![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Goddamn plot weasels...
Jack and John are drinking beer with Lestat in the Plot Weasel room... Why does this sound like a bad murder mystery?
Anyway. This is what happens when I have to sit in a classroom and listen to people talk about sexual motivation....
"Mmm. I like sex." The statement came after several minutes of beer and companionable silence. John Crichton made a thump with his beer as if to emphasise what he'd said.
Jack O'Neill raised the bottle in his hand, agreeing without a word.
"Sex." Lestat sighed lustily. "Too long." He was looking a little worn around the edges. As if someone was washing him with bleach.
"Yeah."
"Way too long."
There was silence for a time, then John glanced at Jack. "What'd you do?"
"Not allowed." He scowled and peeled some of the label from his beer. "It's against regulations."
"Oh. God. Regulations." Looking at the other man with more sympathy, John sighed. "Y'know, there was this one little blonde--"
"Blonde?" A glare appeared on Jack's face.
"Whoa! Not yours. Her name was Jo. A British army corporal, and, damn, she was fine." He gave an appreciative whistle of memory.
"Oh. Good. So. What'd *you* do?"
"I lost her pulse rifle. Sort of, um, blew it up."
There was a stunned silence.
"Oh. Man. I should buy you another round." Jack sounded sympathetic. Perhaps it was because he knew that he now had a better chance of getting laid than his table companion.
Lestat sniggered. "No sex for you for the next millenium."
"Shutup." John sighed into his beer. "She'll forgive me. Won't she?"
"Son," said Jack as he clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "You might want to find this Jo."
"Blonds." Lestat seemed to be remembering something, his gaze glazed. "They're usually so fun..."
"Lestat?"
"Yes, Johnathan?"
"Shut up."
Anyway. This is what happens when I have to sit in a classroom and listen to people talk about sexual motivation....
"Mmm. I like sex." The statement came after several minutes of beer and companionable silence. John Crichton made a thump with his beer as if to emphasise what he'd said.
Jack O'Neill raised the bottle in his hand, agreeing without a word.
"Sex." Lestat sighed lustily. "Too long." He was looking a little worn around the edges. As if someone was washing him with bleach.
"Yeah."
"Way too long."
There was silence for a time, then John glanced at Jack. "What'd you do?"
"Not allowed." He scowled and peeled some of the label from his beer. "It's against regulations."
"Oh. God. Regulations." Looking at the other man with more sympathy, John sighed. "Y'know, there was this one little blonde--"
"Blonde?" A glare appeared on Jack's face.
"Whoa! Not yours. Her name was Jo. A British army corporal, and, damn, she was fine." He gave an appreciative whistle of memory.
"Oh. Good. So. What'd *you* do?"
"I lost her pulse rifle. Sort of, um, blew it up."
There was a stunned silence.
"Oh. Man. I should buy you another round." Jack sounded sympathetic. Perhaps it was because he knew that he now had a better chance of getting laid than his table companion.
Lestat sniggered. "No sex for you for the next millenium."
"Shutup." John sighed into his beer. "She'll forgive me. Won't she?"
"Son," said Jack as he clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "You might want to find this Jo."
"Blonds." Lestat seemed to be remembering something, his gaze glazed. "They're usually so fun..."
"Lestat?"
"Yes, Johnathan?"
"Shut up."
no subject
no subject
*laughs*
I was poking around to start adding fic to my memories... *eyes the plot weasels, and chuckles*
Sigh. This was back before SG-1 ate my brain.