![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
FIC: Obscenely Biological (Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Zaphod/Ford, PG-13)
SUMMARY: Zaphod, Ford, alcohol, and table dancing.
NOTE FROM 2009: Ford in this fic is clearly (to me) played by Mos Def, which is interesting because when I wrote it I thought it was bookverse.
Feeling his resolve crumple as if it had been repeatedly smacked with a large gold demolition ball, Ford blinked, shrugged, and downed another shot of Arcturian Firewhiskey.
“Hah!” grinned Zaphod. “Bottle’s out. I win!”
In truth, it had been a fairly close contest – Zaphod had had six shots to Ford’s seven – but with those shots split evenly between two heads, he had a considerable advantage over his semi-cousin. Ford might have insisted that Zaphod only used one of his heads to play, but the logistics of playing this game with one sober and one drunk head were mind-boggling; when one had two minds, doubly so. In any case, Ford generally preferred to play to lose.
“Alright,” he slurred, “it’s your forfeit. Whaddya want?” His features struggled with something that might have been a leer, with a little more co-ordination.
Zaphod treated him to two identical grins.
“Get up on the table. Dance for me.”
Ford grimaced.
“Aww, Zaphod, what? I can bearly stand, frood, that’s hardly a fair -” But he was already getting to his feet. He felt Zaphod smack his arse appreciatively as he clambered gracelessly onto the table.
Oooh. Standing was fun. The room had decided to go for a little spin around him, and the flashing lights of the club beat interesting patterns across his eyelids. But the music was good – like early Disaster Area, minus the massive head trauma. Ford swayed in time to it, feeling the insidious drum beat trickle in through the top of his head, blaze a path down through his veins, and settle in his feet.
Five minutes later their table was surrounded by drunken clubgoers, whooping, wolfwhistling and stamping their feet as Ford, shirt open and eyes closed, whirled his towel around his head, shimmied back and forth, and gyrated his hips in time to the music. Encouraged by the appreciative din, he moved faster, his arms spinning wildly, his head thrown back. Then he attempted a move he’d once seen performed by a poledancer on Rubicon 7. Had he had eight limbs and a long, prehensile tale, as the people of Rubicon 7 did, he would have stood an even chance of keeping his balance. As it was, the ceiling went tumbling over his head, and he found himself caught in Zaphod’s arms. He smiled up at him.
“How was that?”
“Zarking wonderful, Ford,” Zaphod grinned, propped his friend up in his lap enough to kiss him thoroughly. Vaguely, he noticed that the punters around the table were still whooping, wolfwhistling and stamping their feet. He broke the kiss long enough to tell them all to zark off.
Ford was grinning beatifically, looking at one of Zaphod’s four heads as it slowly wove in and out of the others.
“That’s my kind of forfeit,” he said happily. “Wanna play again?”
NOTE FROM 2009: Ford in this fic is clearly (to me) played by Mos Def, which is interesting because when I wrote it I thought it was bookverse.
Feeling his resolve crumple as if it had been repeatedly smacked with a large gold demolition ball, Ford blinked, shrugged, and downed another shot of Arcturian Firewhiskey.
“Hah!” grinned Zaphod. “Bottle’s out. I win!”
In truth, it had been a fairly close contest – Zaphod had had six shots to Ford’s seven – but with those shots split evenly between two heads, he had a considerable advantage over his semi-cousin. Ford might have insisted that Zaphod only used one of his heads to play, but the logistics of playing this game with one sober and one drunk head were mind-boggling; when one had two minds, doubly so. In any case, Ford generally preferred to play to lose.
“Alright,” he slurred, “it’s your forfeit. Whaddya want?” His features struggled with something that might have been a leer, with a little more co-ordination.
Zaphod treated him to two identical grins.
“Get up on the table. Dance for me.”
Ford grimaced.
“Aww, Zaphod, what? I can bearly stand, frood, that’s hardly a fair -” But he was already getting to his feet. He felt Zaphod smack his arse appreciatively as he clambered gracelessly onto the table.
Oooh. Standing was fun. The room had decided to go for a little spin around him, and the flashing lights of the club beat interesting patterns across his eyelids. But the music was good – like early Disaster Area, minus the massive head trauma. Ford swayed in time to it, feeling the insidious drum beat trickle in through the top of his head, blaze a path down through his veins, and settle in his feet.
Five minutes later their table was surrounded by drunken clubgoers, whooping, wolfwhistling and stamping their feet as Ford, shirt open and eyes closed, whirled his towel around his head, shimmied back and forth, and gyrated his hips in time to the music. Encouraged by the appreciative din, he moved faster, his arms spinning wildly, his head thrown back. Then he attempted a move he’d once seen performed by a poledancer on Rubicon 7. Had he had eight limbs and a long, prehensile tale, as the people of Rubicon 7 did, he would have stood an even chance of keeping his balance. As it was, the ceiling went tumbling over his head, and he found himself caught in Zaphod’s arms. He smiled up at him.
“How was that?”
“Zarking wonderful, Ford,” Zaphod grinned, propped his friend up in his lap enough to kiss him thoroughly. Vaguely, he noticed that the punters around the table were still whooping, wolfwhistling and stamping their feet. He broke the kiss long enough to tell them all to zark off.
Ford was grinning beatifically, looking at one of Zaphod’s four heads as it slowly wove in and out of the others.
“That’s my kind of forfeit,” he said happily. “Wanna play again?”