It Hurts With The Power Of Hurting
Same author as the last two I've sporked here because I'm a masochist. Sporking in bold. Cut for swearing, the usual squicky imagery and sexual innuendo... I think.
Stop the presses, ‘coz I’m in love with a big blue box.
Much as I'm sure the Doctor loves the TARDIS, somehow I don't see him expressing him quite this way...
I smile like an artist, watching from on high with a horsehair brush and a well-stained palette, considering with windswept eyes full of cupidian motes the man I call Captain Jack -I never sleep except on days ending in kaka del toro- Harkness.
How does an artist smile, anyway?
Hard to believe that neither moniker, sur or fore, is his real one. He’s grown so much into the one he stole. I’ve known more than he did about that for a while though, and kept it to myself. He probably knows that. He’d known what I was when he’d signed on for the three hour tour, after all, and probably a lot more besides. And now, we’re so very near to having a child together, barring any incident.
A three-hour tour, a three hour tour.
Wrong blue eyes, pretty pools deep of solitude lined with coy grins dip into me as boyish lashes flutter up and awake. Miles away from sleep now, he looks over at me, then down at my middle, caressing my walking stick body with that pirate gaze of his.
How exactly would a pirate gaze caress someone? 'Cause when I think of pirates, I don't think of caressing.
I groan; it’s a lot to take, regenerating in the middle of a birth. The child is stuck, see, breech as you like it and head up to the heavens.
I would imagine it's a lot to take. It's a lot for me, the reader, to take as well.
Swallowing, I find, is always the best way to avoid a burgeoning sexual innuendo, whether or not you are capable of rejoinder. And judging by my happy-to-see-me-stick, I truly do -need a moment-.
... Happy-to-see-me-stick may be the worst descriptor of a penis I've ever read. Congratulations, author.
It’s a very large piece, our exquisite floor mirror. We’ve adopted it now. Jack might steal it, but I hope not. I don’t particularly want our hostess to run afoul of the law; hotels on Tellaruce are notoriously friendly… they might make us a gift of the mirror, throw us a seven year party, and tie it all up with a 75 percent off coupon for Almost Beef World, and believe you me, gracious as it may sound to the unwashed innocent, none of us want that.
No, none of us want that. Wait, what?
“My love,” he sighs finally, emerging from his safe zone behind the door, “…it’s really quite adorable. You look like some archaeologist’s five year old son, trying to play professor. Come here, you!”
His fingers grope for me. Soon, every finger he has - and some he doesn’t- are tangling in my hair. Yes, I do mean all of my hair, not just that floppy mess on my head. Don’t have much, but Jack doesn’t take long to find it. In other words, I’m out of my shirt again. His hand is down my pants, playing with my toys.
My brain hurts. Even more when I read the paragraph that immediately follows:
My laughter fills the room; in the special smart! pram beside the bed, our newborn girl-child is staring intently at us. I can’t hold up under the onslaught for long, so I wriggle free of Davey Jones -and his Locker-, then go to her, baring a swollen red nipple to the soft light of the early morning room lamps.
Davey Jones - and his Locker. Davey. Jones. And his Locker... I need brain bleach.
“Is this what you wanted, my little rice pudding? Oh yes I know it is, yes I do!” I coo, bending down to blow on that tiny belly, my brains caked in glee before I lift her small weight and offering up my bare chest in sacrifice to the Goddess.
This author has to be fucking with us.
Stop the presses, ‘coz I’m in love with a big blue box.
Much as I'm sure the Doctor loves the TARDIS, somehow I don't see him expressing him quite this way...
I smile like an artist, watching from on high with a horsehair brush and a well-stained palette, considering with windswept eyes full of cupidian motes the man I call Captain Jack -I never sleep except on days ending in kaka del toro- Harkness.
How does an artist smile, anyway?
Hard to believe that neither moniker, sur or fore, is his real one. He’s grown so much into the one he stole. I’ve known more than he did about that for a while though, and kept it to myself. He probably knows that. He’d known what I was when he’d signed on for the three hour tour, after all, and probably a lot more besides. And now, we’re so very near to having a child together, barring any incident.
A three-hour tour, a three hour tour.
Wrong blue eyes, pretty pools deep of solitude lined with coy grins dip into me as boyish lashes flutter up and awake. Miles away from sleep now, he looks over at me, then down at my middle, caressing my walking stick body with that pirate gaze of his.
How exactly would a pirate gaze caress someone? 'Cause when I think of pirates, I don't think of caressing.
I groan; it’s a lot to take, regenerating in the middle of a birth. The child is stuck, see, breech as you like it and head up to the heavens.
I would imagine it's a lot to take. It's a lot for me, the reader, to take as well.
Swallowing, I find, is always the best way to avoid a burgeoning sexual innuendo, whether or not you are capable of rejoinder. And judging by my happy-to-see-me-stick, I truly do -need a moment-.
... Happy-to-see-me-stick may be the worst descriptor of a penis I've ever read. Congratulations, author.
It’s a very large piece, our exquisite floor mirror. We’ve adopted it now. Jack might steal it, but I hope not. I don’t particularly want our hostess to run afoul of the law; hotels on Tellaruce are notoriously friendly… they might make us a gift of the mirror, throw us a seven year party, and tie it all up with a 75 percent off coupon for Almost Beef World, and believe you me, gracious as it may sound to the unwashed innocent, none of us want that.
No, none of us want that. Wait, what?
“My love,” he sighs finally, emerging from his safe zone behind the door, “…it’s really quite adorable. You look like some archaeologist’s five year old son, trying to play professor. Come here, you!”
His fingers grope for me. Soon, every finger he has - and some he doesn’t- are tangling in my hair. Yes, I do mean all of my hair, not just that floppy mess on my head. Don’t have much, but Jack doesn’t take long to find it. In other words, I’m out of my shirt again. His hand is down my pants, playing with my toys.
My brain hurts. Even more when I read the paragraph that immediately follows:
My laughter fills the room; in the special smart! pram beside the bed, our newborn girl-child is staring intently at us. I can’t hold up under the onslaught for long, so I wriggle free of Davey Jones -and his Locker-, then go to her, baring a swollen red nipple to the soft light of the early morning room lamps.
Davey Jones - and his Locker. Davey. Jones. And his Locker... I need brain bleach.
“Is this what you wanted, my little rice pudding? Oh yes I know it is, yes I do!” I coo, bending down to blow on that tiny belly, my brains caked in glee before I lift her small weight and offering up my bare chest in sacrifice to the Goddess.
This author has to be fucking with us.