drunkity drunk drunk

[rispacooper]

I love my brother. I ever mention that? He totally just got me drunk (He will claim I got him drunk, later. He is a liar.)

My brother keeps me sharp. And helps me get fuzzy, the times I don't need to be so sharp. And at the risk of sounding like one of the confused parents in the movie, Heathers, I love my gay brother.

Though of course, if he asks about this in the (sobering) light of day, I will deny it. That is not how we roll.

Tee Hee.

And, I am just drunk enough to think that my brother and Gaeta from Battlestar Galactica would be so cute as a couple.

*has problems*

hahaha

And Pooky, Stabler can totally be Shang.

(notice, I am drunk from my *very Californian* use of 'totally'. next I will be saying 'hella' and 'hyphee')

Comments

[paraxdisepink.livejournal.com]

Our necrophelia is forever. Hot corpses need some lovin, and Hector's corpse was hot.

[rispacooper.livejournal.com]

dude, i'm gonna finish that someday. i just have to be in the mood.

yeah...he's liek all set up to rape hector's corpse. it's totally hot. *going to hell*

i could send it to you later, if you want it. :)

it was, actually, meant to be a prezzie for you.

[paraxdisepink.livejournal.com]

Ok send it later. I am going to get some food . . .

[rispacooper.livejournal.com]

“Your mouth on my cock, Prince of Troy.”

He was panting, his breath coming heavy and hard now that the battle was done, but he did not stop. There had been no need to speak, not to the dead, or the soon to be dead. And Achilles frowned, watching how his words stirred the oiled, gleaming curls beneath his hands. They gleamed even when dirtied, shone as they should not for Hector was no son of the gods, and the Trojan’s hair would never hold the gold of the sun.

Long, straight hair, as light as grain in a field, soaked in blood and burned to nothing. The beauty of Patrocles was for Hades now, if the gods existed, cold ashes on the sand was all that was left of his beloved cousin, and still this man drew breath, and had hair that would not dull though he lay in the dirt, struggling to breathe.

Achilles yanked a handful of the dark hairs into the knotted rope wrapped around the fallen prince’s wrists and pulled the body up by the arms as he had meant to before speaking, pulled up high enough to look into the Trojan’s face as he tied his unresisting form to the back of his chariot.

He leaned in closer at the soft gasp of pain, inhaling through his nose to smell the hot blood of the prince’s wound, watching as Hector, the man who had thought to kill Achilles, bled. Slayer of the mighty Ajax and killer of boys. Without aid, he would bleed to death slowly right here in front of his city of white walls and princlings who ran like cowards, and they would listen together to the sound of his woman weeping from beyond the high towers.

Or he could continue as he was, and drag the once strong body from his chariot until only scraps of meat dangled from these ropes, and nothing of Hector would remain for this world. Even his name would die. He would be nothing more than another who had fallen before Achilles.

Dirtied armor hid the wound from his sight, and Achilles lashed out, his palm hard against the gash in the bronze, fingers probing the torn leather. Heart pounding, skin shivering, after a battle, always like this, but he had never stared down at defeated enemy. Never left them living, watching him.

The defeated prince opened his eyes, and Achilles smiled into their darkness, dark but still living, glaring at him from the broad, bearded face of a man, speaking though the man would not open his lips.

There had been no surprise when Achilles’ sword had pierced his armor and flesh, when his bones had shrieked and the breath had been driven from him. He had fallen to his knees with only pain twisting his face, a slight groan escaping his parted lips. And his eyes had opened, just as they did now, fighting agony to open wide and stare him in the face. He thought himself a man then, this Trojan, a god, a warrior to match Achilles.

Eyes so dark, they were nearly black, as black as the sea, as the leather of his armor. Through the hurt and sweat there was evidence of surprise now when there should have only been death, a cautious lift of thick eyebrows in something too faint to be hope. There could be no hope, even if Achilles spared him now, his wounds were fatal.

But still he stared, speaking with his strange, foreign eyes, eyes as direct as the fool who called himself Achilles’ king were sly. And they showed him their pain, their awareness that he still breathed, but the mouth did not move to ask him why, and that in itself was enough to make Achilles put a hand to his sheathed sword and pause.

He glanced again to the wounds, to what he could see of them, watching the man struggle to breathe, inhaling his own blood, arched as he was off the ground. His heels stirred the dust as he tried to shift, tried to find some way to ease the awkwardness of his position, but Achilles was smarter and better once more, and after a moment the long, thick legs grew still, and the man gave a single cough.

Again, Achilles’ gaze returned to the square face, to the eyes that would not leave him as the man waited. Waited for the blows he knew were to come, no doubt thinking Achilles’ words only the madness of battle.

[paraxdisepink.livejournal.com]

HAWT! get ready for that corpse-lovin', hector!