's yours,' he said, affecting an uncaring smile. 'And what will you claim as a prize?' he mused, almost to himself. Strawberry-stained fingers steepled in front of him, and then he tapped at his lower lip, apparently thinking. 'Yes, what will you claim?'
Edmund still had not let his gaze fall from Caspian's face. He reached out, and took Caspian's king in his hand. Flexing his fingers around it, he stared intently at Caspian, who would not meet his eye. So he was going to play it like that, Edmund realised, and he drew the king toward him, fingertips stroking its carved edge.
'I think,' said Edmund, lifting the piece to his mouth, 'that I'll claim your king.' He allowed the piece to touch his lower lip, just for a moment, and his eyes danced wickedly as Caspian finally raised his own to meet that piercing blue stare.
'Indeed, my lord?' Caspian asked, feigning an air of nonchalant subservience. 'I feel it is incumbent upon me, as lord of all the Telmarines of Narnia, to protest at this wanton display of unseemly power.'
Edmund merely raised an eyebrow.
'In fact, I would be wholly failing my subjects, as their king, were I to allow them to be taken by force, by such a skilled, commanding general as yourself.'
'Then perhaps, my lord Caspian, it would suit you well to protect your people as best you see fit.' Edmund's lip quirked upwards; perhaps in challenge, perhaps betraying his role in their game. Caspian chose to view it as the latter.
'One usually engages in diplomacy before out and out war however, my lord,' he ventured, measuring up the distance between himself and the chess piece, shining with moisture from Edmund's lips, that was hovering so temptingly before him.
'But when diplomacy fails, we must resort to strength perforce,' said Edmund. 'Come sir, defend your subjects.'
Caspian leaned forward again, his eyes enchanted by his stolen king. Edmund, seeing the focus of his opponent's attention, smiled once more, his lips raising in one corner in a manner Caspian knew was both designed to infuriate and sent by the Lion solely to try his resolve. This time, he failed the test.
'What is that delightful phrase your people use?' he breathed, his lips dancing so close to Edmund's the king could almost taste them, wanted to taste them. Edmund swallowed.
'Bugger this for a game of soldiers,' he managed, before tilting his head towards Caspian, unable to maintain the pretence of the game any longer.
'Yes.' Caspian's eyes sparkled as their lips met. 'Quite.'
