digging around on the hard drive
Apr. 29th, 2005 02:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Digging into the lotrips archives on my hard drive, I come across a fistful of never-posted, never-finished fics. Fandom tedium caught up with me before the endings of these fics did. This one is unrevised, unfinished, a fragment of a beginning, in very first-drafty stage and generally completely unfit to be seen by human eyes other than mine.
What better reasons but to hit that LJ-post-it button?
The Final Hobbit
by Lobelia
23 Feb. 2004
email: lobelia40@yahoo.com
***
Prologue
"How many hobbits are there?"
It's a trick question. Mostly the answer is four but sometimes it's five. Then again, it could be 5,400 -- the population of the Shire, perhaps. Or four times double which is eight. And is it Middle Earth we're talking about, or that strange city on the upside-down end of the world? Who can know for sure? It's like counting the raindrops on the canopy of your umbrella. One thing is certain, though: at the end of the line, there is always that one last hobbit.
Only, to get to that hobbit, you've got to make your way through all the others first.
And for purposes of practicality, let's not make that 5,400. Let's stick to something feasible.
And then: let's do it! What are we waiting for?
The first one will be easy.
***
Something funny was happening inside Dominic's head. Something funny and fuzzy; something that rotated like one of those red-and-white tubes outside barbers' shops. It wasn't particularly unpleasant but it was distracting. It was the siren call of sex.
Dominic needed to follow the siren call of sex. Well, basically, he needed sex. The need was at an urgent stage, and all the more pressing as it had, for some unknown reason, been lying dormant for the past three months at least. Dominic didn't know why it had gone underground. It never used to be underground. It -- the siren call of sex, the drive of desire, the fever to fuck -- had just seemingly packed up its bags and departed for a visit to spinster aunts while Dominic was left with the sensual apparatus of a five-year-old and the clear, untrammeled slate of fun and work.
That's what it had been. Fun, work and novelty. Novelty was New Zealand. Work was the film And fun... fun were his friends. His friends who were also part of the novelty and the work. And who were, as it happened, all of them male. Every last man jack of them. This entire filming project seemed, on some days, to be a wall-to-wall boys' own adventure. "Tally-ho, what sport is this? Monaghan, be a good chap and uncork another bottle."
That was the long and the short and also the in between of it. Mainly the flaccid of it, actually. The strangest thing about it was that Dominic hadn't even really noticed. The absence of sex was just something that came as part of the package. And although it was spoken of a not ungreat deal -- "Oi, you old wanker!" "Pull your finger out, Boyd, and get a move on." "Would you look at the body on her??" --, the doing of it was nil.
But now it had come back with a vengeance. Wherever Dominic looked, there it beckoned: the dark, the burning, the overpowering need to spurt his load into someone's wet, slick, hot...
What? Cunt or arse, that was the question. Because Dominic wasn't fussy. Or had never been fussy when this sort of thing had still been an issue, in the days before this strange and unbidden celibacy. In pondering the question, and in standing at the edge of the set, shielding his erection behind loosely-clasped hands, and in surveying the scene before him and all the women and men milling about between concrete trees and metal cranes, he remembered how he used to go about doing this. Before it became such an absence.
And the first thing he remembered was how easy it was to get laid.
And the second thing he remembered was how difficult it was to get into bed with a girl, have the time of his life, find relief and relaxation, and get up to go about his business unscathed and unattached, the next day.
The third thing he remembered were the telephone messages. "Dom? Dommie? Why aren't you picking up? Why do you never ring anymore? Did it all mean nothing? Why... what..." The incoherent sobbing. Not infrequently followed by the more abusive variant: "Dominic, you old bastard. Listen here, you utter, pathetic fuckwit, you last bastion of male chauvinist piggery, you pile of crap. Fuck you!"
However, there was no way, no way on earth, he was going to pay for it.
Which left only one option.
The first hobbit
Dominic was cruising.
That was the only way to describe it, and in his mind he described it that way: 'Cruising. I'm cruising.' What it meant was to be out on a freezing Saturday night, meandering along the Wellington streets, hair gelled, shirt crumpled, jacket shiny, rings on every finger, eyeliner ever so discreet, breath deadened with Freshie Mints, the glands under the jawbone moistened with aftershave, talc around the balls, and the air buzzing with the smell of it, the scent of it, the hot stark promise of it: sex.
And he was going to get it tonight, and that made his head buzz, too, in tune with the air. It whipped a smile into the corners of his cheeks and a spark into the corners of his eyes. It made him bend his back into a willow. Thrust out the hips. Slouch along walls like an off-duty pimp.
But oh my, this was fun.
He hadn't done this for years. He hadn't felt the need to. But this night he did, and in his get-up he was costumed, he was dare-devil, anything could happen.
The street was quietly milling. Lamps cast hard-edged neon shadows. Wagon Wheel wrappers curled into puddles. People hugged themselves and puffed clouds of white breath into the chill. The stars were painfully bright, where they were visible among electricity.
When Dominic dived into the club, it was like plunging into a greenhouse. His shirt instantly stuck to his chest, and there was a moment in which the sweat breaking out on his upper lip felt cold, chilled by his skin.
He straightened his shoulders and surveyed his territory. His, his, his alone.
He let himself be swept along the sticky floor, up a sticky staircase, adjust that collar, and into a bar room, thick with humanity. Throngs swam through the thicket of bass notes. The beat was physical, it thrummed in Dominic's bones. He bought himself a beer, for show but also for hydration, and then he proceeded to look. But not only to look: to send out feelers, antennae of buzz. To land a prize.
And tonight he was not fussy. He didn't care what he got. Girl, boy, young, old, it was all cool, it was all good. Everyone, every single one of these fuckers in this room, made his blood run faster. That was the beauty of arriving sexed up as he was: no need to work up an interest. The interest was the base note. The interest was the bait. Nothing attracts sex like sex.
And he looked at them. The women, in their heels, their earrings, their spiked-up, combed-down, pinned-up hair, their navels bare, shoulders bare, necks bare, their eyes like braziers, rimmed with kohl, and their breasts, soft and pert and heavy and heaving -- all sorts, all sizes. And the best thing: under each skirt a cunt. Which was just what Dominic's cock is yearning for.
He sipped his drink. He held the glass carefully so that the liquid did not leave the horizontal and so his eyes roved forth over the top of the rim. He licked his lips. Women pushed past him, some laughing, some lurching, some hanging onto a man by their side.
Because here were the men. And Dominic didn't know, not tonight, but perhaps never at all, which one he wanted most. He was poised on the balance, and it could tip either way. For one frozen moment of stillness, there was perfect equlibrium.
Because the men, in their creepers, their T-shirts, their mussed-up, gelled-down, side-burning hair, their cocked mouths, their brazen hips, their impudent tongues and their shy, shy eyes -- the men were all angling, too, and for that one moment, that moment of flotation, Dominic didn't know what he was. Bait or baited. Predator or prey.
Which is just what he loved about that whole crazy dance of sex. He loved the way it was bigger than you, the way it picked you up and swirled you round. You never knew what was going to happen. Or who you were going to end up with. Or even why.
***
"Dominic? Dom? Are you there? Hullo, hullo, hullo. If you're there, pick up the phone. Pick up the phone, Dom! Hullo! Well. I suppose you're not there after all, then. Where are you, then? It's Saturday night; let's go out somewhere! I can't think where you might have gone. I mean, it's the weekend, you don't want to spend it all by yourself. Anyway. Give me a buzz when you're back. Wherever you are. Can be quite late, I'm not going to bed for a while yet. I'm going to get myself a video or something. So. See you later, I hope."
***
By the time, Dominic got back to his place and his phone, and by the time, he made it over to Billy's front door, the sky was thick with stars and each car boomed through the deserted streets. He peered in through the letter slot and saw a light oozing out from underneath the living-room door.
http://www.geocities.com/lobelia40/dmassidewayslook.txt
http://www.geocities.com/lobelia40/kiranx3.txt
What better reasons but to hit that LJ-post-it button?
The Final Hobbit
by Lobelia
23 Feb. 2004
email: lobelia40@yahoo.com
***
Prologue
"How many hobbits are there?"
It's a trick question. Mostly the answer is four but sometimes it's five. Then again, it could be 5,400 -- the population of the Shire, perhaps. Or four times double which is eight. And is it Middle Earth we're talking about, or that strange city on the upside-down end of the world? Who can know for sure? It's like counting the raindrops on the canopy of your umbrella. One thing is certain, though: at the end of the line, there is always that one last hobbit.
Only, to get to that hobbit, you've got to make your way through all the others first.
And for purposes of practicality, let's not make that 5,400. Let's stick to something feasible.
And then: let's do it! What are we waiting for?
The first one will be easy.
***
Something funny was happening inside Dominic's head. Something funny and fuzzy; something that rotated like one of those red-and-white tubes outside barbers' shops. It wasn't particularly unpleasant but it was distracting. It was the siren call of sex.
Dominic needed to follow the siren call of sex. Well, basically, he needed sex. The need was at an urgent stage, and all the more pressing as it had, for some unknown reason, been lying dormant for the past three months at least. Dominic didn't know why it had gone underground. It never used to be underground. It -- the siren call of sex, the drive of desire, the fever to fuck -- had just seemingly packed up its bags and departed for a visit to spinster aunts while Dominic was left with the sensual apparatus of a five-year-old and the clear, untrammeled slate of fun and work.
That's what it had been. Fun, work and novelty. Novelty was New Zealand. Work was the film And fun... fun were his friends. His friends who were also part of the novelty and the work. And who were, as it happened, all of them male. Every last man jack of them. This entire filming project seemed, on some days, to be a wall-to-wall boys' own adventure. "Tally-ho, what sport is this? Monaghan, be a good chap and uncork another bottle."
That was the long and the short and also the in between of it. Mainly the flaccid of it, actually. The strangest thing about it was that Dominic hadn't even really noticed. The absence of sex was just something that came as part of the package. And although it was spoken of a not ungreat deal -- "Oi, you old wanker!" "Pull your finger out, Boyd, and get a move on." "Would you look at the body on her??" --, the doing of it was nil.
But now it had come back with a vengeance. Wherever Dominic looked, there it beckoned: the dark, the burning, the overpowering need to spurt his load into someone's wet, slick, hot...
What? Cunt or arse, that was the question. Because Dominic wasn't fussy. Or had never been fussy when this sort of thing had still been an issue, in the days before this strange and unbidden celibacy. In pondering the question, and in standing at the edge of the set, shielding his erection behind loosely-clasped hands, and in surveying the scene before him and all the women and men milling about between concrete trees and metal cranes, he remembered how he used to go about doing this. Before it became such an absence.
And the first thing he remembered was how easy it was to get laid.
And the second thing he remembered was how difficult it was to get into bed with a girl, have the time of his life, find relief and relaxation, and get up to go about his business unscathed and unattached, the next day.
The third thing he remembered were the telephone messages. "Dom? Dommie? Why aren't you picking up? Why do you never ring anymore? Did it all mean nothing? Why... what..." The incoherent sobbing. Not infrequently followed by the more abusive variant: "Dominic, you old bastard. Listen here, you utter, pathetic fuckwit, you last bastion of male chauvinist piggery, you pile of crap. Fuck you!"
However, there was no way, no way on earth, he was going to pay for it.
Which left only one option.
The first hobbit
Dominic was cruising.
That was the only way to describe it, and in his mind he described it that way: 'Cruising. I'm cruising.' What it meant was to be out on a freezing Saturday night, meandering along the Wellington streets, hair gelled, shirt crumpled, jacket shiny, rings on every finger, eyeliner ever so discreet, breath deadened with Freshie Mints, the glands under the jawbone moistened with aftershave, talc around the balls, and the air buzzing with the smell of it, the scent of it, the hot stark promise of it: sex.
And he was going to get it tonight, and that made his head buzz, too, in tune with the air. It whipped a smile into the corners of his cheeks and a spark into the corners of his eyes. It made him bend his back into a willow. Thrust out the hips. Slouch along walls like an off-duty pimp.
But oh my, this was fun.
He hadn't done this for years. He hadn't felt the need to. But this night he did, and in his get-up he was costumed, he was dare-devil, anything could happen.
The street was quietly milling. Lamps cast hard-edged neon shadows. Wagon Wheel wrappers curled into puddles. People hugged themselves and puffed clouds of white breath into the chill. The stars were painfully bright, where they were visible among electricity.
When Dominic dived into the club, it was like plunging into a greenhouse. His shirt instantly stuck to his chest, and there was a moment in which the sweat breaking out on his upper lip felt cold, chilled by his skin.
He straightened his shoulders and surveyed his territory. His, his, his alone.
He let himself be swept along the sticky floor, up a sticky staircase, adjust that collar, and into a bar room, thick with humanity. Throngs swam through the thicket of bass notes. The beat was physical, it thrummed in Dominic's bones. He bought himself a beer, for show but also for hydration, and then he proceeded to look. But not only to look: to send out feelers, antennae of buzz. To land a prize.
And tonight he was not fussy. He didn't care what he got. Girl, boy, young, old, it was all cool, it was all good. Everyone, every single one of these fuckers in this room, made his blood run faster. That was the beauty of arriving sexed up as he was: no need to work up an interest. The interest was the base note. The interest was the bait. Nothing attracts sex like sex.
And he looked at them. The women, in their heels, their earrings, their spiked-up, combed-down, pinned-up hair, their navels bare, shoulders bare, necks bare, their eyes like braziers, rimmed with kohl, and their breasts, soft and pert and heavy and heaving -- all sorts, all sizes. And the best thing: under each skirt a cunt. Which was just what Dominic's cock is yearning for.
He sipped his drink. He held the glass carefully so that the liquid did not leave the horizontal and so his eyes roved forth over the top of the rim. He licked his lips. Women pushed past him, some laughing, some lurching, some hanging onto a man by their side.
Because here were the men. And Dominic didn't know, not tonight, but perhaps never at all, which one he wanted most. He was poised on the balance, and it could tip either way. For one frozen moment of stillness, there was perfect equlibrium.
Because the men, in their creepers, their T-shirts, their mussed-up, gelled-down, side-burning hair, their cocked mouths, their brazen hips, their impudent tongues and their shy, shy eyes -- the men were all angling, too, and for that one moment, that moment of flotation, Dominic didn't know what he was. Bait or baited. Predator or prey.
Which is just what he loved about that whole crazy dance of sex. He loved the way it was bigger than you, the way it picked you up and swirled you round. You never knew what was going to happen. Or who you were going to end up with. Or even why.
***
"Dominic? Dom? Are you there? Hullo, hullo, hullo. If you're there, pick up the phone. Pick up the phone, Dom! Hullo! Well. I suppose you're not there after all, then. Where are you, then? It's Saturday night; let's go out somewhere! I can't think where you might have gone. I mean, it's the weekend, you don't want to spend it all by yourself. Anyway. Give me a buzz when you're back. Wherever you are. Can be quite late, I'm not going to bed for a while yet. I'm going to get myself a video or something. So. See you later, I hope."
***
By the time, Dominic got back to his place and his phone, and by the time, he made it over to Billy's front door, the sky was thick with stars and each car boomed through the deserted streets. He peered in through the letter slot and saw a light oozing out from underneath the living-room door.
http://www.geocities.com/lobelia40/dmassidewayslook.txt
http://www.geocities.com/lobelia40/kiranx3.txt
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-29 05:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-29 09:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-30 02:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-01 09:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-29 08:31 pm (UTC)What was going to happen in this anyway? I got interested. I liked Cock-on-Legs!Dom and I'm very bad at incompletion, ever since a writer's group when I was an undergraduate got me very involved with a very good novel by an American woman in the group who just ran out of interest half way, leaving me very cross.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-29 09:10 pm (UTC)And it was inspired by that Dom/Andy pic. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-29 09:13 pm (UTC)Your hobbit rationale is most interesting - I wish I'd known you when you were still in love with Lotrips.
*sighs in an elderly way*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-01 09:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-30 06:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-01 09:05 pm (UTC)O MY GOD!!!!
*has heart attack*
Or are you an impostor??!! GET THEE GONE, VILE SORCERESS!
*is truly spooked now*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-02 12:48 am (UTC)too much. But just think of the possibilities! *goes off to scare more of the flist*(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-02 08:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-01 09:05 pm (UTC)I don't even recognise the icon!!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-02 12:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-04-30 04:10 pm (UTC)*nostalgia*
I've got so much stuff that will just never be finished, and I feel rather sad for it. Maybe I should follow your example and post the lot. Maybe as a sort of ongoing series...
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-01 09:04 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for your kind words. They mean a lot from you. Tomcat!Dom, heh. This was my very first Dom, really (Moon Madness, that aborted fic that was trashed by the beta). He's a bit fuzzy around the edges here and needs trimming but the spine is there. And I was going to have so much fun pairing him with little Kiran! Ah, *nostalgic sigh*.