superman (lotrips & lost rps, dom/ian s., dom/elijah)
Title: Superman
Author: almostnever
Fandom: Lotrips & Lost RPS
Pairings: Dominic Monaghan/Ian Somerhalder, Dom/Elijah Wood
Rating: R (Graphic sexual references, but nothing explicitly pornographic.)
Disclaimer: This is fiction, completely made up. Nothing is intended to be implied about the real actors. Further, this is crackfic for humorous purposes. The actors whose names are being used are probably neither as gay, as promiscuous, or as stupid as depicted therein. For example, Ian Somerhalder is probably not this dumb, and Dom Monaghan probably doesn't worry about being mistaken for a pedophile when he's in the company of Elijah Wood. JOKES. Hi. Okay then!
PS: This is jubilancy's fault.
*
Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms. - Ranier Maria Rilke
Never yield to remorse, but at once tell yourself: remorse would simply mean adding to the first act of stupidity a second. - Friedrich Nietzsche
*
A week before leaving for Oahu, Dom broke it off with Elijah.
Not that he didn't love the guy, but destiny was obviously carrying them in different directions. And their competing music collections were starting to crowd each other out of the stereo cabinets anyway. It was time.
Oahu was sandy, the television shooting schedule was grueling. He brought home three different girls who hastily left after encountering one or another of his free-roaming pet lizards.
One night before going pubbing, he tried shutting the boys into the spare room, explaining the situation to them. But at the bar he had terrible visions of vicious reptile fights, his guest bed littered with dismembered salamander tails. He rushed home and let them out, and while no one was injured, he could swear they were giving him baleful looks as they made their slinky, cold-blooded way back to the sofa.
Co-star hookups had served Dom well in the past, and after a bit of judicious flirting, he started sleeping with Ian Somerhalder. Why not? He was all right-- just Dom's type, really, what with the big blue eyes, the square jaw, the general outrageous prettiness.
At first Ian even seemed like a bit of a better match. It was great to go round the pubs with someone who didn't get carded constantly. (Elijah's dewy good looks sometimes made Dom feel as though he might as well be plying him with sweets to lure him into the car. The sideburns helped, but Dom still occasionally wondered if some gung-ho American might try to make a citizen's arrest for statutory rape.)
Ian had no trouble growing facial hair, and washboard abs to boot, as well as a refreshingly casual attitude toward shagging. No more blithering about romance and demands for late-night poetry-reading sessions. No chain-smoking! No reeking coffee breath!
Even the drawbacks seemed like opportunities. Ian's CD "collection" was a culturally impoverished double handful that included The Offspring, much to Dom's horror. But Dom merely imagined what a good time it would be, introducing Ian to all his favorite bands. Ian certainly wouldn't run down Dom's Coldplay bootlegs with a load of sarky remarks.
It was going to be great.
Then Ian opened his mouth.
*
"I can't go out tonight," Ian said, "I have to answer questions for my website."
"Your website?"
"It's a fan thing. I do five questions every week for them. You know, just keeping in touch, staying down with the people..."
"I could come by and wait for you," Dom offered. "Five questions, it can't take that long."
"Sometimes they're really deep questions, though," Ian told him. "But if you don't mind that I'm going to be busy, we can just chill and listen to some tunes while I work."
Dom brought his own CDs.
Ian pored over emails from his fans while Dom took a Sugar Ray album out of the player and put in The Smiths (Ian had a lot of musical catching up to do.) Ian's fan site was a bit drab compared to some of Dom's fan sites; Dom silently congratulated himself for attracting such aesthetically well-heeled admirers.
Ian seemed delighted by it, though. "Nice, huh? It's called Ian Then Some."
"Er. Why?" Dom asked. Wordplay was one thing, but even The Goon Show would've turned up their noses at that one.
"It's a pun," Ian informed him.
Dom winced and turned up the music. Ian pecked at his computer keyboard throughout Meat Is Murder, The Queen Is Dead, and even all the way through Louder Than Bombs.
"See, it's not easy. Like this one..." Ian quoted, "'How would you describe yourself, what kind of person are you?' That could take me all night to answer."
It did.
*
Dom told himself the sex was really good. It certainly wasn't bad. It was better than a kick in the crotch with golf cleats, anyway, and Ian kept the same mad schedule as Dom, so that was convenient.
As long as they limited the topics of conversation to the daily set gossip and a bit of general celebrity dishing, he could even stand to carry on a conversation with Ian. There were times, though, when he wanted to jam his thumbs down his own eye sockets to stave off the prospect of exchanging another word with the man.
There was the night he made the mistake of bringing up Everything Is Illuminated, for example, and they'd got round to talking about World War II. "Really, you'd think someone would have seen Hitler coming," Ian said. "I mean, he did come from Austria, where they sent all the criminals."
Dom studied him for a very long time, sure he must be joking, but Ian just said, "What?"
"That's Australia," said Dom very carefully.
Ian furrowed his brow. Minutes ticked by.
Eventually Dom realized it might well take Ian weeks to absorb this new information. He reached for his trainers. "I'll let myself out."
*
The really strange thing, though, was that the more contempt he felt for Ian, the better the sex got-- furious, grappling, dreadfully hot sex that left Dom resentful but deliciously sated.
He found himself in the habit of starting arguments before they shagged, just to get to the angry fucking that much more quickly. The fights came easily enough, because along with being impossibly thick, Ian was convinced he was a well-read man of the world, and after his Austria/Australia faux pas, he was determined to prove it to Dom by showing off his knowledge.
"You know, there's more ways to be smart than just your ways," Ian said. "You're just British-centric."
"Anglocentric."
"You're doing it again!"
"What, by giving you the real English word rather than your made-up bodge attempt at it? Yeah, I suppose that is terribly Anglocentric of me."
They interrupted themselves with quite a lot of snogging. Dom straddled Ian and shoved down against him roughly. The unspoken rule of the arguments was that the winner topped, with the result that Dom had only been fucked once in weeks, and that was because he'd been momentarily lightheaded with lust and got confused into agreeing with Ian that herpetology was the scientific study of cold sores.
Once they were both hard and breathless, Ian made one last attempt. "You think you know all this stuff, but you're just trapped in a bunch of stodgy old ways of thinking. There's more to learn about than just all the words in the dictionary, you know! Even Nietzsche wrote about Superman."
"Nietzsche wrote about the Overman," Dom told him, "it's a bit different--"
"Don't try to be condescenting to me," Ian mispronounced hotly. "I've read Nietzsche."
"You've read Shakespeare as well, doesn't mean you understood it," Dom said. "You thought 'hoist on his own petard' was a dick joke."
"It's called an interpretation!"
"My interpretation is that you're an idiot," Dom said, pinning Ian's hips down.
*
A week before leaving Oahu for the holidays, Dom broke it off with Ian.
The hateful sex was quite an experience, but the orgasms didn't last and the resentment did. He felt more stupid just from bickering with Ian. After all, if Mr. Austria Q. Superman could think of himself as an intelligent fellow, maybe Dom was all wrong to believe he knew anything about, well, anything.
Once he was back in LA, he decided he needed to re-read everything he'd ever read to make sure he knew what he thought he knew. Then maybe he'd enroll in some sort of Internet correspondence course in Not Being A Moronic Twat. He'd just started researching online classes when the phone rang.
"Hey, man." It was Elijah.
"Lijah!" Dom clutched the phone like a lifeline. "What do you know about Nietzsche?"
"What the fuck?" He could hear Elijah taking a drag off a cigarette. "I call you to catch up and you give me a fuckin' pop quiz?"
"It's important."
"I don't know..." Another drag, and a slow exhalation. "He's pretty misunderstood. The Nazis adopted some of his thinking, and that gave him a bad rep, but they cherry-picked his ideas a lot. He wasn't a nationalist, he hated socialism and he thought religion was a crock. He despised the kind of thinking the Nazis represented. He still kind of sucked, though. He was an aristrocratic fuck who thought that most people were sheep who existed just to provide a support system for deep thinking Zarathustras like him. Oh, and he died of syphilis. Way to go, Ubermensch."
He didn't pronounce that last properly, but the mere fact that he knew the word was enough to make Dom a bit constricted in the denim region. "I want you back."
"Fuck, that's all I get for all that? I thought I at least had a chance at a new car."
"I'm serious, Elijah. I've missed you horribly. I was completely wrong to end things like I did. I'd do anything for another try. I'll make you coffee. I'll fetch your cloves and light them for you. Just take me back."
Elijah sighed slowly. Finally he said, "Maybe. Bring over some beer and a copy of The Duino Elegies. If you're getting me back, it's going to take a lot of groveling and a lot of Rilke. In German. You better come over here with a sap older than memory rising in your arms, or I'm kicking you to the fucking curb."
"On my way. I'm the stupidest man alive for ever breaking up with you," Dom said. "--Almost."
***
Author: almostnever
Fandom: Lotrips & Lost RPS
Pairings: Dominic Monaghan/Ian Somerhalder, Dom/Elijah Wood
Rating: R (Graphic sexual references, but nothing explicitly pornographic.)
Disclaimer: This is fiction, completely made up. Nothing is intended to be implied about the real actors. Further, this is crackfic for humorous purposes. The actors whose names are being used are probably neither as gay, as promiscuous, or as stupid as depicted therein. For example, Ian Somerhalder is probably not this dumb, and Dom Monaghan probably doesn't worry about being mistaken for a pedophile when he's in the company of Elijah Wood. JOKES. Hi. Okay then!
PS: This is jubilancy's fault.
*
Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms. - Ranier Maria Rilke
Never yield to remorse, but at once tell yourself: remorse would simply mean adding to the first act of stupidity a second. - Friedrich Nietzsche
*
A week before leaving for Oahu, Dom broke it off with Elijah.
Not that he didn't love the guy, but destiny was obviously carrying them in different directions. And their competing music collections were starting to crowd each other out of the stereo cabinets anyway. It was time.
Oahu was sandy, the television shooting schedule was grueling. He brought home three different girls who hastily left after encountering one or another of his free-roaming pet lizards.
One night before going pubbing, he tried shutting the boys into the spare room, explaining the situation to them. But at the bar he had terrible visions of vicious reptile fights, his guest bed littered with dismembered salamander tails. He rushed home and let them out, and while no one was injured, he could swear they were giving him baleful looks as they made their slinky, cold-blooded way back to the sofa.
Co-star hookups had served Dom well in the past, and after a bit of judicious flirting, he started sleeping with Ian Somerhalder. Why not? He was all right-- just Dom's type, really, what with the big blue eyes, the square jaw, the general outrageous prettiness.
At first Ian even seemed like a bit of a better match. It was great to go round the pubs with someone who didn't get carded constantly. (Elijah's dewy good looks sometimes made Dom feel as though he might as well be plying him with sweets to lure him into the car. The sideburns helped, but Dom still occasionally wondered if some gung-ho American might try to make a citizen's arrest for statutory rape.)
Ian had no trouble growing facial hair, and washboard abs to boot, as well as a refreshingly casual attitude toward shagging. No more blithering about romance and demands for late-night poetry-reading sessions. No chain-smoking! No reeking coffee breath!
Even the drawbacks seemed like opportunities. Ian's CD "collection" was a culturally impoverished double handful that included The Offspring, much to Dom's horror. But Dom merely imagined what a good time it would be, introducing Ian to all his favorite bands. Ian certainly wouldn't run down Dom's Coldplay bootlegs with a load of sarky remarks.
It was going to be great.
Then Ian opened his mouth.
*
"I can't go out tonight," Ian said, "I have to answer questions for my website."
"Your website?"
"It's a fan thing. I do five questions every week for them. You know, just keeping in touch, staying down with the people..."
"I could come by and wait for you," Dom offered. "Five questions, it can't take that long."
"Sometimes they're really deep questions, though," Ian told him. "But if you don't mind that I'm going to be busy, we can just chill and listen to some tunes while I work."
Dom brought his own CDs.
Ian pored over emails from his fans while Dom took a Sugar Ray album out of the player and put in The Smiths (Ian had a lot of musical catching up to do.) Ian's fan site was a bit drab compared to some of Dom's fan sites; Dom silently congratulated himself for attracting such aesthetically well-heeled admirers.
Ian seemed delighted by it, though. "Nice, huh? It's called Ian Then Some."
"Er. Why?" Dom asked. Wordplay was one thing, but even The Goon Show would've turned up their noses at that one.
"It's a pun," Ian informed him.
Dom winced and turned up the music. Ian pecked at his computer keyboard throughout Meat Is Murder, The Queen Is Dead, and even all the way through Louder Than Bombs.
"See, it's not easy. Like this one..." Ian quoted, "'How would you describe yourself, what kind of person are you?' That could take me all night to answer."
It did.
*
Dom told himself the sex was really good. It certainly wasn't bad. It was better than a kick in the crotch with golf cleats, anyway, and Ian kept the same mad schedule as Dom, so that was convenient.
As long as they limited the topics of conversation to the daily set gossip and a bit of general celebrity dishing, he could even stand to carry on a conversation with Ian. There were times, though, when he wanted to jam his thumbs down his own eye sockets to stave off the prospect of exchanging another word with the man.
There was the night he made the mistake of bringing up Everything Is Illuminated, for example, and they'd got round to talking about World War II. "Really, you'd think someone would have seen Hitler coming," Ian said. "I mean, he did come from Austria, where they sent all the criminals."
Dom studied him for a very long time, sure he must be joking, but Ian just said, "What?"
"That's Australia," said Dom very carefully.
Ian furrowed his brow. Minutes ticked by.
Eventually Dom realized it might well take Ian weeks to absorb this new information. He reached for his trainers. "I'll let myself out."
*
The really strange thing, though, was that the more contempt he felt for Ian, the better the sex got-- furious, grappling, dreadfully hot sex that left Dom resentful but deliciously sated.
He found himself in the habit of starting arguments before they shagged, just to get to the angry fucking that much more quickly. The fights came easily enough, because along with being impossibly thick, Ian was convinced he was a well-read man of the world, and after his Austria/Australia faux pas, he was determined to prove it to Dom by showing off his knowledge.
"You know, there's more ways to be smart than just your ways," Ian said. "You're just British-centric."
"Anglocentric."
"You're doing it again!"
"What, by giving you the real English word rather than your made-up bodge attempt at it? Yeah, I suppose that is terribly Anglocentric of me."
They interrupted themselves with quite a lot of snogging. Dom straddled Ian and shoved down against him roughly. The unspoken rule of the arguments was that the winner topped, with the result that Dom had only been fucked once in weeks, and that was because he'd been momentarily lightheaded with lust and got confused into agreeing with Ian that herpetology was the scientific study of cold sores.
Once they were both hard and breathless, Ian made one last attempt. "You think you know all this stuff, but you're just trapped in a bunch of stodgy old ways of thinking. There's more to learn about than just all the words in the dictionary, you know! Even Nietzsche wrote about Superman."
"Nietzsche wrote about the Overman," Dom told him, "it's a bit different--"
"Don't try to be condescenting to me," Ian mispronounced hotly. "I've read Nietzsche."
"You've read Shakespeare as well, doesn't mean you understood it," Dom said. "You thought 'hoist on his own petard' was a dick joke."
"It's called an interpretation!"
"My interpretation is that you're an idiot," Dom said, pinning Ian's hips down.
*
A week before leaving Oahu for the holidays, Dom broke it off with Ian.
The hateful sex was quite an experience, but the orgasms didn't last and the resentment did. He felt more stupid just from bickering with Ian. After all, if Mr. Austria Q. Superman could think of himself as an intelligent fellow, maybe Dom was all wrong to believe he knew anything about, well, anything.
Once he was back in LA, he decided he needed to re-read everything he'd ever read to make sure he knew what he thought he knew. Then maybe he'd enroll in some sort of Internet correspondence course in Not Being A Moronic Twat. He'd just started researching online classes when the phone rang.
"Hey, man." It was Elijah.
"Lijah!" Dom clutched the phone like a lifeline. "What do you know about Nietzsche?"
"What the fuck?" He could hear Elijah taking a drag off a cigarette. "I call you to catch up and you give me a fuckin' pop quiz?"
"It's important."
"I don't know..." Another drag, and a slow exhalation. "He's pretty misunderstood. The Nazis adopted some of his thinking, and that gave him a bad rep, but they cherry-picked his ideas a lot. He wasn't a nationalist, he hated socialism and he thought religion was a crock. He despised the kind of thinking the Nazis represented. He still kind of sucked, though. He was an aristrocratic fuck who thought that most people were sheep who existed just to provide a support system for deep thinking Zarathustras like him. Oh, and he died of syphilis. Way to go, Ubermensch."
He didn't pronounce that last properly, but the mere fact that he knew the word was enough to make Dom a bit constricted in the denim region. "I want you back."
"Fuck, that's all I get for all that? I thought I at least had a chance at a new car."
"I'm serious, Elijah. I've missed you horribly. I was completely wrong to end things like I did. I'd do anything for another try. I'll make you coffee. I'll fetch your cloves and light them for you. Just take me back."
Elijah sighed slowly. Finally he said, "Maybe. Bring over some beer and a copy of The Duino Elegies. If you're getting me back, it's going to take a lot of groveling and a lot of Rilke. In German. You better come over here with a sap older than memory rising in your arms, or I'm kicking you to the fucking curb."
"On my way. I'm the stupidest man alive for ever breaking up with you," Dom said. "--Almost."
***