January 1st, 2008
It's fanfic, folks. Actual, genuine fanfic of the Kevin Smith movie Dogma.
Title: How to Live a More Beautiful Life
Rating: NC 17
Recipient: fangirl_lizzie, as part of the damonaffleck New Year's Day story exchange.
Request: 1) Dogma! Bartleby/Loki, a typical day in Wisconsin.
Disclaimer: Not mine. These characters don't belong to me.
Set your alarm ten minutes earlier than usual, and let yourself wake slowly. Take an extra minute in the shower, then eat a nutritious breakfast.
Bartleby liked to sleep: the peaceful oblivion helped pass the time, and he wasn’t plagued by apocalyptic nightmares—something he’d thank God for, if he ever saw her again. He wasn’t asleep at that moment, however, because of Loki’s thrashing and shouting.
“Mein Gott, verzeihen Sie mir!” Loki bellowed, arms flailing randomly, connecting with Bartleby’s face again, same place as the blow that had woken Bartleby a moment earlier.
“Wake up,” Bartleby growled, grabbing the closesr of Loki’s arms and shaking it. “You’re having another fucking nightmare.”
Loki’s eyes blinked open, and he rubbed the drool off his chin with his free hand.
“Let go of my arm, you’re fucking hurting me,” he whined.
Bartleby let go, and Loki yanked his arm away.
“Sodom again? I told you at the time all that killing was gonna bite you in the ass one day.”
“Fuck off,” Loki said, grabbing the sheet and rolling over to face the wall, taking the blankets with him. “I fucking hate you.”
The air in their tiny apartment was cold on Bartleby’s bare skin, and he thought about taking his share of the blankets back off Loki, then decided it wasn’t worth the fight.
Better to stagger into the bathroom and turn the hot tap on full in the shower. It took a little while for the water to heat up, it always did. Bartleby leaned against the sink, avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Just because he didn’t have nightmares like Loki didn’t mean he wasn’t being punished as well. Her Upstairs, understanding irony far too well, had thought it would be amusing to torture him with something other than a painful dose of remorse with a side-serving of nightmares; she’d given him a libido. A full blown, raging hormone-driven sex drive, in a body with no genitals.
Maybe Loki had gotten the better deal after all.
The shower water was still cold. Bartleby shook the water off his hand, then sighed and pressed his hand against his crotch, rubbing his fingers in vain over his pubic bone, through his smooth flesh. Blood pooled in his flesh, and he closed his eyes and pictured himself with a thick, hard cock. He groaned, imagining curling his hand around the cock and jerking himself off slowly.
His body burned, deep inside, and he had to bite his lip to keep from slamming a fist into the wall in frustration. Steam billowed from the shower, and Bartleby gave up indulging his imagination and stepped under the scalding water.
Share a coffee with a friend, to start your working day with a smile.
The barista at the café nodded at Bartleby and reached for an espresso cup. “Double?” the barista asked, as Bartleby fished a newspaper off the pile on the counter.
“Double,” Bartleby agreed. He pushed a bill across the counter, and helped himself to a glass of water from the jug, just so he’d have something to spit into.
The barista slid the tiny cup of syrupy coffee back. “By yourself today? You’re usually with your friend.”
Bartleby knew what ‘friend’ meant when it was said by smarmy young baristas with eyebrow piercings, and he scowled. “He’s not my friend, or my life partner, or my lover, boyfriend, significant other, casual bonk or crush. He’s a fucking nuisance that steals all the blankets.”
The barista smirked, and Bartleby ran what he’d said back in his mind, and sighed.
“Okay, maybe he’s my significant other,” he conceded, before stomping across the café, in search of an empty table.
Don’t let an argument stay unresolved. Apologize!
Bartleby banged the apartment door closed behind himself, and flopped down in the easy chair. Loki, wearing both of their bathrobes against the chill in the room, was draped across the sofa, feet dangling over the end, watching fucking cartoons.
“Sorry,” Bartleby said, mumbling the word so as it was indistinguishable.
“What?” Loki said, looking up from the screen for a moment.
“Nothing,” Bartleby said.
Meet a friend for lunch. Sharing a simple sandwich can be an act of comradeship and support.
“Want to do something?” Bartleby asked, because if he didn’t get out of the apartment again, he was just going to wind up reading porno mags in the bedroom, and he didn’t think he could spend another day doing that.
Loki stretched, then flicked the TV off, so that Dr. Phil’s face shrunk into a tiny spot on the screen then collapsed. “What you wanna do?”
“Hang out at Burger King?”
“Sure,” Loki said.
The fries at Burger King were lank and greasy, but if they didn’t order something, the manager would evict them. Bartleby leaned over the counter, so his face was close to the pimple-ravaged burger-pusher’s, and said, “One small fries, two cokes with ice, and a large empty drink container.”
“What?” the kid said, sweat breaking out among his pustules.
“One small fries,” Bartleby said slowly. “Go on, push the buttons for that, then order it over the microphone.”
Behind him, Loki moved restlessly, randomly kicking Bartleby’s ankle.
“Now, two cokes with ice.”
The kid pushed buttons, and Bartleby said, “Not doing well in school, are you?”
The kid blinked. “Um, I’m an honor student. I’ve been pre-accepted into MIT.”
Bartleby peered at the kid. “Color me surprised. Now, reach behind you and pick a large drink cup off the counter, and give it to me.”
“The manager said not to,” the kid said. “He said you and your friend are weirdos, and that you spit everything out and someone has to clear the cups away afterwards.”
Bartleby smiled sweetly, and the kid went pale and handed the cup over.
“The manager is that tall, fat man? The one peering at the security screens, watching us, yet failing to come rescue you?”
The kid glanced over his shoulder, to the cubicle at the back of the kitchen. “Yes,” he squeaked.
“Mr. Caleson has some special magazines in his office, under the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Why don’t you find them and show them to all of the other burger-jockeys?”
Loki groaned and grabbed Bartleby’s shoulder, pulling him back. The kid’s eyes were huge, like someone had hit him on the back of the head with one of the cold burgers on the rack, and his mouth gaped.
“Ignore him,” Loki said. “He’s just trying to get you fired.”
Loki pushed some coins across the counter, and the stunned kid gave them change, but his hands were shaking so hard the ice in the coke rattled as he handed them their tray.
“Feel better?” Loki asked, as they slid into a booth.
“Sure do,” Bartleby said. “The manager is a fucking pervert.”
Loki sighed. “Shut up, and eat your fries.”
Bartleby leaned back in his corner of the booth, fry in his mouth, and let his eyes drift over the other patrons. A young woman, standing at the counter, caught his eye. She was full-bodied, her ass rounding out her jeans, tempting roll of flesh escaping the top of the denim, and when she leaned forward, to point at the menu board, lace escaped the jeans, hinting at wonderful secrets underneath.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Loki said, and a piece of ice hit Bartleby in the face. “Stop undressing her with your eyes. You’re such a fucking failure.”
Bartleby shrugged. “Sleep well last night?” he asked.
Loki’s glare, even stripped of his powers as the Angel of Death, was still enough to make Bartleby wince.
The girl at the counter had turned around, revealing a rack that only God could have created, spilling out of a tight T-shirt.
Bartleby sighed wistfully, shifting a little on the sticky bench as his gut twisted and tightened.
“She’s too young for you,” Loki said. “Besides, what exactly could you do to her?”
Bartleby, who’d seen enough porn to have no qualms about either of the issues, dragged his gaze away from the girl. “So, what do you want to do this afternoon?”
Loki claimed the large empty container and spat, then said, “I was going to go to church.”
“You’re going to confession again?” Bartleby said, shaking his head. “After what happened last time?”
Loki grimaced. “Do you think they will have forgotten me yet?”
“What? The part where you confessed to genocide? Or the part where you lectured the priest about the true nature of God, in front of the entire congregation, and the police threw you out?”
Loki crossed his arms, sulking. “He was wrong, that was all. If the ministers of God here don’t understand the true nature of the divine presence, then they shouldn’t be offering Mass. It should be a minimum requirement for their employment.”
“You didn’t have to punch him,” Bartleby said. “That’s all.”
“Perhaps I should try a different church this time. Do the Episcopalians hear confession?”
Bring flowers home with you, to brighten the evening and remind you of the beauty of life.
The Episcopalian church nearest to Burger King was disappointingly empty, just row after dusty row of wooden pews, and a plain altar.
Bartleby stretched out on one of the pews, prepared to doze while Loki explored the options for redemption through prayer, which mostly involved shouting at the stained glass windows above the altar while brandishing a Book of Common Prayer.
If he was lucky, he’d get a nap in before someone threw them out. It was alright; they’d been tossed out of heaven, so getting evicted from St. Philip’s Episcopal Church would be nothing.
The deacon, an earnest young man with an iPod around his neck, was apologetic about the eviction, unlike God had been.
Loki sulked beside Bartleby, through the cemetery beside the church.
“They’re good questions,” Loki insisted. “And anyone training for the ministry should be able to answer them.”
“Shut up,” Bartleby said, without heat, “or I’ll tell you about the fantasy I had involving you, the deacon and a banana.”
“Freak,” Loki muttered.
Bartleby grinned to himself. “For you,” he said, leaning down and lifting a yellow artificial rose from a plastic vase on a grave, then held it out for Loki.
Loki took the rose, shaking his head. “You’re still a freak,” he said, but he tucked the rose behind his ear, and they walked in silence back to the apartment.
Spend time with your family, remembering that they are your strength in a difficult world.
“Wake me up if you have any nightmares,” Bartleby said, poking Loki’s blanket-covered shoulder. “And I’ll distract you by telling you about my dreams.”
“Fuck you,” Loki said, sounding half-asleep, his head buried under a pillow. “Stop reading that stupid girly book about putting flowers everywhere and loving people, and turn off the fucking light.”
Bartleby looked at the book in his hands. The final page was illustrated with an open window, draped in fluttering lace curtains, with a view to rolling green hills and a clear blue sky.
“Okay,” Bartleby said, and he threw the book across the room, so it thudded against the closet door. He switched off the bedside lamp and slid down under the blankets, pushing his feet against Loki’s ass to warm them up.
Loki grumped, but didn’t bother swearing.
|Date:||January 1st, 2008 03:09 am (UTC)|| |
I enjoyed this a lot. It's all there, so my vague familiarity with the movie was no bar, and I loved the perversion of the self-help cliches.
I never saw the movie but this made me snicker anyway. You're have a deeply disturbed streak in you -- it makes you a great writer. :)
|Date:||January 2nd, 2008 07:11 pm (UTC)|| |
Makes me smile, at loud =D