Fic: Bump
First posted to the booshbattle, now sticking it here too, I dunno, so I don't forget that I wrote it.
And it's more or less the lamest attempt at writing something dirty ever, but whatever. The idea attacked me at the office yesterday, several glasses of wine followed after work, and then this came out. Read it, etc.
Oh and this and this were what I had playing on repeat while writing, if you care for such insights into my crazy brain o' crazy.
Bump
by me, doctorpancakes
Dan Ashcroft stared into his pint glass, watching the bubbles from the last dregs of his drink float their way through the mucky swill into the damp pub air. He hated himself for being there, sitting at the bar, gardening gloves sticking out of his jacket pocket. The pub was filled with builders and builder-types and their wives and kids, sitting down to a beer or two and a half-decent dinner and, so he was told, a quick happy ending from a friendly stranger in the men's loo. This was degrading. No, he thought, this was beyond degrading. Maybe he could just make something up. He could still just make something up. No one would know.
He sensed someone sit down beside him, not looking up from the pub menu. Spicy chicken quesadilla, he read. That must be well authentic, he thought.
“Left the wife at home tonight?” asked the voice beside him.
“I'm not married,” he muttered.
“No shit, Ashcroft. You're not gay, are you?”
Dan looked over at the man. Jonatton. He had thought that voice sounded familiar. Fuck.
“Freshen your drink, yeah? Two pints of your cheapest and shittiest, babe,” he said to the barmaid.
She slid two full glasses in the direction of the two gentlemen.
“Cheers,” grumbled Dan.
“Mmm,” said Jonatton, taking a sip. “You can really taste the irony.”
“Does this mean I don't have to... you know?” asked Dan.
“No, it doesn't,” said Jonatton.
“Right,” said Dan, and went back into staring into his drink.
A handful of pints passed in relative silence.
“You and I are a lot alike, you know,” said Jonatton.
“You're nowhere near drunk enough to mean that,” replied Dan. He lit another cigarette.
“Think about it: they're all a bunch of idiots. But you're not an idiot, and I'm not an idiot,” said Jonatton.
“You're not? That's debatable,” replied Dan.
“I'm also not the one with gardening gloves in his pocket. Look at you, Danbo. You're like Holden Caulfield: Twenty Years Later. 'Ooh, look at me, I'm Dan Ashcroft and I hate my life because I work with a bunch of phonies, waaaaaaaaah,'” said Jonatton, making exaggerated sad faces. “Suck it up and take it like a man, yeah?”
It was a minute before Dan noticed the hand on his thigh.
“Uhh, what are you doing?” asked Dan.
Jonatton just looked at him. He looked less condescending than usual. More... predatory.
“Fuck off,” Dan scoffed. “No. Seriously, just, no.”
“Would you really rather toss off some doughy builder? You don't know where they've been,” Jonatton lowered his gaze at Dan, fluttering his eyelashes.
“But what about the article?” Dan squinted.
“To be honest, I didn't really expect you'd go through with it. You're the creative type, make some shit up,” handwaved Jonatton.
Somehow, though he can't recall how he got there, Dan found himself sat on the floor in front of Jonatton's stupid couch in Jonatton's stupid fucking living room, downing shooters of a single-malt that likely cost more than he earned last month. Jonatton was matching him shot for shot.
“Yeah!” he shouted, slamming the glass down on the coffee table.
“You know what your problem is, Ashcroft?” Jonatton slurred in Dan's ear. “You give a shit. I know the shit we publish is shit, but I don't give a shit. You need to not give a shit, and... shit.”
Dan laughed.
“But... you're such a fucking - “
Dan's train of thought was cut off by the hand that had attached itself to his groin.
“Sex, etcetera?” whispered Jonatton. His smug little face was much, much too close to Dan's for comfort.
Dan wasn't sure whether Jonatton was trying to humiliate him, or if this was, by some twisted logic, what he considered an act of kindness. He was just drunk enough for this to give him pause before telling Jonatton to stick his etcetera up his condescending arse and stumble home.
He was just drunk enough that it seemed like not quite the worst idea in the world to go with it.
And then, in a flurry of who-knows-who-did-what-to-whom first, there they were, mauling each other on Jonatton's stupid fucking comfy carpet.
“Do us a favour, pet,” said Jonatton, “leave the gardening gloves out of it?”
The room danced around them like a merry-go-round. Whatever was playing on the stereo (and Dan was pretty sure something was playing on the stereo) was fucking hilarious. When Dan bit down hard into Jonatton's shoulder, he just laughed. When Dan's hand found its way down, making reluctant contact with the bump in Jonatton's trousers, Dan just sort of went with it.
“That's the spirit, Ashcroft,” sneered Jonatton.
“Shut the fuck up,” growled Dan, pinning his smug drinking companion to the floor, unzipping him roughly.
Something almost gave him pause then, something in the back of his mind telling him that he's really not that drunk and that the man whose junk he was currently manipulating was a sneering blockage he wouldn't normally touch with a fifty-foot pole, but he took these thoughts and filed them with the student loan bills and reminders to visit the optometrist that he summarily ignored. There was something to be said for holding this power over another person, something intoxicating about watching someone writhing and swearing and grinding under him, even if said someone was, at least when fully dressed, incredibly annoying.
Somehow, though he can't recall how he got there, Dan found himself, completely naked (save for one sock, for reasons unbeknownst to him, though he suspected that Jonatton probably found the idea quite hilarious) in Jonatton's irritatingly comfy bed, where he observed that Jonatton was a lot less of an irritant when occupied with things that didn't allow for much in the way of talking. This, he thought, though he was loath to think so, was most definitely in the top five blow jobs he had ever received. A giggle, a squeeze, a flutter. Repeat, etcetera. Dan didn't know what exactly was going on down there, but it was kind of brilliant. Eyes rolled back and he could see stars. He lifted his arms to try to swat at them, but his hands never got that far, instead gripping Jonatton's shoulder, tangling in his stupid fucking haircut. Fuck, this is stupid, he thought. Fuck, this is stupid and there, there, there, wait for it, wait for it, and then he came.
Jonatton grinned, licking his lips. “You can really taste the irony,” he said.
Dan couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all as the two of them, spent and ridiculous, humming with post-orgasmic glow, succumbed to exhaustion.
---
The blear light of morning exacerbated the halo of fuzz surrounding Dan's consciousness. He wasn't ready to be awake. He really, really wasn't ready to be met with the sneering figure standing over him in an annoyingly burgundy bathrobe.
“2000 words, Monday morning,” said Jonatton, tossing Dan's trousers at him. “Go breakfast at home, or something.”
---
“2000 words, and let us never speak of this again.” Dan stared at the floor in Jonatton's office.
“But Dan,” said Jonatton, eyes wide with mock disappointment. “I was going to ask if you'd like to get a drink with me? Tonight, after work?”
“Look, I wrote your fucking article, all right? You're never going to let me hear the end of it, are you?” asked Dan.
“Doesn't it occur to you that, just maybe, I fell in love with you last night?” it was quite possibly the first time Dan had ever heard Jonatton say anything that wasn't positively leaking sarcasm and/or condescension. It caught him off-guard. Maybe all this did actually mean something to him.
“Really?” asked Dan.
“No,” replied Jonatton. “Seriously, drinks, etcetera?”
Dan blinked.
“I'll, uhh, get... back... to you... about that... got to, uhh, check my... datebook,” he said, shuffling out of the room.
And it's more or less the lamest attempt at writing something dirty ever, but whatever. The idea attacked me at the office yesterday, several glasses of wine followed after work, and then this came out. Read it, etc.
Oh and this and this were what I had playing on repeat while writing, if you care for such insights into my crazy brain o' crazy.
Bump
by me, doctorpancakes
Dan Ashcroft stared into his pint glass, watching the bubbles from the last dregs of his drink float their way through the mucky swill into the damp pub air. He hated himself for being there, sitting at the bar, gardening gloves sticking out of his jacket pocket. The pub was filled with builders and builder-types and their wives and kids, sitting down to a beer or two and a half-decent dinner and, so he was told, a quick happy ending from a friendly stranger in the men's loo. This was degrading. No, he thought, this was beyond degrading. Maybe he could just make something up. He could still just make something up. No one would know.
He sensed someone sit down beside him, not looking up from the pub menu. Spicy chicken quesadilla, he read. That must be well authentic, he thought.
“Left the wife at home tonight?” asked the voice beside him.
“I'm not married,” he muttered.
“No shit, Ashcroft. You're not gay, are you?”
Dan looked over at the man. Jonatton. He had thought that voice sounded familiar. Fuck.
“Freshen your drink, yeah? Two pints of your cheapest and shittiest, babe,” he said to the barmaid.
She slid two full glasses in the direction of the two gentlemen.
“Cheers,” grumbled Dan.
“Mmm,” said Jonatton, taking a sip. “You can really taste the irony.”
“Does this mean I don't have to... you know?” asked Dan.
“No, it doesn't,” said Jonatton.
“Right,” said Dan, and went back into staring into his drink.
A handful of pints passed in relative silence.
“You and I are a lot alike, you know,” said Jonatton.
“You're nowhere near drunk enough to mean that,” replied Dan. He lit another cigarette.
“Think about it: they're all a bunch of idiots. But you're not an idiot, and I'm not an idiot,” said Jonatton.
“You're not? That's debatable,” replied Dan.
“I'm also not the one with gardening gloves in his pocket. Look at you, Danbo. You're like Holden Caulfield: Twenty Years Later. 'Ooh, look at me, I'm Dan Ashcroft and I hate my life because I work with a bunch of phonies, waaaaaaaaah,'” said Jonatton, making exaggerated sad faces. “Suck it up and take it like a man, yeah?”
It was a minute before Dan noticed the hand on his thigh.
“Uhh, what are you doing?” asked Dan.
Jonatton just looked at him. He looked less condescending than usual. More... predatory.
“Fuck off,” Dan scoffed. “No. Seriously, just, no.”
“Would you really rather toss off some doughy builder? You don't know where they've been,” Jonatton lowered his gaze at Dan, fluttering his eyelashes.
“But what about the article?” Dan squinted.
“To be honest, I didn't really expect you'd go through with it. You're the creative type, make some shit up,” handwaved Jonatton.
Somehow, though he can't recall how he got there, Dan found himself sat on the floor in front of Jonatton's stupid couch in Jonatton's stupid fucking living room, downing shooters of a single-malt that likely cost more than he earned last month. Jonatton was matching him shot for shot.
“Yeah!” he shouted, slamming the glass down on the coffee table.
“You know what your problem is, Ashcroft?” Jonatton slurred in Dan's ear. “You give a shit. I know the shit we publish is shit, but I don't give a shit. You need to not give a shit, and... shit.”
Dan laughed.
“But... you're such a fucking - “
Dan's train of thought was cut off by the hand that had attached itself to his groin.
“Sex, etcetera?” whispered Jonatton. His smug little face was much, much too close to Dan's for comfort.
Dan wasn't sure whether Jonatton was trying to humiliate him, or if this was, by some twisted logic, what he considered an act of kindness. He was just drunk enough for this to give him pause before telling Jonatton to stick his etcetera up his condescending arse and stumble home.
He was just drunk enough that it seemed like not quite the worst idea in the world to go with it.
And then, in a flurry of who-knows-who-did-what-to-whom first, there they were, mauling each other on Jonatton's stupid fucking comfy carpet.
“Do us a favour, pet,” said Jonatton, “leave the gardening gloves out of it?”
The room danced around them like a merry-go-round. Whatever was playing on the stereo (and Dan was pretty sure something was playing on the stereo) was fucking hilarious. When Dan bit down hard into Jonatton's shoulder, he just laughed. When Dan's hand found its way down, making reluctant contact with the bump in Jonatton's trousers, Dan just sort of went with it.
“That's the spirit, Ashcroft,” sneered Jonatton.
“Shut the fuck up,” growled Dan, pinning his smug drinking companion to the floor, unzipping him roughly.
Something almost gave him pause then, something in the back of his mind telling him that he's really not that drunk and that the man whose junk he was currently manipulating was a sneering blockage he wouldn't normally touch with a fifty-foot pole, but he took these thoughts and filed them with the student loan bills and reminders to visit the optometrist that he summarily ignored. There was something to be said for holding this power over another person, something intoxicating about watching someone writhing and swearing and grinding under him, even if said someone was, at least when fully dressed, incredibly annoying.
Somehow, though he can't recall how he got there, Dan found himself, completely naked (save for one sock, for reasons unbeknownst to him, though he suspected that Jonatton probably found the idea quite hilarious) in Jonatton's irritatingly comfy bed, where he observed that Jonatton was a lot less of an irritant when occupied with things that didn't allow for much in the way of talking. This, he thought, though he was loath to think so, was most definitely in the top five blow jobs he had ever received. A giggle, a squeeze, a flutter. Repeat, etcetera. Dan didn't know what exactly was going on down there, but it was kind of brilliant. Eyes rolled back and he could see stars. He lifted his arms to try to swat at them, but his hands never got that far, instead gripping Jonatton's shoulder, tangling in his stupid fucking haircut. Fuck, this is stupid, he thought. Fuck, this is stupid and there, there, there, wait for it, wait for it, and then he came.
Jonatton grinned, licking his lips. “You can really taste the irony,” he said.
Dan couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all as the two of them, spent and ridiculous, humming with post-orgasmic glow, succumbed to exhaustion.
---
The blear light of morning exacerbated the halo of fuzz surrounding Dan's consciousness. He wasn't ready to be awake. He really, really wasn't ready to be met with the sneering figure standing over him in an annoyingly burgundy bathrobe.
“2000 words, Monday morning,” said Jonatton, tossing Dan's trousers at him. “Go breakfast at home, or something.”
---
“2000 words, and let us never speak of this again.” Dan stared at the floor in Jonatton's office.
“But Dan,” said Jonatton, eyes wide with mock disappointment. “I was going to ask if you'd like to get a drink with me? Tonight, after work?”
“Look, I wrote your fucking article, all right? You're never going to let me hear the end of it, are you?” asked Dan.
“Doesn't it occur to you that, just maybe, I fell in love with you last night?” it was quite possibly the first time Dan had ever heard Jonatton say anything that wasn't positively leaking sarcasm and/or condescension. It caught him off-guard. Maybe all this did actually mean something to him.
“Really?” asked Dan.
“No,” replied Jonatton. “Seriously, drinks, etcetera?”
Dan blinked.
“I'll, uhh, get... back... to you... about that... got to, uhh, check my... datebook,” he said, shuffling out of the room.