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monaboyd Mar. 23rd, 2007 12:18 pm)
v-angelique.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Mar. 23rd, 2007 12:18 pm)Title: I'll Be Gone Till St. Andrew's Day
Author: Viktoria Angelique (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
v_angelique)
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: True this is not.
Summary: A 500-word ficlet forloozy's birthday. The title is a blatant corruption of the title of a John Mayer song. It just kind of worked.
"Kiss me, I'm Scottish!" Billy slurred as they left the pub, arms around each other's waists, the yeasty smell of the brewery and the light mist outside the only reminders that this was not, in fact, New Zealand. Dom thanked the heavens that in Glasgow a bit of friendly groping could be excused in the name of drunkenness, for he hadn't touched his friend this way in months and he was starting to miss the way Billy fit so beautifully, pressed into Dom's side and under his arm. He steered Billy carefully around the corner towards his flat, trying to remember exactly how to read a crosswalk signal and failing miserably. A car horn honked angrily, and Billy tried to flip two fingers at it before the momentum carried his weight unsteadily into Dom, the trip across the crosswalk ending in a stumbling mess of mismatched feet and limbs.
"St. Patrick's Day was a week ago, laddie," Dom replied good naturedly when they'd safely reached the curb on the other side. Billy smelled of damp wool and lager, and Dom wanted so desperately to kiss him.
"Aye!" Billy agreed, raising a finger to the air as if to illustrate some groundbreaking point. "But, St. Andrew's day has yet to pass!"
"St. Andrew's Day? There's no such thing."
"Sure there is!" Billy protested. "It's in November," he explained, slurring the name of the month beyond recognition. "They have a Ceilidh in George's Square. An ice Ceilidh."
"Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean…" Dom muttered.
"It means girls," Billy clarified with a wicked little grin. "In short skirts. On ice skates."
"Girls." Dom frowned dejectedly. So maybe they weren't in the same mood after all. Wouldn't matter anyway, what with Ali and the baby sleeping in Billy's flat in the next block, and all that New Zealand had to offer resting far, far away, in the backs of their minds and their memories and firmly on the underside of the globe where things happened that a bloke doesn't mention by the light of day in the Northern Hemisphere, or a dim Glasgow street lamp as the case may be…
"Mmmpphhh."
Dom's strangled noise was mashed sideways into Billy's kiss, Billy's small hands slipping up under Dom's coat and finding his nipples unerringly despite the alcoholic haze. The air suddenly seemed warmer, drier. Dom felt bricks against his back and the yeast faded away; the wool and the lager took over and Dom thought he might be able to hear a weta or two, chirping across the landscape of memory.
"Kiss me," Billy whispered, breath teasing Dom's lips like a thousand New Zealand twilights and four am wakeup calls just waiting to be revisited. "I'm Scottish."
The memory of dawn creeping in the open windows from the vantage point of Billy's muscular embrace was irresistibly potent. Dom could still feel the scratchy warmth of hand-woven blankets on his bare legs and the way Billy's lips brushed the cords of muscle in his neck. He couldn't fathom disobeying.
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: True this is not.
Summary: A 500-word ficlet for
loozy's birthday. The title is a blatant corruption of the title of a John Mayer song. It just kind of worked."Kiss me, I'm Scottish!" Billy slurred as they left the pub, arms around each other's waists, the yeasty smell of the brewery and the light mist outside the only reminders that this was not, in fact, New Zealand. Dom thanked the heavens that in Glasgow a bit of friendly groping could be excused in the name of drunkenness, for he hadn't touched his friend this way in months and he was starting to miss the way Billy fit so beautifully, pressed into Dom's side and under his arm. He steered Billy carefully around the corner towards his flat, trying to remember exactly how to read a crosswalk signal and failing miserably. A car horn honked angrily, and Billy tried to flip two fingers at it before the momentum carried his weight unsteadily into Dom, the trip across the crosswalk ending in a stumbling mess of mismatched feet and limbs.
"St. Patrick's Day was a week ago, laddie," Dom replied good naturedly when they'd safely reached the curb on the other side. Billy smelled of damp wool and lager, and Dom wanted so desperately to kiss him.
"Aye!" Billy agreed, raising a finger to the air as if to illustrate some groundbreaking point. "But, St. Andrew's day has yet to pass!"
"St. Andrew's Day? There's no such thing."
"Sure there is!" Billy protested. "It's in November," he explained, slurring the name of the month beyond recognition. "They have a Ceilidh in George's Square. An ice Ceilidh."
"Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean…" Dom muttered.
"It means girls," Billy clarified with a wicked little grin. "In short skirts. On ice skates."
"Girls." Dom frowned dejectedly. So maybe they weren't in the same mood after all. Wouldn't matter anyway, what with Ali and the baby sleeping in Billy's flat in the next block, and all that New Zealand had to offer resting far, far away, in the backs of their minds and their memories and firmly on the underside of the globe where things happened that a bloke doesn't mention by the light of day in the Northern Hemisphere, or a dim Glasgow street lamp as the case may be…
"Mmmpphhh."
Dom's strangled noise was mashed sideways into Billy's kiss, Billy's small hands slipping up under Dom's coat and finding his nipples unerringly despite the alcoholic haze. The air suddenly seemed warmer, drier. Dom felt bricks against his back and the yeast faded away; the wool and the lager took over and Dom thought he might be able to hear a weta or two, chirping across the landscape of memory.
"Kiss me," Billy whispered, breath teasing Dom's lips like a thousand New Zealand twilights and four am wakeup calls just waiting to be revisited. "I'm Scottish."
The memory of dawn creeping in the open windows from the vantage point of Billy's muscular embrace was irresistibly potent. Dom could still feel the scratchy warmth of hand-woven blankets on his bare legs and the way Billy's lips brushed the cords of muscle in his neck. He couldn't fathom disobeying.
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Dom's strangled noise was mashed sideways into Billy's kiss, Billy's small hands slipping up under Dom's coat and finding his nipples unerringly despite the alcoholic haze.
Fuck that was hotThat was very descriptive!From:
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Glad you liked it!
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Yummy. :D:D:D:D
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*isn't able to do more because of hungoverness*
*more squeeing*
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Ah, hangovers. Such fun. Or... not.
Tee hee.
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