Challenge Scenes!

[broadwriting]

19 scenes, 4 different fandoms, about 8 hours to write, and the fun I had...priceless. *g* Thanks to everyone who sent me ideas & pairings. All written for this challenge.


For prairiedaun
Bana/Fichtner/Coster-Waldau; rum and coke, stumbling


Delta Boys


"What’d you think they’re doing over at Fort Benning right now?" Nicolaj asked.

Eric called for another round of drinks and turned back to Nicolaj and Bill. "What’d you mean, doing? They’re training, same as us."

"Doubt they got to blow any shit up, though," Bill laughed, and clinked his glass to each of theirs.

"I heard that," Eric said.

Nicolaj grinned crookedly as they downed their drinks. "Yeah, but what do you think they’ve got ‘em doing?"

"Push-ups," Eric chuckled.

"Stumbling around some forest in Georgia, crawling in the mud," Bill continued.

"We’re gonna catch hell for our training once we’re all together," Nicolaj said.

"They’ll get over it," Bill grinned. He scooted back, let their waitress set their next round in front of them. "Here’s to Delta, gentlemen. Undisciplined cowboys, the lot of us," he said, and picked up his glass.

"To Delta," Eric echoed, and Nicolaj grinned.

"To Delta."


***




For mystisblom
Hoot/Eversmann; pain, masochism, obsessive


Nightmares


Wake up.

Matt drew in huge gulps of air as he struggled to awareness. He kicked the sheets to the foot of the bed, felt sweat trickle down his spine. His heart had kicked into over-drive, was currently knocking against his chest rabbit-fast.

"Here," and Matt took the cup pressed into his hands, drank the water in greedy gulps. He peered in the darkness at Hoot, felt the bed shift as Hoot settled back beside him. "Feel better?" Hoot asked.

"Yeah," Matt croaked. He scooted up on the pillows and rubbed a hand over his face to clear the last vestiges of sleep away. "Was I dreaming?"

"Nightmare." Hoot’s voice was soft. "The Mog again."

"Fuck."

"You’ve got to let it go, man. Gonna kill you if you don’t."

"I know," Matt answered. "But how d’you tell your sub-conscious that?"

Matt could feel, rather than see, Hoot’s smile. "Guess I’ll keep waking you up, then, ‘til you don’t have ‘em anymore."

"Glutton for punishment, man," but Matt smiled himself.

"Turn around."

Hoot slid in behind him and Matt sank into the arms around him with a small sigh. "Don’t let me dream, alright?" he whispered.

The kiss Hoot placed above Matt’s ear was soft. "I promise."


***


For dea_liberty
Arthur/Lancelot; fire, warmth, burning


Embers


Lancelot’s passion burned with the fire of a thousand flames, passion of life, for argument, for good ale, a willing woman, for the fight. Arthur sometimes thought Lancelot was more force of nature than actual flesh and bone. There was too much going on behind his eyes -- too much fury, too much love, too much lust for carving out a name and place for himself in this wild, Godless land. Lancelot was a sudden flash fire that burned hot and blazing and left nothing in its wake except total devastation. And Arthur was left in the dust, mere tinder to Lancelot’s spark.


***


For songbirds
Hoot/Blackburn; regret


Morning After


"How’s the kid?" Hoot asked the next morning over breakfast.

"Blackburn?" Matt broke a slide of toast in half, but put it back down on the plate. Still not much of an appetite. Wasn’t sure when he’d want to eat again. "He broke his back. They’re evacing him to Berlin soon as he’s stable."

"Helluva mess."

"Yeah," Matt answered. He clutched his coffee mug in both hands and stared off into space.

"You alright?"

Matt shrugged. "Yeah. Fucking waste, though. Kid didn’t even get to see any action, and that’s all he talked about the night before."

"Suppose that makes him lucky, dunnit?"

Matt chuckled and stared down at his coffee. "Try telling that to him."

"Maybe I will. He’d probably appreciate a friendly face."

"Didn’t know you two were friendly."

Hoot smiled. "Well, I guess it’s time we were, then."



***


For ribby
Viggo/Bean; pool table, balls and sticks


Cue


"Five ball, middle pocket."

Sean watched in bemused horror as the ball spun lazily, then dropped into the pocket. "Bloody Christ, no one told me you were a pool shark."

Viggo grinned, flash of tongue peeking through his lips as he surveyed the decimation of the pool table. "I’d say you’re in a world of hurt, brother."

"Oh, fuck off," Sean replied amiably. He picked up his beer -- piss-warm, but still wet -- and took a pull, surveyed his options. "I can still take you."

"Lot riding on this game."

"And I’m not losing to a bloody American and that’s that." Sean bent over the table, set up the cue with practiced ease. The eleven sank into the rear pocket in short order, followed by the fifteen. "We Brits invented billiards, for fuck’s sake."

"Yeah, but this isn’t billiards," Viggo replied and tapped the neck of his bottle to Sean’s. "You lose here, it’ll cost you."

"I’m aware of that," Sean stated through clenched teeth, and took the next shot. "Bloody hell."

"Ouch," Viggo winced and stood, gave Sean a friendly pat on the back. "Thanks for sinking the eight ball for me, though."

"My pleasure."

"You don’t sound too happy about it."

Sean rolled his eyes. "Clever of you to notice. When?"

"Tomorrow, seven sharp. Partner."


***


For koncupiscence
Damon/Affleck; whiskey, nomad


Last Night


"C’mon," Ben wheedled, sliding his chair so close to Matt’s that they were in danger of becoming tangled. "Just let me sniff the glass."

"No." Matt pushed his chair back and glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. "Fucking pervert."

"You love it. C’mon."

"Read my lips. N. O."

"You are seriously no fun anymore," Ben sighed and sat back in his chair. His eyes met Matt’s in the mirror’s reflection. "You know that, right?"

"Is that part of your A.A. therapy or something? You can sniff, but you can’t drink?"

"Nah, I just like the smell."

Mat let out an amused chuckle. "Man, you are totally fucking me. Nobody likes the smell of whiskey. Smells like rubbing alcohol."

"That’s vodka, you ingrate. Whiskey smells like peat."

"That’s Scotch."

"Which is a whiskey."

"Semantics."

"It’s always semantics with you," Ben complained. He tiled his chair back in two legs, looked at the rest of the apartment through the mirror. "Why’re we arguing about this?"

"Because you’re getting ready to fly out tomorrow and I’m getting ready to fly out tomorrow and it’ll be four months before we see each other again," Matt replied, voice soft. He set the glass down, untouched, on the counter. "And this beats thinking about it."

"Well, fuck that. I mean, we can argue over the phone. It’ll give us something to do." Ben stood and held out a hand. Matt took it and was immediately pulled up and into a fierce hug. "It’s not forever," Ben whispered.

"Not forever," Matt repeated, as he always did, and held tight.


***


For poisondreams
Damon/Affleck; tequila body shots/interesting choice of 'salt'


Eye-Opener


"Man, that’s..."

"Interesting."

"Not the word I’d’ve chosen, but yes. Very interesting," Ben said and continued to stare.

"Guess they really do things differently in German bars," Matt choked out. "Oh, man, I can’t --" He half-turned, made another noise in the back of his throat.

"Not just German bars, my friend, but German gay bars. Which your PA dragged us to, I might add." Ben stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "I must admit, though, this is very educational."

"That’s not education, that’s porn. Right in front of us, man." Matt turned back and quickly closed his eyes. "Did he just...?"

"That he did," Ben answered, and made a face. "Makes you wonder. I mean, what semen would taste like mixed with tequila like that."

"Oh no." Matt backed up a step and held up his hands. "No fucking way are we..."

"I didn’t say us, idiot. Just wondered."

"Go ask one of them, then."

"I think they’re having too much, um, fun to talk to me."

"And you don’t speak German."

"And I don’t speak German." Ben finally looked away from the small crowd and shook his head. "Guy looks like he gives great head, I’ll tell you that much."

"Thanks for that."

"And I may never view body shots in the same way."

Matt shuddered. "We’re also never coming back to this bar."

"And miss this fine choice of entertainment?"

"You," Matt pointed, "might be entertained. I’m --"

"Well?"

"Disturbed."

"So I suppose this means you don’t want to --"

"Ben, if you even think about finishing that sentence, you’re sleeping alone."


***


For jadedceleste
Hoot/Schmid; midnight, comfort


Blame


"It was my fault."

Hoot frowned, scratched his forehead as he looked at Schmid’s bowed head. "How do you figure? You’re not the one shot him, right?"

"No, but I --"

"That’s like saying it was Matt’s fault for leading you to the crash site or mine for not getting there sooner or General Garrison’s for sending us out there without adequate back up. Hell, it’d be like blaming President Clinton for giving us the order to go to Somalia."

Schmid lifted his head, stared at Hoot through red-rimmed eyes. "That’s fucked up. None of you held, fucking held, his artery in your hands and had it slip away."

"Kurt, man, you may as well blame the true culprit here," Hoot said gently, laid a comforting hand over Schmid’s.

"Who?"

"Your mom."

"The fuck?" Schmid recoiled back like he’d been struck. "My mom never killed anybody."

"And neither did you. At least, not Jamie. So stop it."

Schmid shook his head. "Doesn’t help."

"Look." Hoot sighed, looked at some point beyond Schmid’s shoulder. "Smith did what he was trained to do. And you did what you were trained to do. And that’s look out for each other." He tilted his head, rested his gaze back on Schmid. "You follow?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess," Schmid answered, voice hoarse. His eyes never left Hoot’s. "You feel like sleeping?"

Hoot smiled softly. "Not really. Feel up to shooting a few hoops?"

"Okay," Schmid said, returned the smile. "Yeah, man. I could be persuaded."


***


For caras_galadhon
Karl/Sean; Russian, sunglasses


Bargain


"I need your help."

Sean stared at the phone for a minute before putting it back to his ear. "The fuck is this? Do I know you?"

"It’s Karl, man. Who’d you think it was?"

"No clue. Haven’t heard from you in months, Christ’s sake," Sean said, and fished out a cigarette from the crumpled back on the table.

"Well, you’re hearing from me now and I need help."

Sean lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "Tell me."

"I need you to help me with some Russian pronunciations for an audition."

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me."

"That’s it? That’s your favor?"

"Didn’t say favor, said help."

"Same bloody thing, innit?" Sean asked. "Makes you think I know Russian?"

"Your films, man. C’mon. Marton’s out of touch and I really need some help with this."

"You want me to teach you Russian? Over the phone? For a part?"

"Yeah."

"Fucking psychotic."

"I’m willing to bribe you."

"Never heard you sound so desperate before."

"It’s a great part. You gonna do it or not?"

"I should make you suffer. But I won’t." Sean lit a new cigarette on the embers of the old one and settled in his chair. "But I’m not cheap. I want a bottle of Glenlivet Black Label and a new pair of Ferragamos to replace the ones you lost. After you stole them."

"You let me borrow them, and I already replaced them."

"Well, do it again."

"You lost them already? Fuck, Sean, they’re 400 dollar sunglasses."

"I prefer the term misplaced. Deal?"

"Yeah, sure." Whatever you want."

Sean grinned. "Ah, well, in that case..."



***


For ktnb
Marton/Harry; chocolate ice cream


Addict


Trust me, you’ll love it, and Harry’d gone along with it, as he always went along with Marton’s schemes and suggestions. Harry used to wonder if he was just wired differently that he could never say no to Marton, never look him in the eye and say, fuck this, you’re mental and we can’t. Except they always did and Marton always got his way and it would be a mess, this friendship or relationship or whatever-ship they had going, except for the sex, fuck, man, the sex was unbelievable. Inventive and rough and wild and never the same twice and Harry was a total fucking addict. Craved Marton with every breath, melted for him like ice cream on a hot day. Rolled over and went along with everything Marton dished out because he couldn’t get enough.


***


For helens78
Harry Sinclair/Sean Bean: watch, twist, bend


Toy


"Alright, what gives?"

Harry didn’t even glance up from his newspaper. He took another bite of omelet, then flipped the page.

Sean’s eyes narrowed. His hand came down over the paper, obscuring the print. "I asked you a question."

Harry glanced pointedly at Sean’s hand. "What gives with what?"

"Why the fuck are you always watching me?"

Harry returned his gaze to his plate. "Not watching you now, am I?"

"This isn’t a joke."

"I’m not laughing."

Sean pushed the plate out of the way and leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. His eyes were hard and flat. "I’m not some chump you can twist up and break in five minutes, Harry. You fuck with me like I’m one of your toys and I’ll eat you alive. We clear on that?"

"Yet here you are," Harry replied, and there was something cold and cruel in his smile, something that sent an unwanted shiver down Sean’s spine. "Here you are, playing with me."

Sean stood, frozen, for a minute. Harry shoved back from the table and stood, giving Sean another small smile. "Playing with me just like a toy."

He was still smiling when he walked away.



***


For lannamichaels
Karl Urban/Marton Csokas; Supremacy, quickie


Time To Kill


Marton dropped in the make-up chair next to Karl and glanced around the set. Cast and crew were bustling about in overcoats, breath visible as they called orders to one another in false cheerful notes. "What’s going on?"

Karl shrugged and burrowed deeper in his leather trench coat. His ears were red from the cold. "Matt’s not here yet."

"He’s not?"

"Nope."

"Thought he had a rep for always being on set first," Marton said.

"That’s when his boyfriend’s not in town," Karl answered.

"His --?"

"Ben. Affleck." Karl sighed the name and coughed a stream of white air. "Probably having themselves a quick fuck or whatever while we’re all out here freezing our tits off."

Marton looked over at Matt’s trailer, brows drawn together. "Interesting."

"What’s that?"

Marton shrugged. "Just thought you and him were...y’know. That’s all."

"You’re...what?" Karl laughed and several people turned their heads. "I’m not gay... who the fuck told you I was?"

"Craig." It was said with another shrug.

"Cocksucker."

Marton glanced back at Karl. "He’s in London next month for a convention. If, y’know, you felt like getting even."



***


For lotrjunkie
Karl/Viggo or Harry/Viggo; photo, sand, "perhaps"


What No One Sees


Sometimes, when Viggo closes his eyes, it all seems like a dream. The entire shoot, New Zealand, all of it bright and beautiful and too vivid to be real. Like he’d conjured it up out of thin air in some fever-induced vision.

He keeps the photographs as memories, as reminders. This happened, I was here, these people were here. This was real. That beach, with white sand and water so blue it hurt the eyes, that mountain, with rugged stones and hidden crevasses full of flowers with delicate blooms. That pub where they’d all gathered after shooting for a few pints and some darts and conversations, always talking and listening and sharing. Their own secret language, forged by time and knowledge and love.

Mostly, though, Viggo lingers over one in particular, taken on a blustery kind of day that seemed straight out of A.A. Milne. It’s not the greatest picture – shot’s too grainy, lens opened a shade too long and the sun had been just thins side of too bright. Had washed out the colors just enough to give it that old quality, like maybe it had been taken a long time ago and was just now being discovered. And that’s how Viggo feels when he looks at it. Like someone discovering something for the first time.

The two men in the photo weren’t doing anything special. Just a shot of both of them in their armor -- one Gondorian, one Rohirrim, both banged and scuffed -- arms around each other’s shoulders. One has dark hair, the other blond, both men of a similar height and build, one being slightly taller, the other being slightly broader through the chest and legs. Both have the same dark, piercing eyes and wide, ready grins for the camera when Viggo’d snapped the shot. Just two men, two friends, during a day of filming, a single moment captured. Nothing special at all, until you notice how closely they’re standing next to each other, how they’d flowed together in surety and love. Neither especially beautiful apart, although they’re both good-looking men. But something more, something whole and right and real together.

Viggo’d thought about sending the photo to them, but is sure they wouldn’t see what he saw. Or rather, they might, but it wouldn’t be the same knowledge. He merely saw what they were together; they simply were.


***


For guede_mazaka
Gawain/Tristan; lacerated, memory


Nursing Wounds


"Ouch!"

"Stop moving."

"Easy for you to say," Gawain grumbled. "Not your shoulder."

Tristan slid the needle through pinkened flesh, frowned in concentration when Gawain winced again. "Relax," he said. "Almost finished."

"Galahad would’ve been more..." Gawain bit his tongue to keep from screaming. "More ale," he rasped, and brought the jug to his lips, spilling some in his haste. Maybe if he passed out, he’d forget the pain.

Gawain leveled his best glare at Tristan, who calmly stared back at him. "You done moving?" Tristan asked.

"Yeah, I’m done," Gawain sighed, and moved closer to Tristan. And the infernal needle.


***


For dork_elf
Tristan/Dagonet; surly, breathless


Hangover


"It’s about time you rolled your lazy arse out of bed," Bors says and hands Dagonet a mug. Dagonet looks at it for a minute, then Bors, and shakes his head, even though the motion’s killing him. He drops on the bench, cradling his head between his hands in a futile effort to stop the drums beating against his skull.

"I’m guessing Jols ale didn’t agree with you last night," Lancelot says, and sounds entirely too happy about it. Dagonet just grunts. Doesn’t move, because, if he does, the hammering will start again.

"Oh, it was more than just the ale," Galahad says, and lifts his own mug, grin impish. "There was also the whiskey. And the girls."

"Girls?" Gawain raises an eyebrow. "As in, more than one?"

Galahad holds up three fingers.

"That’s my boy." Bors slaps Dagonet on the back just hard enough to have Dagonet seeing stars again. He moans, tastes bile in the back of his throat, and has to bite his lip to keep from losing what little still remains in his stomach.

"I’m proud of you," Lancelot grins. "One more, and you’d have tied me."

"Shove off, you’ve never had four women in your bed and you know it," Gawain snorts. "You can barely handle two."

"And you’ve been watching me enough to know, I suppose?"

Galahad laughs and slaps his knee at Gawain’s dumb-founded expression. Bors calls for another round and some grub. Dagonet continues to clutch his head and pray for death.

"Here."

Dagonet glances up, sees Tristan sitting, serene and composed, beside him. His braids gleam from a recent wash, and his tattoos stand out in stark relief from under alert eyes. "It will help clear your head."

Dagonet takes one look at the oozing, thick liquid, the color of cold gruel, seeping over the sides of the mug. "Doesn’t look too appetizing," he manages in a hoarse croak.

"Trust me." Tristan’s eyes caress Dagonet’s. "It will help."

Dagonet holds the gaze for another moment, feels the warmth on his face like sunshine after a snowfall. "Alright," he says, and picks up the mug.


***


For quine
Grimes/Sanderson; guilt, peace


Friendly Visit


"Back to humping desks, I see?"

Grimes ducked his head away from the swipe, grinned into Sanderson’s grin. "Yeah, well, at least it’s an honest job."

"Careful, you almost sounded clever." Sanderson straddled the chair beside Grimes’ desk, and the mood turned serious. "How are you? Really?"

"Shell-shocked." Grimes let out a slow breath, folded his hands over his stomach. "Bit of guilt, maybe. I made it and Jamie didn’t and y’know, he’d had combat experience."

"It’s normal." Sanderson’s smile was kind. "Doesn’t matter how much experience you have out there. It’s all a crapshoot."

"So I’m learning."

"Time’s the only thing that helps." Sanderson smiled again, and made a show of glancing around the cramped office. "So, I heard I could get a good cup of coffee around here?"

Grimes laughed, and thought maybe everything would be okay. "I’ll see what I can rustle up for you."


***


For soren_kant
Hoot/Blackburn; humvee, pre-Irene


Small Talk


"Lotta stars out tonight," Todd remarked. He scooted over and Hoot dropped beside him on the back bumper of the Humvee. Courtyard was as quiet as Hoot could remember, but he doubted too many of the guys were sleeping.

"Yeah," Hoot answered, squinting as he glanced up at the cloudless night and the stars twinkling overhead like a celestial blanket. "Gonna be a hot one tomorrow, though."

"Fucking freezing right now."

"That’s the desert for you," Hoot shrugged. "Cold at night, scorching during the day. Just bring plenty of water tomorrow and you’ll be fine."

"You been here long?"

"Two months."

"Long time."

"It’ll be over soon," Hoot said.

Todd glanced over at him with an unreadable expression on his too-young face. "You really think that it will?"

Hoot didn’t have an answer.



***


For orlisbunny
Nikolaj Coster-Waldau/Johnny Strong; bonded, competitive


Wrestling


"Dammit, stay still," Johnny growls, grapples with sweat-slick skin as he tries to pin Nicolaj back in place.

"Make me." Both challenge and invitation, and Nicolaj smiles when he wiggles again, slippery-slick, almost manages to slip free.

"Fuck..." Johnny throws his weight into the next movement, slides deeper into Nicolaj’s tight ass. Both pause a moment to groan and share their appreciation with a tangled, rough kiss. Johnny uses the distraction to pin Nicolaj’s hands over his head, starts to move with slow, shallow thrusts.

"Always," he pants, "fighting me."

Nicolaj flexes his wrists, wraps lean legs around Johnny’s slender hips. "Wouldn’t want me any other way," he laughs, and leans up for another scorching kiss.


***


For shanalle
Miranda; drunk, masturbation


Cotton Candy


One line of coke and she’s kitten-affectionate -- rubbing and twining and leaving nail scratches on his hips and thighs as they fuck on whatever surface is readily available. A counter, a bed, the wall, doesn’t matter, as long as her skirt’s hiked over her thighs and her pussy’s wet and tight for his cock.

Two lines, and she’s a raving beast, gluttonous and insatiable, clawing at him with teeth and fingers, bruising him with enthusiasm and need as she bucks underneath him, untamed and wild. She loves sucking him off like this, doesn’t care much where they are, and neither does he. A friend’s house, a club, a restaurant -- all of it one big bedroom extension, all of it a backdrop for the tiny slurping sounds she makes as she angles her head just so to take him deep, suck him dry.

Three lines, and she goes from the cast sweetheart to porn-star pop tart and, fuck, but he loves that about her. Loves the power she gives him, wild and free, loves it when she bites and marks his skin, like she’s drunk on him, like he’s more addictive than the coke jagging through their systems. Some would call it unhealthy, but Dom never did have much use for healthy. Gotta die of something, he’d say with a grin, and crook his finger in Miranda’s direction, just to watch her crawl to him, every young boy’s masturbatory fantasy come to life in a short skirt and come-hither eyes.


***