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

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.