(no subject)

[3pipeproblem]

When you see this on your flist, quote some Shakespeare.

The first thing we do, let's--

Richard loves Richard; that is, I and I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am.
Then fly! What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
I am a villain. Yet I lie. I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.

Comments

[bohemian--storm.livejournal.com]

Do you have that memorized?? I just quoted the first line I could remember word for word.

[parelle.livejournal.com]

And I have to admit I much prefer your varriation on the meme.

[queen-kiwi.livejournal.com]

The first one was way too tempting, wasn't it? ;-)

[dien.livejournal.com]

Alan Shore is, by rights, everything he should hate. Is certainly everything he's never taken to bed (or wanted to): he is not the smooth gym-shaped muscles and young supple skin of this week's too-model boy-fuck. Nor the lean sinew and tattoos and scars and sweet-Irish-cream voices of a twin wet-dream temptation-- the lawyer's not these things. Body soft (as Paul has never been with the severe angles of his clavicles and cheekbones matching the sharp snaps and right-turns of his mind) yet with Alan this is misleading, just another courtroom feint, and the intelligence behind those cloudy, reflection-only eyes is as whiplike as anything Paul's ever found in the Bureau, just subtler, quicker to seek out the crawlspaces down at the edges of conventional thought and slide right through with reptilian grace.

Paul doesn't fuck virgins, either; the men (boys) he meets in bars know the rules and the positions, and in the fever-dreams of Connor/Murphy, often as not they're already on and in each other, nothing virginal about these suspect saints. But Shore's new to the motion of another man's hand at his collar, undoing the dress-shirt buttons (Paul thinks there's almost something half-masturbatory in it, in taking off these smooth pressed silks and wools that make it seem he's undressing himself) of his five-hundred dollar shirt. But yeah, Alan Shore's at least ninety-five percent straight, his clothes and his casual obscenities notwithstanding. Paul thanks the five percent that's allowed him to get Shore here, sitting on the bed, Shore's eyes dark and impossible in the half-light, Scotch still on his breath and lips when Paul tastes them. Mother of God, it's been a while since he had to try seduction, had to go slow and patient and not shove a man's pants down off his ass and dick, but he can't say it's entirely unpleasant. Alan's breathing catches which he can hear, but in the dimness of the room he can't tell if there's uncertainty on Shore's face or not. He doubts it. Alan Shore doesn't strike him as the type to go along out of indecision.

Alan is yielding surface, steel core; Alan is a soft shaky laugh in the darkness and warm hands settling on his hair which Paul almost shakes off but doesn't, his own hands at Alan's hips against the fabric of expensive trousers and equally-expensive fine leather belt, undone, both undone so that Paul can get his mouth at cock and Alan tastes male and clean. No fucking fruit-flavored perfume, no imagined taste of Guinness in the very skin.

Alan's not what he's ever fucked or been fucked by, but Alan's head falls back, throat pale in the darkness, fingers clutching at hair, and Paul thinks there is something to be said for new experiences.