hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-12-15 12:28 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2004-12-15 12:28 pm
LOTRips – You Don’t Have to Go Home
Words written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yuletide: 2,070
Percent of coherency in said story: 54, maybe 55 if you squint
Holiday cards sent: 41
Who rocks: ME!
a) A fabulously inspirational article about some real life Ocean's Eleven action. Good bunnies for all those O11 writers out there. ::stares::
2) It's Wednesday and there is no new Lost. ::despairs::
3) I had a brief and terrifying moment where I was almost overcome by some of the wicked H/D being written, and thought about writing my own. Thank Zeus I got over it.
This wee 30 min thing is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
esorlehcar who brought a little Jeff happiness to my day.
LOTRips (OMGWTFBBQ!!)
DM/BB, DM/Other
You Don't Have to Go Home
Dom’s too drunk for this conversation –- but it seems to be happening anyway.
“So it was really bad sex?” Billy takes another sip of his whiskey and stares at Dom in bemusement.
“The worsss -– worst sex you could ever imagine,” Dom hiccups.
“I don’t know if that’s possible –- I didn’t think sex could be bad.”
“It really really really,” Dom pauses and tries to count how many really’s he’s already said, but his fingers... “How many fingers have I got, Bills?” he says holding up his hands.
“The same amount as most people,” Billy replies. “As for the shagging -- it really couldn’t have been that bad. I mean it’s not as though there are that many places for things to go, right?”
“You don’t know,” Dom laments. “You really don’t know. It was horrible. Terrible. It scarred me for life.”
“It was your first time,” Billy points out.
“Exactly! And he didn’t know what the bloody hell he was doing. You’d find more sense in a box of rocks.”
“He?”
“Course it was a he. I’d shagged girls before, you think they’d ever stand for bad sex? This was with different equipment, so.” Dom’s hiccup this time is exacerbated by a loud belch.
When the girls at the table over frown in his direction, he gives them a boozy grin; and every time Dom hiccups, Billy laughs. Actually, it’s not really a laugh; it’s more of a slurred chuckle –- if chuckles can be slurred. “Can chuckles be slurry?” Dom asks, leaning forward and peering into the bottom of his glass.
The tabletop is golden and brown and warped and –- and he’s having a thought. Except he’s a little too close to the pint glass on the table, and when he hiccups he hits his mouth on the rim of the pint glass.
Billy does the slurry chuckle again. “You’re completely pissed,” he says when Dom looks up at him with blurry eyes.
“’m no poss –- pissed.” Dom’s tongue is incredibly thick in his mouth, and Billy is sitting across the table from him, smirking and sipping at his whiskey and -– and --
“No reason to be such a smug bastard,” Dom says.
Or he thinks he says.
“Who’s a mugged sastard?” Billy leans forward slightly, green eyes bright and amused.
“You are.” Dom hiccups, leaning down and trying to pick up the glass without his hands. It’s slippery trying to pick up a glass by his teeth -– also, it fucking hurts.
“Dom!” Billy’s across the table in an instant, but it’s too late for the glass, and it slips free of Dom’s teeth and drops to the table with a thud, spilling precious golden liquid all over the sticky surface.
It’s not actually a lot of lager, just the dregs, but Dom’s eyes well up anyway, and when he leans down to the tabletop Billy’s hand stays his movements.
“You’re not licking the table.” Billy’s hand is splayed warmly against the centre of Dom’s chest and there are golden hairs on Billy’s exposed forearm where his jumper’s moved up a bit.
“But my lager,” Dom explains, wrapping both his hands around and Billy’s arm to -– to do something, certainly not move Billy’s hand though.
Dom’s tongue seems to be growing in his mouth; it’s wet and slippery and it makes it very hard to talk. He should do something with it to dry it off.
Billy makes a different noise when Dom licks his wrist.
“Dom, what’re you doing?” Billy skin tastes of soap and salt and something else, possibly make-up leftover from shooting. Dom instantly feels the loss when Billy pulls his hand away, and there’s a brief tug-of-war as Billy tries to free himself from Dom’s grip.
“Need something to lick,” Dom says, trying to Billy pull back across the table.
“Have some crisps,” says Billy.
“Don’t want crisps.” Dom’s never been that petulant, but they both pause for a moment, because Dom’s channeling Elijah and that’s just –-
Hiccup.
Sad.
"Last orders!" the barman shouts, and Dom finally relinquishes Billy’s hand.
"The two most horrid words in the English language," Dom announces as he looks down at his spilled lager in dismay.
“You are a sad, sad representative of the Mancunian race,” Billy says, pushing his whiskey glass across the table.
“No, I’m not. I just drank more than you did.”
Billy frowns. “No, you didn’t. I had whiskey, whiskey’s got twenty percent alcohol.”
“So,” Dom counters, “I had twice as many pints as you did whiskeys.”
“No, if you have a drink that's twenty percent alcohol, it's the same as TWO drinks with ten percent alcohol each."
"No, it bloody isn't!"
"Of course it is, if it's ten percent –-"
“What is that –- by volume?"
"Still bloody ten percent, y'daft twit, what're you on about?"
“I don’t care, what you’re on about,” the bartender shouts, “just do it somewhere else.”
“But we were jus –- just talking,” Dom protests. “And I’d had bad sex and then my pint spilled and it was a sad day for Mancs everywhere and... and I had more to drink than he did!”
The bartender doesn’t look impressed, and Dom’s having another thought, but it’s hard to remember when Billy’s standing up and coming round the table. Billy’s very –- not tall, and Dom stumbles slightly when Billy pulls him out his chair.
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” the bartender says, slinging a towel over his shoulder and pointedly looking at the front door.
“But where will we go?” Dom cries. He’s having a hobbit moment it seems, and he’s suddenly very sad. What will he do when they leave the pub, and he’s having flashbacks to having bad sex when he was fifteen?
“Go some place and have decent sex,” the bartender offers as Billy drags Dom towards the exit.
Dom stops dead in his tracks, and Billy stumbles slightly at the stop in motion. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he says thoughtfully.
“What’s a brilliant idea?” Billy asks, attempting to tug Dom through the doors.
“We should have sex!”
Billy rolls his eyes when Dom hiccups again. “You and what army?”
“The Forces of Mordor.” Dom smiles beguilingly -– or so he thinks. “What do you reckon; you’ve got the right equipment -- fancy a shag?”
“Why, so you can go round telling everyone that I’m crap in bed?”
Dom claps Billy on the shoulder hard. “I’m sure you’ve never had any complaints.”
Dom blinks rapidly as Billy gives him a hard look. He’s not that drunk, but right now he feels extraordinarily light in the loafers.
“I don’t fancy a shack,” Billy says eventually, propelling Dom through the doors and out into the cool New Zealand evening. “But maybe when you’re sober, we can talk about a shag.”
Dom hiccups again. “That too.”
-end-
The percentage argument is courtesy ofserialkarma. Who actually sat through said argument with two drunk Scotsmen. This is thoroughly unbetad as it was spur of the moment thing, but I do hope the intended recipient likes it nonetheless.
yuletide: 2,070Percent of coherency in said story: 54, maybe 55 if you squint
Holiday cards sent: 41
Who rocks: ME!
a) A fabulously inspirational article about some real life Ocean's Eleven action. Good bunnies for all those O11 writers out there. ::stares::
2) It's Wednesday and there is no new Lost. ::despairs::
3) I had a brief and terrifying moment where I was almost overcome by some of the wicked H/D being written, and thought about writing my own. Thank Zeus I got over it.
This wee 30 min thing is for
esorlehcar who brought a little Jeff happiness to my day.LOTRips (OMGWTFBBQ!!)
DM/BB, DM/Other
You Don't Have to Go Home
Dom’s too drunk for this conversation –- but it seems to be happening anyway.
“So it was really bad sex?” Billy takes another sip of his whiskey and stares at Dom in bemusement.
“The worsss -– worst sex you could ever imagine,” Dom hiccups.
“I don’t know if that’s possible –- I didn’t think sex could be bad.”
“It really really really,” Dom pauses and tries to count how many really’s he’s already said, but his fingers... “How many fingers have I got, Bills?” he says holding up his hands.
“The same amount as most people,” Billy replies. “As for the shagging -- it really couldn’t have been that bad. I mean it’s not as though there are that many places for things to go, right?”
“You don’t know,” Dom laments. “You really don’t know. It was horrible. Terrible. It scarred me for life.”
“It was your first time,” Billy points out.
“Exactly! And he didn’t know what the bloody hell he was doing. You’d find more sense in a box of rocks.”
“He?”
“Course it was a he. I’d shagged girls before, you think they’d ever stand for bad sex? This was with different equipment, so.” Dom’s hiccup this time is exacerbated by a loud belch.
When the girls at the table over frown in his direction, he gives them a boozy grin; and every time Dom hiccups, Billy laughs. Actually, it’s not really a laugh; it’s more of a slurred chuckle –- if chuckles can be slurred. “Can chuckles be slurry?” Dom asks, leaning forward and peering into the bottom of his glass.
The tabletop is golden and brown and warped and –- and he’s having a thought. Except he’s a little too close to the pint glass on the table, and when he hiccups he hits his mouth on the rim of the pint glass.
Billy does the slurry chuckle again. “You’re completely pissed,” he says when Dom looks up at him with blurry eyes.
“’m no poss –- pissed.” Dom’s tongue is incredibly thick in his mouth, and Billy is sitting across the table from him, smirking and sipping at his whiskey and -– and --
“No reason to be such a smug bastard,” Dom says.
Or he thinks he says.
“Who’s a mugged sastard?” Billy leans forward slightly, green eyes bright and amused.
“You are.” Dom hiccups, leaning down and trying to pick up the glass without his hands. It’s slippery trying to pick up a glass by his teeth -– also, it fucking hurts.
“Dom!” Billy’s across the table in an instant, but it’s too late for the glass, and it slips free of Dom’s teeth and drops to the table with a thud, spilling precious golden liquid all over the sticky surface.
It’s not actually a lot of lager, just the dregs, but Dom’s eyes well up anyway, and when he leans down to the tabletop Billy’s hand stays his movements.
“You’re not licking the table.” Billy’s hand is splayed warmly against the centre of Dom’s chest and there are golden hairs on Billy’s exposed forearm where his jumper’s moved up a bit.
“But my lager,” Dom explains, wrapping both his hands around and Billy’s arm to -– to do something, certainly not move Billy’s hand though.
Dom’s tongue seems to be growing in his mouth; it’s wet and slippery and it makes it very hard to talk. He should do something with it to dry it off.
Billy makes a different noise when Dom licks his wrist.
“Dom, what’re you doing?” Billy skin tastes of soap and salt and something else, possibly make-up leftover from shooting. Dom instantly feels the loss when Billy pulls his hand away, and there’s a brief tug-of-war as Billy tries to free himself from Dom’s grip.
“Need something to lick,” Dom says, trying to Billy pull back across the table.
“Have some crisps,” says Billy.
“Don’t want crisps.” Dom’s never been that petulant, but they both pause for a moment, because Dom’s channeling Elijah and that’s just –-
Hiccup.
Sad.
"Last orders!" the barman shouts, and Dom finally relinquishes Billy’s hand.
"The two most horrid words in the English language," Dom announces as he looks down at his spilled lager in dismay.
“You are a sad, sad representative of the Mancunian race,” Billy says, pushing his whiskey glass across the table.
“No, I’m not. I just drank more than you did.”
Billy frowns. “No, you didn’t. I had whiskey, whiskey’s got twenty percent alcohol.”
“So,” Dom counters, “I had twice as many pints as you did whiskeys.”
“No, if you have a drink that's twenty percent alcohol, it's the same as TWO drinks with ten percent alcohol each."
"No, it bloody isn't!"
"Of course it is, if it's ten percent –-"
“What is that –- by volume?"
"Still bloody ten percent, y'daft twit, what're you on about?"
“I don’t care, what you’re on about,” the bartender shouts, “just do it somewhere else.”
“But we were jus –- just talking,” Dom protests. “And I’d had bad sex and then my pint spilled and it was a sad day for Mancs everywhere and... and I had more to drink than he did!”
The bartender doesn’t look impressed, and Dom’s having another thought, but it’s hard to remember when Billy’s standing up and coming round the table. Billy’s very –- not tall, and Dom stumbles slightly when Billy pulls him out his chair.
“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” the bartender says, slinging a towel over his shoulder and pointedly looking at the front door.
“But where will we go?” Dom cries. He’s having a hobbit moment it seems, and he’s suddenly very sad. What will he do when they leave the pub, and he’s having flashbacks to having bad sex when he was fifteen?
“Go some place and have decent sex,” the bartender offers as Billy drags Dom towards the exit.
Dom stops dead in his tracks, and Billy stumbles slightly at the stop in motion. “That’s a brilliant idea,” he says thoughtfully.
“What’s a brilliant idea?” Billy asks, attempting to tug Dom through the doors.
“We should have sex!”
Billy rolls his eyes when Dom hiccups again. “You and what army?”
“The Forces of Mordor.” Dom smiles beguilingly -– or so he thinks. “What do you reckon; you’ve got the right equipment -- fancy a shag?”
“Why, so you can go round telling everyone that I’m crap in bed?”
Dom claps Billy on the shoulder hard. “I’m sure you’ve never had any complaints.”
Dom blinks rapidly as Billy gives him a hard look. He’s not that drunk, but right now he feels extraordinarily light in the loafers.
“I don’t fancy a shack,” Billy says eventually, propelling Dom through the doors and out into the cool New Zealand evening. “But maybe when you’re sober, we can talk about a shag.”
Dom hiccups again. “That too.”
-end-
The percentage argument is courtesy of
serialkarma. Who actually sat through said argument with two drunk Scotsmen. This is thoroughly unbetad as it was spur of the moment thing, but I do hope the intended recipient likes it nonetheless.
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