![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
childeproof.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rugbytackleFIC: 'THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY' (PART THREE)
SB/VM, OB, hobbitpile.
WARNING: WIP, one or two parts still to go.
DISCLAIMER: Every word a lie.
Part one to be found here and part two here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
There’s a radio playing over the canteen PA. Probably one of the orcs is waiting for a request on Easy Listening Eighties, or something. When it’s not playing power ballads, the station has ad breaks that tell you in a voice of vibrant, soldered-tight trustworthiness that you’ll end up toothless, friendless, penniless and totally fucked unless you give some pension fund all your savings.
‘Fuck off.’
‘No.’
‘Fuck off, Orli. And no, I don’t want a fucking cigarette or a cunting heart-to heart. I want you to fuck off. That is all I want.’
Orli thinks about it and shakes his wig and rubs delicately at his blue contacts. ‘You should think before you say things like that. I might, like, take it to heart or something.’
There’s a pause, during which Orli sips fussily at his cigarette and doesn’t go anywhere.
‘Orli, what the fuck do you want?’ Sean looks at the Fresh ‘n Soft tissue mini-packet Orli carries about to dab his irritated eyes and wonders why they can’t buy a couple of fucking consonants and complete the spelling. This is nothing, though. Orli’s trailer is like the world history of toiletries.
Orli looks delighted. Big, imploring, let’s-be-friends smile. ‘You never called me by my name before.’
Viggo crosses the canteen behind Orli’s head, with his reticent walk, hand on sword hilt, to sit with Lawrence and some of the orcs. The hobbits are ostentatiously far away down the other end, heads together, smoking enough to constitute their own environmental hazard.
Sean drinks coffee, gets it down, although it’s too hot and has been boiling on its hotplate for hours. ‘Well, that was before I fucked the wrong arse and you became the only one dopey or desperate enough to still talk to me.’
Orli has his arms crossed, stroking his collarbones as though he’s cold, letting his abandoned cigarette waft smoke across the table. ‘It’s just as well I’m not sensitive.’
The radio voice warmly recommends a brand of painkillers for instantaneous relief from anything short of a brain tumour. Sean’s done them himself, those voiceovers, usually urgent encouragements to buy stuff, and he finds himself thinking nostalgically of those muffled rooms with their heavy, felted double doors. Nothing disturbs them.
‘For fuck sake, will you smoke that thing or put it out?’ He tries to say this mildly, to hypnotise himself into the belief that he isn’t a shit.
---
Sean hasn’t a clue how he ends up alone in a bar with Orli on the Friday night, unless it’s that he’s weakly addicted to someone being pleased to see him. Even when he’s monosyllabic or actively vicious, Orli still smiles when he shows up on set.
Sean occupies himself in adjusting to his new position. He comes to dislike sleeping, or trying to. He’s never slept well, the way other people seem to manage on a regular basis, but drinking Viggo’s come was like some miracle sleep drug. Night and morning, those soft edges in and out of the day, open him up. He drops his guard and finds it hard to concentrate, because reality seems to be wavering round the edges, pitching a bit. And he would prefer not to think. Thinking at night especially, is unsafe.
He doesn’t hallucinate in any full-blown way, but his dreams, when he manages to sleep, go roaring and crawling all night and on into the day. Which is the problem with emotionally-committed dreaming, it’ll always give you a terrible hangover in the morning. He’s better off with faceless sex and violence, or trying not to dream at all.
So he does what everyone does when they start to rattle around in their lives. He works. The job is the job is the job and it has to be done.
‘Thanks, Viggo and Sean. That last one was fine.’
They are nothing if not professional, no involuntary body language, no casual meeting of eyes. Sean only notices how tired he is as he heads back to his trailer. His spine feels compressed, tender, and he is reminded again what an effort it takes to sustain the look of a convincing indifference, even when that’s what you’re working on feeling, and will feel, soon enough.
He’s left pretty much back where he started, with nothing but work and further proof of his status as interior cripple to sustain him. Along with one more memory, a sharp black edge for his mind to rub over from time to time.
All this is why he eventually ends up on Friday in Orli’s choice of bar, complete with all-male clientele and piss-poor beer. Sean told him there was no way he was coming, so, naturally, there he is, right on cue.
---
Sean thinks the forthcoming proceedings might turn out almost bearable if he was drunk enough, although bars like this and their regulars make him encounter his failures like each one is a permanent, infectious disfigurement. Another grubby, grainy room, another little rubberised sperm donation. God, he shouldn’t have come here, why did he come?
The smell is smoke and sweat, a stale, male odour overlaid with air freshener and aftershave, the usual static of sex and faithlessness. It’s stewing hot. Some guys have already removed their shirts, which hang from the loops of their belts like waiters' towels.
‘Here.’ Orli’s got them some kind of expensively fashionable bottled beer, one of which he puts down in front of Sean with a flourish. He should probably be relieved Orli didn’t have some brainwave about them doing tequila slammers or something.
‘You look like you need it.’
Sean grunts, drinks. ‘Had my death-scene makeup tried on.’
‘Shit, I should’ve got you a chaser.’ Orli sits down next to him, clinks bottles and points discreetly across the bar at waist level. ‘What do you think he does?’
Sean doesn’t bother to look. ‘Oh, retired rent boy and blackmailer.’
‘You don’t like the look of him, then.’ Orli looks glum, then cheers up.
In his short acquaintance with Orli Sean’s discovered that he is both an attention-seeker with no hidden depths who suffers from a bad case of verbal diarrhoea, and also a good-natured, damp-eyed puppy, with a heart-breaking air of candour and sweetness, who’d hand over a kidney if you asked him for it nicely.
He also gets off his face on three beers, especially at the rate Sean’s putting them back, and he’s a terrible, sentimental drunk.
‘You hate me, don’t you?’
‘Huh?’
‘You do, don’t you?’ His voice gets small.
‘What makes you say that, for Christ’s sake?’
‘I dunno.’
‘For fuck sake, Orli, give me a chance to dislike you first.’
This strikes Orli as the funniest thing he’s ever heard and, when Sean makes him eat a whole bowl of fingered-looking little bar snacks, he sobers up a bit.
Adrenaline is Orli’s drug of choice. The music is dire, some kind of techno-shite, but Orli’s bouncing around on his bar-stool beside him with knowing coy beauty. Orli’s like that. Sometimes he’s all dark and pretty with eyes like cups of black coffee, other times he’s a gangly scruff, a ribby urchin in a worn teeshirt, the kind bars give out for beer promotions.
Tonight he’s clearly made an effort not to be too flamboyant, the Mohawk growing out into wispy fluff slicked down, and some kind of gingham shirt without ruffles, for once, in what Sean foggily realises might be an attempt to match his own clothes, clothes that make no promises, clothes he throws out and replaces a lot. It’s like the stuff he wears gets saturated with him, the stain of him, the shape of who he is. Years of total loathing reveal themselves in the way he suddenly can’t look at an old jacket or a pair of runners any more.
He’s not drunk enough. He has, though, developed a strange and dopey determination that he will get drunk enough, have an adequate good time.
Orli’s rattling on, not unentertainingly about some disastrous fuck. ‘So I gave him the wrong address, I gave him the address of a McDonalds. I pretended it was mine.’
‘Poor bastard,’ Sean says non-committally.
Orli looks serious for a minute. ‘I thought he could, like, a have a Big Mac.’
Here he is, so. Great. With beer finally loosening his joints, unpicking the tenser corners of his brain and making him finally ready for something when there’s nothing to be had, when his prick’ll only lift for someone he’ll never fuck again. He orders another round, feeling his head giving a tiny, warning, spin.
‘I went for a job once, in Soho. Nothing good, even, probably some shit snuff film or something, and the producer said hello, unzipped his pants and he, like, just pointed. With his finger, in case I didn’t get what he meant or something.’ Orli shakes his head, takes a swig. ‘I mean, I hated the bastard on sight, but the worst thing was, I was wondering if this was normal, if I should shut up and get down there, you know.’ He reaches across Sean to tap his cigarette and leans on him hard enough for his sharp nipple to imprint itself in the flesh of Sean’s forearm.
It occurs to Sean, dimly, that Orli is trying to pick him up.
He’ll flirt with anyone, Orli will. He doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a reflex, the way you see roaming gangs of kids in London try the doors of parked cars, just on the off-chance. Occasionally, often enough to keep them trying, one of the doors opens.
Sean knows that intent look now coming through Orli’s astonishingly long eyelashes. He knows where it comes from and exactly where it leads. It’s flattering, in a way, to be getting it when he’s giving off desperation from every pore, and from this cocky, bemused little tart, his baggy jeans hanging off his narrow hips. That way he has of looking like a common little scrap irradiated by love and confidence.
Sean’s thinking about Viggo and seeing Orli, Orli who’ll do anything he asks. He doesn’t think there’s anything worse than having someone around who’ll do that. It can do awful things to you, make you do awful things.
He finds himself thinking about going behind him, pulling down his trousers, pushing him onto the floor and fucking him in a pool of beer.
Now, what he should do now is to go home and go straight to bed. Or even stay up with a bottle of gin and try to have an anonymous wank, where no one gets hurt, something nice and faceless. That would be sensible. He shouldn’t do something out of the ordinary, out of character, but he does. But then he’s full of the things he shouldn’t do. He shouldn’t look at Viggo on set, he shouldn’t sleep flat to the cold wall and let it seep into his sleep.
Orli turns and gives him, too close to be in focus, a look of the tenderest trust, mixed with the kind of come-on you could read at a hundred yards. There’s a slick of sweat on his upper lip.
Sean doesn’t understand what happens next, but that’s nothing new.
He finds himself bundling Orli through the swing doors at the back and down the dirty passageway, past bins and milk-crates. There are two cubicles. From one of them comes steady little rhythms, muttered encouragements, shiftings.
He pushes Orli in front of him into the other one, so that he falls back in surprise against the door when he’s bolted it. Sean has almost no idea what he’s doing. He prises open the top button of Orli’s trousers, yanks down the zip, pulls them around his knees.
His own cock curves and buckles in his pants.
There’s the feeling under his heart and along his spine of finding an edge and stepping beyond it and gripping that edge and throwing it away.
Orli’s bent and braced, his damp shirt hiked high up his back, light brown like the sheen on caramel, his breathing thinning and speeding, hard in Sean’s hand.
Oh Jesus. This is the wrong script.
But, stubbornly, he does his best to get back in gear, to join in. He cups and grips the flesh of Orli’s ass while imagining his way through porn films, page three pinups, entire football teams, the Screen Actor’s Guild. It’s no use, naturally.
What finally works, as Orli is squirming and whimpering under his breath, is picturing Viggo spread and fitted to other men. That’s what does it. Naturally.
Afterwards he can remember just enough to be sorry he hasn’t forgotten everything. At one point he starts to make a repetitive mindless kind of noise he hasn’t heard before and wants to stop. He also, in the course of the next quarter of an hour, says the word sorry maybe fifty times. Neither of them can even hear it in the end.
‘Sean, ‘ Orli says eventually, curiously adult, a bit weary. ‘You’re crying.’
Say something. Say something for fuck sake. He’s only -
Orli gets him out of the cubicle, turns him around and there’s a soft pinch and press on his eyelids one by one and Orli’s sweetish nothing breath on his cheek, his warm radiator ribcage against him, his heartbeat a slowing thud. ‘I didn’t mean to, honest. I just fancied you, and - OK, sshh.’
But it takes Sean a while.
---
It’s a bit later, when they’ve made it as far as the passageway back to the bar, that all four hobbits appear in a sort of denim scuffle, like a cartoon crush in gear for some high-grade imbecility.
‘Oh shit.’ Dom says. He and Billy clearly got dressed together, in that they’re both wearing BORN TO BE PORN teeshirts and eyeliner, and are about equally plastered. ‘Borogit and Legoland.’
‘What did we tell you about the evils of drink, Elfboy?’ Billy says.
‘Hobbits.’ Sean manages to infuse the word with something of the same quality as hand grenade or diarrhoea, but it’s pathetic, and they all notice.
Orli leans in against his shoulder, casual, giving the thumbs up. ‘Elvis. Drink.’
‘We saw the bat signal, ‘ Billy explains, through what looks like a bit of dismembered pizza. ‘But we got here too late.’
‘Actually, leaving your jackets and wallets on the bar of our local is a dead give away.’ Dom shoves his armload at Sean. ‘That you’re shagging each other’s brains out in the bog, I mean. You’d want to watch that, Beanie. I know Wellington isn't the kinda bag-snatching, car-stealing fuckin’ fiesta that is Sheffield, but still.’
‘Plus the barman said you were shagging each other’s brains out in the bog.’
‘Bog,’ says Lijah and laughs. He regresses alarmingly when stoned, and, given that he’s a kid anyway, that means sucking his thumb and smiling.
‘We didn’t – ‘ Sean starts to say.
Billy gives one of his best stoned Glaswegian snorts. He points in turn to Orli’s shirt and Sean’s jeans, which are, admittedly looking the worse for wear. ‘I’d say you’re trying to get off on a bit of a technicality there, Beanie.’
‘The only thing that could shock me now would be John bending over in front of me and begging me to bugger him senseless,’ Dom says. ‘And even that, it’d only merit a raised eyebrow.’
‘Here,’ Astin says, unloading Lijah, who is stuck adhesively to his side. ‘You take him, I need a piss.’
Lijah slithers into Sean’s arms, takes his thumb out of his mouth and smacks a kiss on his lips. ‘We’re forgiving you.’
TBC
SB/VM, OB, hobbitpile.
WARNING: WIP, one or two parts still to go.
DISCLAIMER: Every word a lie.
Part one to be found here and part two here.
THIS TIME, FOR VARIETY
There’s a radio playing over the canteen PA. Probably one of the orcs is waiting for a request on Easy Listening Eighties, or something. When it’s not playing power ballads, the station has ad breaks that tell you in a voice of vibrant, soldered-tight trustworthiness that you’ll end up toothless, friendless, penniless and totally fucked unless you give some pension fund all your savings.
‘Fuck off.’
‘No.’
‘Fuck off, Orli. And no, I don’t want a fucking cigarette or a cunting heart-to heart. I want you to fuck off. That is all I want.’
Orli thinks about it and shakes his wig and rubs delicately at his blue contacts. ‘You should think before you say things like that. I might, like, take it to heart or something.’
There’s a pause, during which Orli sips fussily at his cigarette and doesn’t go anywhere.
‘Orli, what the fuck do you want?’ Sean looks at the Fresh ‘n Soft tissue mini-packet Orli carries about to dab his irritated eyes and wonders why they can’t buy a couple of fucking consonants and complete the spelling. This is nothing, though. Orli’s trailer is like the world history of toiletries.
Orli looks delighted. Big, imploring, let’s-be-friends smile. ‘You never called me by my name before.’
Viggo crosses the canteen behind Orli’s head, with his reticent walk, hand on sword hilt, to sit with Lawrence and some of the orcs. The hobbits are ostentatiously far away down the other end, heads together, smoking enough to constitute their own environmental hazard.
Sean drinks coffee, gets it down, although it’s too hot and has been boiling on its hotplate for hours. ‘Well, that was before I fucked the wrong arse and you became the only one dopey or desperate enough to still talk to me.’
Orli has his arms crossed, stroking his collarbones as though he’s cold, letting his abandoned cigarette waft smoke across the table. ‘It’s just as well I’m not sensitive.’
The radio voice warmly recommends a brand of painkillers for instantaneous relief from anything short of a brain tumour. Sean’s done them himself, those voiceovers, usually urgent encouragements to buy stuff, and he finds himself thinking nostalgically of those muffled rooms with their heavy, felted double doors. Nothing disturbs them.
‘For fuck sake, will you smoke that thing or put it out?’ He tries to say this mildly, to hypnotise himself into the belief that he isn’t a shit.
---
Sean hasn’t a clue how he ends up alone in a bar with Orli on the Friday night, unless it’s that he’s weakly addicted to someone being pleased to see him. Even when he’s monosyllabic or actively vicious, Orli still smiles when he shows up on set.
Sean occupies himself in adjusting to his new position. He comes to dislike sleeping, or trying to. He’s never slept well, the way other people seem to manage on a regular basis, but drinking Viggo’s come was like some miracle sleep drug. Night and morning, those soft edges in and out of the day, open him up. He drops his guard and finds it hard to concentrate, because reality seems to be wavering round the edges, pitching a bit. And he would prefer not to think. Thinking at night especially, is unsafe.
He doesn’t hallucinate in any full-blown way, but his dreams, when he manages to sleep, go roaring and crawling all night and on into the day. Which is the problem with emotionally-committed dreaming, it’ll always give you a terrible hangover in the morning. He’s better off with faceless sex and violence, or trying not to dream at all.
So he does what everyone does when they start to rattle around in their lives. He works. The job is the job is the job and it has to be done.
‘Thanks, Viggo and Sean. That last one was fine.’
They are nothing if not professional, no involuntary body language, no casual meeting of eyes. Sean only notices how tired he is as he heads back to his trailer. His spine feels compressed, tender, and he is reminded again what an effort it takes to sustain the look of a convincing indifference, even when that’s what you’re working on feeling, and will feel, soon enough.
He’s left pretty much back where he started, with nothing but work and further proof of his status as interior cripple to sustain him. Along with one more memory, a sharp black edge for his mind to rub over from time to time.
All this is why he eventually ends up on Friday in Orli’s choice of bar, complete with all-male clientele and piss-poor beer. Sean told him there was no way he was coming, so, naturally, there he is, right on cue.
---
Sean thinks the forthcoming proceedings might turn out almost bearable if he was drunk enough, although bars like this and their regulars make him encounter his failures like each one is a permanent, infectious disfigurement. Another grubby, grainy room, another little rubberised sperm donation. God, he shouldn’t have come here, why did he come?
The smell is smoke and sweat, a stale, male odour overlaid with air freshener and aftershave, the usual static of sex and faithlessness. It’s stewing hot. Some guys have already removed their shirts, which hang from the loops of their belts like waiters' towels.
‘Here.’ Orli’s got them some kind of expensively fashionable bottled beer, one of which he puts down in front of Sean with a flourish. He should probably be relieved Orli didn’t have some brainwave about them doing tequila slammers or something.
‘You look like you need it.’
Sean grunts, drinks. ‘Had my death-scene makeup tried on.’
‘Shit, I should’ve got you a chaser.’ Orli sits down next to him, clinks bottles and points discreetly across the bar at waist level. ‘What do you think he does?’
Sean doesn’t bother to look. ‘Oh, retired rent boy and blackmailer.’
‘You don’t like the look of him, then.’ Orli looks glum, then cheers up.
In his short acquaintance with Orli Sean’s discovered that he is both an attention-seeker with no hidden depths who suffers from a bad case of verbal diarrhoea, and also a good-natured, damp-eyed puppy, with a heart-breaking air of candour and sweetness, who’d hand over a kidney if you asked him for it nicely.
He also gets off his face on three beers, especially at the rate Sean’s putting them back, and he’s a terrible, sentimental drunk.
‘You hate me, don’t you?’
‘Huh?’
‘You do, don’t you?’ His voice gets small.
‘What makes you say that, for Christ’s sake?’
‘I dunno.’
‘For fuck sake, Orli, give me a chance to dislike you first.’
This strikes Orli as the funniest thing he’s ever heard and, when Sean makes him eat a whole bowl of fingered-looking little bar snacks, he sobers up a bit.
Adrenaline is Orli’s drug of choice. The music is dire, some kind of techno-shite, but Orli’s bouncing around on his bar-stool beside him with knowing coy beauty. Orli’s like that. Sometimes he’s all dark and pretty with eyes like cups of black coffee, other times he’s a gangly scruff, a ribby urchin in a worn teeshirt, the kind bars give out for beer promotions.
Tonight he’s clearly made an effort not to be too flamboyant, the Mohawk growing out into wispy fluff slicked down, and some kind of gingham shirt without ruffles, for once, in what Sean foggily realises might be an attempt to match his own clothes, clothes that make no promises, clothes he throws out and replaces a lot. It’s like the stuff he wears gets saturated with him, the stain of him, the shape of who he is. Years of total loathing reveal themselves in the way he suddenly can’t look at an old jacket or a pair of runners any more.
He’s not drunk enough. He has, though, developed a strange and dopey determination that he will get drunk enough, have an adequate good time.
Orli’s rattling on, not unentertainingly about some disastrous fuck. ‘So I gave him the wrong address, I gave him the address of a McDonalds. I pretended it was mine.’
‘Poor bastard,’ Sean says non-committally.
Orli looks serious for a minute. ‘I thought he could, like, a have a Big Mac.’
Here he is, so. Great. With beer finally loosening his joints, unpicking the tenser corners of his brain and making him finally ready for something when there’s nothing to be had, when his prick’ll only lift for someone he’ll never fuck again. He orders another round, feeling his head giving a tiny, warning, spin.
‘I went for a job once, in Soho. Nothing good, even, probably some shit snuff film or something, and the producer said hello, unzipped his pants and he, like, just pointed. With his finger, in case I didn’t get what he meant or something.’ Orli shakes his head, takes a swig. ‘I mean, I hated the bastard on sight, but the worst thing was, I was wondering if this was normal, if I should shut up and get down there, you know.’ He reaches across Sean to tap his cigarette and leans on him hard enough for his sharp nipple to imprint itself in the flesh of Sean’s forearm.
It occurs to Sean, dimly, that Orli is trying to pick him up.
He’ll flirt with anyone, Orli will. He doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a reflex, the way you see roaming gangs of kids in London try the doors of parked cars, just on the off-chance. Occasionally, often enough to keep them trying, one of the doors opens.
Sean knows that intent look now coming through Orli’s astonishingly long eyelashes. He knows where it comes from and exactly where it leads. It’s flattering, in a way, to be getting it when he’s giving off desperation from every pore, and from this cocky, bemused little tart, his baggy jeans hanging off his narrow hips. That way he has of looking like a common little scrap irradiated by love and confidence.
Sean’s thinking about Viggo and seeing Orli, Orli who’ll do anything he asks. He doesn’t think there’s anything worse than having someone around who’ll do that. It can do awful things to you, make you do awful things.
He finds himself thinking about going behind him, pulling down his trousers, pushing him onto the floor and fucking him in a pool of beer.
Now, what he should do now is to go home and go straight to bed. Or even stay up with a bottle of gin and try to have an anonymous wank, where no one gets hurt, something nice and faceless. That would be sensible. He shouldn’t do something out of the ordinary, out of character, but he does. But then he’s full of the things he shouldn’t do. He shouldn’t look at Viggo on set, he shouldn’t sleep flat to the cold wall and let it seep into his sleep.
Orli turns and gives him, too close to be in focus, a look of the tenderest trust, mixed with the kind of come-on you could read at a hundred yards. There’s a slick of sweat on his upper lip.
Sean doesn’t understand what happens next, but that’s nothing new.
He finds himself bundling Orli through the swing doors at the back and down the dirty passageway, past bins and milk-crates. There are two cubicles. From one of them comes steady little rhythms, muttered encouragements, shiftings.
He pushes Orli in front of him into the other one, so that he falls back in surprise against the door when he’s bolted it. Sean has almost no idea what he’s doing. He prises open the top button of Orli’s trousers, yanks down the zip, pulls them around his knees.
His own cock curves and buckles in his pants.
There’s the feeling under his heart and along his spine of finding an edge and stepping beyond it and gripping that edge and throwing it away.
Orli’s bent and braced, his damp shirt hiked high up his back, light brown like the sheen on caramel, his breathing thinning and speeding, hard in Sean’s hand.
Oh Jesus. This is the wrong script.
But, stubbornly, he does his best to get back in gear, to join in. He cups and grips the flesh of Orli’s ass while imagining his way through porn films, page three pinups, entire football teams, the Screen Actor’s Guild. It’s no use, naturally.
What finally works, as Orli is squirming and whimpering under his breath, is picturing Viggo spread and fitted to other men. That’s what does it. Naturally.
Afterwards he can remember just enough to be sorry he hasn’t forgotten everything. At one point he starts to make a repetitive mindless kind of noise he hasn’t heard before and wants to stop. He also, in the course of the next quarter of an hour, says the word sorry maybe fifty times. Neither of them can even hear it in the end.
‘Sean, ‘ Orli says eventually, curiously adult, a bit weary. ‘You’re crying.’
Say something. Say something for fuck sake. He’s only -
Orli gets him out of the cubicle, turns him around and there’s a soft pinch and press on his eyelids one by one and Orli’s sweetish nothing breath on his cheek, his warm radiator ribcage against him, his heartbeat a slowing thud. ‘I didn’t mean to, honest. I just fancied you, and - OK, sshh.’
But it takes Sean a while.
---
It’s a bit later, when they’ve made it as far as the passageway back to the bar, that all four hobbits appear in a sort of denim scuffle, like a cartoon crush in gear for some high-grade imbecility.
‘Oh shit.’ Dom says. He and Billy clearly got dressed together, in that they’re both wearing BORN TO BE PORN teeshirts and eyeliner, and are about equally plastered. ‘Borogit and Legoland.’
‘What did we tell you about the evils of drink, Elfboy?’ Billy says.
‘Hobbits.’ Sean manages to infuse the word with something of the same quality as hand grenade or diarrhoea, but it’s pathetic, and they all notice.
Orli leans in against his shoulder, casual, giving the thumbs up. ‘Elvis. Drink.’
‘We saw the bat signal, ‘ Billy explains, through what looks like a bit of dismembered pizza. ‘But we got here too late.’
‘Actually, leaving your jackets and wallets on the bar of our local is a dead give away.’ Dom shoves his armload at Sean. ‘That you’re shagging each other’s brains out in the bog, I mean. You’d want to watch that, Beanie. I know Wellington isn't the kinda bag-snatching, car-stealing fuckin’ fiesta that is Sheffield, but still.’
‘Plus the barman said you were shagging each other’s brains out in the bog.’
‘Bog,’ says Lijah and laughs. He regresses alarmingly when stoned, and, given that he’s a kid anyway, that means sucking his thumb and smiling.
‘We didn’t – ‘ Sean starts to say.
Billy gives one of his best stoned Glaswegian snorts. He points in turn to Orli’s shirt and Sean’s jeans, which are, admittedly looking the worse for wear. ‘I’d say you’re trying to get off on a bit of a technicality there, Beanie.’
‘The only thing that could shock me now would be John bending over in front of me and begging me to bugger him senseless,’ Dom says. ‘And even that, it’d only merit a raised eyebrow.’
‘Here,’ Astin says, unloading Lijah, who is stuck adhesively to his side. ‘You take him, I need a piss.’
Lijah slithers into Sean’s arms, takes his thumb out of his mouth and smacks a kiss on his lips. ‘We’re forgiving you.’
TBC
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:15 am (UTC)One of the funniest fucking things I've heard too :)
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:14 pm (UTC)*feels more cynical than usual*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 02:03 am (UTC)Excellent, excellent continuation.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 04:22 am (UTC)Wahoo! Stories like that often make me feel like throwing myself out the nearest window. Although this miserable stretch is really, really, really nice. Bring on the pain, bring on the agony!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:17 pm (UTC)Brilliant image!! LOL!!!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 02:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:16 pm (UTC)More soon from Land of the Total Wreck.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:54 am (UTC)Sean's way fucked up, poor thing.
But I'm a hobbit girl from way back and I love how you write them.
‘Bog,’ says Lijah and laughs. He regresses alarmingly when stoned, and, given that he’s a kid anyway, that means sucking his thumb and smiling.
Too funny.
*runs off to read other parts*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 05:47 am (UTC)Lovely lovely writing, thank you.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 01:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 03:53 pm (UTC)V envious of yoga centre around the corner though - not here, downside of "Middle of Nowhere".
You have got me contemplating writing Vig/Bean slash - probably won't do it, but worried by mere contemplation of same. Suppose it will pass time on train!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:16 pm (UTC)I am feeling old and I fear the theme will be " you can't pretend you're still young at 46, 46 is nearly fucking fifty!"
May have slightly better idea of possible time table for "meet up in the summer" by tomorrow evening. Off to try "new and interesting" B&B in Greek St, tomorrow night, so we will see how that pans out! - will probably go running off back to islington for next time but we'll see.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:20 pm (UTC)Nonsense re. poo. It's a good theme, anyway.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 03:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:24 pm (UTC)Ah now, that'd be telling. But worth pointing out that this fic is part of an arc of VigBean stories in which Sean has usually behaved like a madman and Viggo has been his psychiatric nurse, practically, so in the whole context, Viggo deserves to behave badly for once because he was almost growing a halo there for a while, and it was distracting me.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 06:13 pm (UTC)the arc
Date: 2005-04-12 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 03:51 pm (UTC)You killed me with this one.
*Sniffle* I love your Orli. And I love your angst, it hurts just right. I don't want to miss a word of this fic.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-11 04:26 pm (UTC)