D: D: D:

[aesc]

There is not enough WTF in the world for this.


Before there was Summer's Eve, there was...



Again I say: D: D: D:

I mean seriously, anything that strongly suggests you use rubber gloves while applying it to various surfaces should probably not be put inside you. For all I know, Lysol might be a great feminine hygeine product, but still, what's next? Shaving your legs with a straight razor? *cringes*

And then there's this, which makes me so so happy I'm alive right now:



Just... no. No thank you. I like to think the woman's thinking, "Vitamins, and also the fact that soon I will kill you, bury you with quicklime, and run off to Tijuana."

I'll be over here now, doing... something.

Comments

[toft-froggy.livejournal.com]

Maybe he was a necrophiliac? Maybe that was the problem! Maybe after she didn't take to the whole hour-long-ice-bath thing before sex, suddenly she smelt vaguely preserved, and he was into her again! Bye bye, web of indifference!

[aesc.livejournal.com]

Hmmmm, yes, yes, a definite possibility! After all, women aren't supposed to enjoy sex, so they might as well lie there like corpses... And hey, what's not to enjoy?

Or maybe a very bizarre D/s relationship, where he has to smell the sweet, chemical, coal-tar scent of her submission.

I think this calls for a photoshop.

[toft-froggy.livejournal.com]

John waits, anticipation trickling down his spine like sweat. He sits in the kitchen, the back of his ring finger red from where the steaming mug of coffee slid in his sweaty hand and pressed against it, and he waits for Rodney's voice from the other room. When it comes, he still jumps.

"John."

John's voice is husky, already taut with want - god, he wants this, he can't believe how crazy it makes him - but he tries to force it down, because it's part of the game. He's got to play the game. He feigns nonchalance. "Yeah?"

A beat. He shivers.

"This coffee isn't fresh."

Rodney's voice is quiet and measured, the way anyone who knows Rodney would know that this isn't a real argument, isn't the way they bicker and bitch in real life. Or maybe, this is the only real kind of argument they have. John digs his fingers into his thighs, watches the blood sink from under the nails, leaving white.

"Forgot to go to the store," he calls out.

In the kitchen cupboard, there are four kinds of coffee bean. There is a shiny espresso machine on the counter, kept in pristine condition. At the back of the highest, most difficult-to-reach shelf in the cupboard they only use for cleaning products, is a tin of very old instant coffee with a peeling lable that looks like it's been there since the fifties. John needed a chair to reach it. He shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath, tries to stop his goddamn heart thumping like a drum. It's the first time he's asked for it like this, out in the daylight, out of the bedroom. He wasn't sure Rodney would get the message.

"Come here," Rodney says.

John has to press his eyes tightly shut again for a second, take a rapid breath - but that's nothing to the way he'll lose it when Rodney sits there at his desk, face shuttered, and watches John take off his pants, then pulls him awkwardly over his knees; when John's face is inches from the carpet and his upper thighs are pressed against Rodney's, Rodney's left hand braced hard against the small of John's back; when Rodney punishes him for everything he's ever done wrong.

"John," Rodney says again. It's not a question. John goes.

Re: I think this calls for a photoshop.

[aesc.livejournal.com]

I seeeeriously doubt I could photoshop this with a straight face. And yet.


Rodney's sitting, not in his ergonomically-correct desk chair, but the wooden one he makes unwelcome visitors sit in. John's heart thumps ferociously, seeing the harsh, straight lines of it, and the coffee cooling on the desk.
A wisp of steam rises from it and disappears.

"You know what I've said," Rodney says with a mildness John only hears from him in moments like this.

"Yeah," John agrees hoarsely. The breath he pulls in is heavy with leather, dust. Rodney stares at him flatly, and John takes a few steps forward. He makes his hands stay still at his side, though anxiety and want make his fingers twitch, wanting out, wanting motion, wanting Rodney's hands on him.

"Then you know what to do." It isn't a question, but a statement of the fact that's existed between them ever since they started this. It's permission, and with relief John reaches for the top button of his fly.

The light through the window lies hot against John's left arm, but nothing compared to what races through his blood when Rodney looks at him like this: control and detachment, but some displeasure flickering coolly in the blue of his eyes. It tugs on shame, everything John's pushed down tight and everything Rodney won't let him get away with hiding. He swallows, tastes bad coffee and something metallic.

"You want this," Rodney says abruptly, just as John gets his thumbs under the waist of his boxers to push them down. The elastic chafes his cock, makes his nerves jump and shiver; it rubs in pleasure, want coiling deep and low, twisting electric up his spine. Rodney's mouth is thin, his hands resting on his thighs, eyes cool and narrow as he studies John's half-erect cock. John knows, knows what those thighs are like, how solid they are under his hips, a platform he could thrust against if Rodney ever let him.

"You want this," Rodney says again.

"Need," John says roughly, voice breaking on desperation.