fiction: Whiskey
Whoops. I put a call out for prompts and my desk erupts in unpleasantness. That’ll lern me.
Anyway, a couple of days ago, I called for short fic or single scene requests and got a handful. I’m plugging away on them, but this one is first up.
For cluegirl : Remember that one you wrote about Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen break into the props lot after wrap, trying to steal one of the Horns of Gondor, and get locked in overnight with nothing to do but drink?
That spin the bottle/truth or dare scene, please!
Clever girl, you. You even gave me a hook to tie it into the others, didn’t you? Title: Whiskey, to go along with Scotch, Earl Grey and Tequila
479 words, Lotrips
Sean’s trainers were silent on the warehouse concrete, but the sleeves of his jacket shuffed against the body and Viggo shushed him as he dropped to crouch behind a table of decapitated orc heads glaring with empty eyes into the gloom. He refused to be unnerved by it. At least, he refused to admit he was unnerved by it. The white paint of the hand of Saruman glowed in the red reflection of the exit sign over the door. “Tell me again why we are doing this?”
“Because they have guards to keep out trophy seekers and fans.”
“Right, of which we are neither and Viggo, what?” The last was said into Viggo’s palm. Sean resisted the juvenile urge to lick it. The rattle of the gate closing was loud and echoed in the stillness. “Fuck,” Sean said as Viggo pulled his hand away.
“What? It’s what we wanted. We have free run of the place.”
“You really are certifiable.”
Viggo grinned with no trace of Aragorn’s sternness, no, not now that filming was over. The sword was put away and the costumes folded and overlooping clearly didn’t require the kind of immersion that had Viggo camping in his costume for the better part of three years.
“C’mon. They’ve got stuff grouped by film. We’re on the wrong end.”
“Oh, aye, we’re on the wrong end of Peter and Richard when they find out we’ve done this,” Sean groused to Viggo’s back, but he followed, as he always did, into yet one more mad caper.
“We’re buggered.”
“Yep, I do believe we’re fucked.”
Sean snorted, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Now what, James Bond?”
“Oh, now don’t tell me you and Brosnan got up to shenanigans like this? You’ll break my heart.”
“Trust me, mate, I’ve done things with you I wouldn’t consider with anyone else.”
“That’s more like it.” Viggo pulled a hip flask from his jacket pocket. “Your martini, double oh six. We might as well wait for the guard. No reason to trip the alarm and make a fuss for strangers”
“And the press.” Sean took the flask and sipped. “Gah. Whiskey?”
“You don’t want it, give it back.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t want it, just…why’d you bother carrying this about, then?”
“Thought we might need something to warm us, in case we got locked in.”
“Your brilliant plan was to get us locked in, you fool.” Sean grinned, but Viggo dropped his eyes. “What? This whole mad scheme to steal the horn of Gondor … you are never that straightforward, man.” He handed back the flask and Viggo tipped it up.
“Thought I’d get you a souvenir.”
“Oh Viggo,” Sean breathed out as he leaned in close. “I don’t need one.” He pressed a kiss to Viggo’s forehead, a mirroring of dead Boromir’s benediction, then again lower, decidedly less chaste, to his lips. “I don’t need a prop. I’ve got a King.”
Anyway, a couple of days ago, I called for short fic or single scene requests and got a handful. I’m plugging away on them, but this one is first up.
For cluegirl : Remember that one you wrote about Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen break into the props lot after wrap, trying to steal one of the Horns of Gondor, and get locked in overnight with nothing to do but drink?
That spin the bottle/truth or dare scene, please!
Clever girl, you. You even gave me a hook to tie it into the others, didn’t you? Title: Whiskey, to go along with Scotch, Earl Grey and Tequila
479 words, Lotrips
Sean’s trainers were silent on the warehouse concrete, but the sleeves of his jacket shuffed against the body and Viggo shushed him as he dropped to crouch behind a table of decapitated orc heads glaring with empty eyes into the gloom. He refused to be unnerved by it. At least, he refused to admit he was unnerved by it. The white paint of the hand of Saruman glowed in the red reflection of the exit sign over the door. “Tell me again why we are doing this?”
“Because they have guards to keep out trophy seekers and fans.”
“Right, of which we are neither and Viggo, what?” The last was said into Viggo’s palm. Sean resisted the juvenile urge to lick it. The rattle of the gate closing was loud and echoed in the stillness. “Fuck,” Sean said as Viggo pulled his hand away.
“What? It’s what we wanted. We have free run of the place.”
“You really are certifiable.”
Viggo grinned with no trace of Aragorn’s sternness, no, not now that filming was over. The sword was put away and the costumes folded and overlooping clearly didn’t require the kind of immersion that had Viggo camping in his costume for the better part of three years.
“C’mon. They’ve got stuff grouped by film. We’re on the wrong end.”
“Oh, aye, we’re on the wrong end of Peter and Richard when they find out we’ve done this,” Sean groused to Viggo’s back, but he followed, as he always did, into yet one more mad caper.
“We’re buggered.”
“Yep, I do believe we’re fucked.”
Sean snorted, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Now what, James Bond?”
“Oh, now don’t tell me you and Brosnan got up to shenanigans like this? You’ll break my heart.”
“Trust me, mate, I’ve done things with you I wouldn’t consider with anyone else.”
“That’s more like it.” Viggo pulled a hip flask from his jacket pocket. “Your martini, double oh six. We might as well wait for the guard. No reason to trip the alarm and make a fuss for strangers”
“And the press.” Sean took the flask and sipped. “Gah. Whiskey?”
“You don’t want it, give it back.”
“Didn’t say I didn’t want it, just…why’d you bother carrying this about, then?”
“Thought we might need something to warm us, in case we got locked in.”
“Your brilliant plan was to get us locked in, you fool.” Sean grinned, but Viggo dropped his eyes. “What? This whole mad scheme to steal the horn of Gondor … you are never that straightforward, man.” He handed back the flask and Viggo tipped it up.
“Thought I’d get you a souvenir.”
“Oh Viggo,” Sean breathed out as he leaned in close. “I don’t need one.” He pressed a kiss to Viggo’s forehead, a mirroring of dead Boromir’s benediction, then again lower, decidedly less chaste, to his lips. “I don’t need a prop. I’ve got a King.”