hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-06-09 11:27 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-06-09 11:27 am
Abandon hope all ye who enter here! j/k
Administrative Notices
1. I understand that my e-mail account has been jacked up for the last 24 hours. If you've been trying to mail me and it's kicking back that's The Man's fault, not mine. Please try again. ETN: Apparently now my LJ's gone wonky as well, so, um, yeah. I would fix it, if I could, but I can't because I dunno what's wrong, so bear with me and maybe it'll stop pissing on my head soon. *puts up umbrella*
2. Anybody who thinks that I’m returning to writing Harry/Draco is sadly mistaken. That was a one-off. I am back to my Get Neville Laid! Programme forthwith.
Okay, now that the administrative business has been attended to, it appears that the adorably fabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
edigo had a birthday and I didn't have anything for her. This is bad. Especially considering her affinity for Linus' blanket. My bad, sweetie.
Happy Belated Birthday!!
LOTRips
DM/BB; DM/VM
Identity Crisis
Dom is. At least he thinks he is.
Sometimes he pinches himself to make certain of his permanence, but it’s pretty much an irrefutable fact that he is running around, taking up space. At least it’s irrefutable considering all the washing up sitting in the corner of his bedroom. Somebody had to have worn all those clothes, but that’s not really what concerns Dom. His issue is much more psychological. Clearly he’s been in too many books because of Ian and they’re messing with his head, because every time Dom tries to think about all the other things he is, he overloads on tags.
Son. Brother. Mate. Actor. Bisexual male. Not a half-bad singer.
Er spricht Deutsch. Er spricht Englisch. Er spricht Mancunian -- which is not the same as speaking the Queen’s English.
Dom is an environmentalist and a lover of aerosols. He loves to meditate and thrives on stress.
Dom is a walking contradiction.
He’s a hypocrite.
Dom just is.
What he really is, is anybody’s guess.
*
Viggo calls him ‘little brother.’
He says to Dom You are not your job. He tells Dom You are not what you do, but that’s a load of bollocks because Viggo’s a method actor and all he does is become his job. Viggo didn’t start calling Dom ‘little brother’ until after Hidalgo wrapped, and if Viggo had to actually be himself for more than three seconds out of every day, Dom thinks he would have a nervous breakdown. That’s why Viggo paints, and takes photographs and makes music and smokes so much ganja, because Viggo doesn’t know who he is -- or he doesn’t like who he is.
There’s every possibility that Viggo’s just as lost as Dom is.
He just hides it better.
*
Billy used to call him ‘his Dommie.’ Billy used to ring him at four in the morning without a second thought. Billy used to do a lot of things that he doesn’t do anymore. Billy not doing the things that make him Billy makes it hard for Dom to do the things that make him Dom, because Dom used to have Billy, but now Billy has Ali.
And Dom used to have Elijah, but now Elijah has Charlie and Hannah and the journalist he shagged in the lift at the Four Seasons.
Dom used to have Orli, but now Orli has Kate and his adoring masses.
Dom never quite had Viggo, but no one ever really has Viggo.
Even Viggo never has Viggo.
*
Elijah doesn’t call him much of anything anymore.
*
Billy has this red wool blanket, knitted by his gran, that he always travels with. It’s unraveling at the corners and the red has faded into an almost pink colour, but Billy always has that sodding blanket with him. It smells like soap and hope and Billy, and the first time Dom saw Billy with his blanket he laughed and pointed and made the obligatory smart-arse remarks, but Billy flipped him off and went back to sleep on the sofa. And Dom – Dom watched. He studied the way Billy wrapped himself in his blanket as though it could protect him and keep him safe. It was as though the blanket were a part of Billy, as though it defined who he was in some way.
At the end of the day, after shooting had wrapped, when Dom was picking glue from his feet, Billy would wrap himself in his blanket and do likewise.
Dom never had a blanket like that.
All he’s ever had is Billy.
*
Dom and Billy fight like brothers -- except for when they fight like lovers. It's confusing. They're confusing. What they are -- what they're not. They fight at awards shows about who sits where and who’s going home with whom. They fight at premieres about who was walking in alone and who was supposed to leave who at home. Billy and Dom fight about big things and little things but never about the pink elephant in the middle of the room.
Dom says he doesn't want anything from Billy, but he can't help his possessiveness. He can't help wishing Ali would take a long walk off of Blackpool Pier. True, it's not fair to her, but her mere existence isn't fair to Dom.
He was there before her.
He built his world around Billy first.
*
What Dom is... is in love.
When he tells Viggo this, Viggo just laughs.
He says Everybody has to be something.
When Dom points out that Billy already has somebody to love, Viggo reminds him that It doesn’t matter who loves you first. What’s important is who loves you best.
So forty-eight minutes later when Dom knocks on the door of Billy’s hotel room at the Roosevelt, and he finds Billy with his hair sticking up on one side and lines on his face, holding his red blanket in his hand, all these things want to spill out of Dom’s mouth about who he is. Dom wants to talk about the trees by the hotel pool and the horrible state of L.A.’s air. He wants to tell Billy about all the hope he has that Lost will save his career. He wants to tell Billy everything Viggo told him. He wants to apologise for losing sight of what really matters to him, which is them.
What he says is I'm nothing without you.
-end-
1. I understand that my e-mail account has been jacked up for the last 24 hours. If you've been trying to mail me and it's kicking back that's The Man's fault, not mine. Please try again. ETN: Apparently now my LJ's gone wonky as well, so, um, yeah. I would fix it, if I could, but I can't because I dunno what's wrong, so bear with me and maybe it'll stop pissing on my head soon. *puts up umbrella*
2. Anybody who thinks that I’m returning to writing Harry/Draco is sadly mistaken. That was a one-off. I am back to my Get Neville Laid! Programme forthwith.
Okay, now that the administrative business has been attended to, it appears that the adorably fabulous
edigo had a birthday and I didn't have anything for her. This is bad. Especially considering her affinity for Linus' blanket. My bad, sweetie. Happy Belated Birthday!!
LOTRips
DM/BB; DM/VM
Dom is. At least he thinks he is.
Sometimes he pinches himself to make certain of his permanence, but it’s pretty much an irrefutable fact that he is running around, taking up space. At least it’s irrefutable considering all the washing up sitting in the corner of his bedroom. Somebody had to have worn all those clothes, but that’s not really what concerns Dom. His issue is much more psychological. Clearly he’s been in too many books because of Ian and they’re messing with his head, because every time Dom tries to think about all the other things he is, he overloads on tags.
Son. Brother. Mate. Actor. Bisexual male. Not a half-bad singer.
Er spricht Deutsch. Er spricht Englisch. Er spricht Mancunian -- which is not the same as speaking the Queen’s English.
Dom is an environmentalist and a lover of aerosols. He loves to meditate and thrives on stress.
Dom is a walking contradiction.
He’s a hypocrite.
Dom just is.
What he really is, is anybody’s guess.
Viggo calls him ‘little brother.’
He says to Dom You are not your job. He tells Dom You are not what you do, but that’s a load of bollocks because Viggo’s a method actor and all he does is become his job. Viggo didn’t start calling Dom ‘little brother’ until after Hidalgo wrapped, and if Viggo had to actually be himself for more than three seconds out of every day, Dom thinks he would have a nervous breakdown. That’s why Viggo paints, and takes photographs and makes music and smokes so much ganja, because Viggo doesn’t know who he is -- or he doesn’t like who he is.
There’s every possibility that Viggo’s just as lost as Dom is.
He just hides it better.
Billy used to call him ‘his Dommie.’ Billy used to ring him at four in the morning without a second thought. Billy used to do a lot of things that he doesn’t do anymore. Billy not doing the things that make him Billy makes it hard for Dom to do the things that make him Dom, because Dom used to have Billy, but now Billy has Ali.
And Dom used to have Elijah, but now Elijah has Charlie and Hannah and the journalist he shagged in the lift at the Four Seasons.
Dom used to have Orli, but now Orli has Kate and his adoring masses.
Dom never quite had Viggo, but no one ever really has Viggo.
Even Viggo never has Viggo.
Elijah doesn’t call him much of anything anymore.
Billy has this red wool blanket, knitted by his gran, that he always travels with. It’s unraveling at the corners and the red has faded into an almost pink colour, but Billy always has that sodding blanket with him. It smells like soap and hope and Billy, and the first time Dom saw Billy with his blanket he laughed and pointed and made the obligatory smart-arse remarks, but Billy flipped him off and went back to sleep on the sofa. And Dom – Dom watched. He studied the way Billy wrapped himself in his blanket as though it could protect him and keep him safe. It was as though the blanket were a part of Billy, as though it defined who he was in some way.
At the end of the day, after shooting had wrapped, when Dom was picking glue from his feet, Billy would wrap himself in his blanket and do likewise.
Dom never had a blanket like that.
All he’s ever had is Billy.
Dom and Billy fight like brothers -- except for when they fight like lovers. It's confusing. They're confusing. What they are -- what they're not. They fight at awards shows about who sits where and who’s going home with whom. They fight at premieres about who was walking in alone and who was supposed to leave who at home. Billy and Dom fight about big things and little things but never about the pink elephant in the middle of the room.
Dom says he doesn't want anything from Billy, but he can't help his possessiveness. He can't help wishing Ali would take a long walk off of Blackpool Pier. True, it's not fair to her, but her mere existence isn't fair to Dom.
He was there before her.
He built his world around Billy first.
What Dom is... is in love.
When he tells Viggo this, Viggo just laughs.
He says Everybody has to be something.
When Dom points out that Billy already has somebody to love, Viggo reminds him that It doesn’t matter who loves you first. What’s important is who loves you best.
So forty-eight minutes later when Dom knocks on the door of Billy’s hotel room at the Roosevelt, and he finds Billy with his hair sticking up on one side and lines on his face, holding his red blanket in his hand, all these things want to spill out of Dom’s mouth about who he is. Dom wants to talk about the trees by the hotel pool and the horrible state of L.A.’s air. He wants to tell Billy about all the hope he has that Lost will save his career. He wants to tell Billy everything Viggo told him. He wants to apologise for losing sight of what really matters to him, which is them.
What he says is I'm nothing without you.
-end-
no subject
also, omg, help, stuck in a city obsessed with a dead president's funeral procession, write me something to take my mind off it please.
no subject
Really what he's doing is looking to the back row, to Draco. Draco, who is usually looking back at him with a smirk on his face. Draco, who sometimes is staring out the window, out to the grounds of the school, the trees and the grass and the birds. At least, that's what Ron imagines he's looking at. Not much else out there, is there?
Sometimes Ron drops his pencil and has to bend down to retrieve it, and he looks through the grid of table legs and feet and sees Draco's shoes. Italian leather, Ron knows. Handmade. Draco's very proud of his fashion accomplishments; everyone knows. No socks, not ever, like some kind of rock star.
Draco's ankles are thin and pale and look awfully vulnerable, but Draco's eyes are hard and dark and predatory, so Ron doesn't think too much about it.
xo.
no subject
Except one day in History they're studying the Victorian era (which as far as Ron's concerned is the most incredibly boring 90-odd whatever years in the history of the British Empire, India be damned), and Ron's teacher starts talking about the changing roles of women and society. Somehow the class gets into a discussion about fashion (oh my god, Ron is bored out of his skull and Harry is asleep next to him) when he looks down at a picture in his textbook of a smiling young woman in a dress with a lot of ruffles and skirts. She is entirely covered except for one bare foot which peeks out from underneath a cloud of lacey stuff. Her ankle is thin, delicate, and for some reason Ron flashes to a remembered glimpse of Draco's ankle, rising pale and angular from his black loafers.
no subject
He does have nice ankles, though. Perfectly formed. And nice fingers -- especially when they're wrapped around Ron's cock, and tugging.
no subject
no subject
Ron isn't sure where these feelings are coming from. He doesn't know how his subconscious knows what it feels like to be balls-deep in some guy's arse. In Malfoy's arse.
He jerks off to it in his morning shower, leaning his forehead against cold tile and pulling, pulling, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking about slickness and heat and the way Malfoy's shirt would ruck up around his chest and show the dip of the small of his back, the feeling of Malfoy's nipples between his fingers, the sound of Malfoy's whimpers.
That's what really does him in, is Malfoy's whimpers.
Ron tried to screw his head back on straight. No pun intended, right? Or maybe it was. He went off after girls, loads of them, lined them up and let them kiss him, and the one who kissed the best he took out to the cinema and groped her in the back row during some shite American action movie. She shivered and clutched at him during the scary parts, and he slipped a hand between her legs and a finger inside.
He let her blow him after the film; he leaned against his car with his legs spread and his eyes closed and his hands in her hair and when he looked down at her silky blonde hair and thought about Malfoy on his knees, he came with a little strangled cry, and she glared at him and spit onto the ground.
"Come on, Darla," he said to her, and she said, "My name is Carla, you fucking poof," and when he dropped her off at her flat, she didn't even say goodbye or let him walk her to the door.
The next day, when Ron scratched his chin with his shoulder, Malfoy was smirking at him from the back of the room, and when Ron dropped his pencil and had to lean down to pick it up, he saw that Malfoy had kicked his shoes off and was rubbing his foot up and down his own calf.
His bare toes were obscene. Ron jerked off in a bathroom stall between classes, and complained of a stomachache. He was sweating and clammy and excused from classes for the rest of the day.
He jerked off in the shower and in the tub and into tissues while watching the telly and stared at the ceiling, and half-expected, half-fantasized that Malfoy would come knock on his door and backhand him and fuck him up the arse, and then he fantasized that maybe they would kiss, that Malfoy's sharp pink tongue would swipe around his mouth and his fingers would hold Ron's jaw, and Ron would sneak a hand between them, and undo Malfoy's trousers, and...
Ron slept with his head under a pillow, and woke up shaking, coming on his sheets.
no subject
OMGthisistheshit! So, can I just say that I adore you and run off and sacrifice some chickens and Gryffindors to your greatness, cos this was hot, and for real, I felt Ron's pain. *adores madly*
no subject
...Am glad you liked. xo.
no subject
Does this mean I need to finish, or does this count?
Never mind, I know what you're going to say.
no subject
hee. Did that sound even vaguely threatening? :)
no subject
I think you needed more exclamation marks and stuff.
BITCH!!!1111!!! like that.
no subject
Er.
This sort of thing just doesn't really work for me, obviously. I prefer to let my minions do the threatening. Heh. I just drink a lot and smoke a lot of cigarettes and laze around being waited on. (HAHAHAHA. And I have this really great bridge...)
no subject
Hey, me too! Go figure!
I prefer to let my minions do the threatening.
Well, obviously. This is why people like you (ahem. and me) are destined to rule the world some day. We understand delegation.
no subject
no subject
And I need my groove back, yo.
MUSE, WHERE ARE YOU!?
no subject
I'm in charge here, goddamnit!
Re: I'm in charge here, goddamnit!
So there should be a point where Ron's brain clicks back on and Malfoy stops being fascinating and Ron will finally be able to sleep at night. But now is not that time, and Malfoy is bent over Ron's lap like nothing else had ever happened at all, and his mouth is around Ron's cock like Ron had never touched him, and Ron's hips are moving like they'd never thought of doing anything else, and Ron is clenching his fists to keep them out of Malfoy's hair.
When Ron comes, Malfoy swallows, and licks his lips, and looks at Ron from under his fringe and raises his eyebrows.
"Money?" he says, and holds out his hand, like it's just another transaction, like Ron is just another guy, like nothing else ever happened between them or ever will again. And Ron pays him, counts pound notes into his hand, and looks away when Malfoy gets out of the car.
Malfoy's not even hard. Ron could go again. Ron could go all night. Ron could give Darla a call and see if she'll forgive him for calling her Carla -- or was that the other way around? Ron could drive away right now, instead of watching Malfoy walk down the path. Ron could jerk himself off onto the bushes, or do anything. Ron could do anything he wanted. He didn't need Malfoy.
He just wanted him. Ron wanted Malfoy and Malfoy didn't even notice. Or maybe -- maybe. Maybe he noticed and just didn't care, and Ron thinks that's much much worse.
Re: I'm in charge here, goddamnit!
That's what I'm talking about.
Re: I'm in charge here, goddamnit!