(no subject)
The whole world wants me to have bad thoughts.
Yes, that is right. Walking around a chemists this morning, I found a box with 'dryer balls' written on the front, and spent a good five minutes giggling about it. 'I want dryer balls.' 'Try this powder, sir'. I eventually moved on, only to find that the next thing that caught my eye were 'nipple shields'.
I have finished reading the Vikingporn. I shall miss it. I mean, the main character was a surgeon (who knew how to do acupuncture, using the acupuncture needles that were somehow miraculously on a VIKING BATTLEFIELD!), with a high IQ (I know this because she says it, many many times), who is talked to by God, in italics. Italics are now the voice of God (yeah, what she said). The thing was, she didn't really have any importance to the future of humanity, her relationship with Selik the viking, wasn't jeapordised by satan, God just talked to her. Because apparently, H/she wants her to have sex. (Darn right I do). But why????? Perviness? So the vikingporn has ended, and I now know more about sex than...actually, no, her descriptions of sex are like the two a penny mary sues who all seem to want Snape to make them throb in their 'secret womanly tunnels'. Selik the viking is, of course, a man with a Tragic Past, who needs to be nurtured by a good woman so he, apparently, can punish her with orgasms and have her cry and worry about him when he's gone. As Virginia Woolf said, fuck that shit.
Re: feminism and other stuff, my ma, bless her soul, says unfeminine dressing women look 'like lesbians'. I- I just- I giggle like a fool wheever she says that. 'Elizabeth, you are dressing like a lesbian. Please stop it immediately'. Hee hee hee hee *g*. She's not homophobic, her and dad are very accepting of it (Stephen Fry and Matthew Paris are gay, why shouldn't the rest of the world be?), but things like that do make me wonder how the hel they'd react if they found out about the slash. And oh, dear lord, the dean/callum/paul golfclub commentfic I wrote. Oh! Oh! Also, you all need to write golfclub porn! I do not want to be the lone golfclub porn lady, as I am not the most twisted member of this fandom, by any means *looks sternly at people*. I have written two golfclubsex fics now, it is time for others to take up my mantle.
So during the bits of rat_jam chat I was there for, I had a cunning plan: writing fanfiction as one of the six_degrees characters/actors. I mean, how would Hugh Dillon write slash? Whoever answered that question miiiight just get my undying love *g*. We do know how Paul Gross writes slash, children. It's called seasons 3 and 4 of due South. Guy x punches guy y because he CANNOT HANDLE HIS LOVE, and makes guy y punch him back, and their relationship is in TROUBLE! Oh no! So guy y kisses guy x on a sinking ship, underwater, because he's kinky like that, and they havelotsandlosofsextheend. So it's time for the characters to grab a little bit back for themselves, methinks. I would welcome suggestions as to what sort of a challenge I would make this, because I cannot think properly *g*. And also, vague answers would help me create a poll and work out what to do and when to do it et cetera.
And lastly, I wrote the Werewolf!Hugh fic! It was lost among the general consquee, but it is here. Just to prove I do not just write GOLFCLUB PORN!
ETA: uh, as some of you weirdos wanted said golfclub porn, here it is. Dean and a golfclub. You have been warned. Do not read if you have standards.
Dean woke up with an ache in his head, chafing to his wrists and...the unnerving feeling of vaseline being lovingly slathered over his manhole. He tried to turn around, but the head restraints made it impossible to do so. Behind him, a surgical glove snapped, and he heard a high pitched giggle.
"T-Tori?" he quavered, then realised the giggle was too high to be his snugglemuffin. The giggle continued, the rubbing also continued, and he decided that today was going to involve-
"Golf. Golf is, uh, everything. Like everything. You know how if you haven't tried a food, like frog's legs? They always say it tastes like chicken. Well, everything is like golf."
Callum skritched the back of his neck, threw a red rubber ball from hand to hand and watched with an adorably shy smile as Hugh heaved a red leather couch down the stairs to the dungeon- dungeon??
"Where am I?" Dean asked, repressing the quiver of excitement that came from Callum talking about...golf...
"Gross's house. Too many fucking stairs. Cool dungeon, though," Hugh panted. "Apparently, when Paul's really-"
"Dillon, shut it. Otherwise, we try my methods first."
The voice came from behind him, grunting with the effort of scissoring his fingers inside Dean. He was starting to get used to it. Callum sat back on the couch, Hugh took a flying leap at it and somehow ended up with his head on Callum's lap and his feet over Callum's shoulders. Strangely, neither seemed too perturbed by this. Callum went on talking through Hugh's crotch. Dean wondered if the talking cocks nightmares had restarted
“You like golf,” Callum said-- or Hugh’s cock said. Either way, Dean whimpered, and tried to think and have his prostate stroked at the same time.
“Y-yes. Golf. I play golf. Golf is…gnrrrrgh…”
He was about to explain that it wasn’t the golf that made him groan, but Callum was already nodding, which made Hugh whimper as his forehead massaged his crotch.
“Yeah, I like golf like that too. Sometimes, when I’ve got the club in my hand, I just want to unzip my pants and-”
“Christ, Rennie, give it a fucking rest, I’ve got three fingers stuck up his ass and I really don’t need more trauma. Just get on with it, reprogram him or whatever the fuck it is you’re going to do.”
Callum stood up and went to the corner of the room. Dean heard a zip, and the familiar clunk of-
Golf clubs?
He closed his eyes and hoped it was going to be either a game of crazy golf, or some terrible terrible dream. Paul kept moving his fingers, humming Santa Drives a Pickup.
“He ready?” Callum asked from behind him.
“My fingers are cramping. I’ll never be able to play a seventh chord again.”
Hugh laughed. “Thank fuck for that.”
Dean was about to defend Paul’s music when his fingers were withdrawn from Dean’s ass with a weird squelchy noise. Dean squeaked and then moaned at the loss of the pervily comforting massage.
“Christ, Rennie, not that end!”
“You sure? Once you get used to it…”
Paul whimpered, and he felt something cold and metal pressing up against his hole…
It was ok once you got used to it, Dean decided as Callum eased a bit more of the golf club into his ass. The continuous whispering of ‘golf, not Spelling’ was strangely mesmerizing, as Callum withdrew the slippery pole, warming up a bit now, and angled it so the end was brushing against his prostate. Paul was still humming, Hugh was sprawled on the couch reading what looked like a magazine on pest control and idly stroking his own nipple.
“Golf. Golf is everything. Become the golf,” Callum intoned, thrusting the club handle in. Dean decided golf made him happy in his pants, and Hugh pricked up his ears at the sound of his brain being rewired.
Paul walked around, studied Dean’s face intently. “I am going to sing around your cock. It isn’t going to be about golf. It will be a song about being gay, celibate, or fucking anything other than that…uh, yeah, her. It is called Voodoo.”
If Dean’s hands hadn’t been tied, he’d have clapped them. Not only was he being fucked with a golf club, his cock was being sung to!
“Mmmm smmg n nn ay oo alk,” Paul sang, the vibrations and beauty of the song making Dean’s toes curl. Hugh moved his hand to his other nipple, and turned a page of the magazine. Remarkably, he could still understand the lyrics, and his rendition of the guitar was nothing short of heroic. Callum also seemed to be moving the club in rhythm, and-
Was he playing air guitar with it?
“Ells ike uh in is loahng, eels ike a uhi ane’s ohng…”
Hugh stroked down his chest, unfastened his trousers and leered, muttering something about hyraxes.
“oo ah ooh, o knowgh I oo, u i gown oo uh gur o ove, u i own oo ay,-”
And at the hey, a number of things happened: Callum jerked the golf club, then let it go entirely, Paul put both his arms up in the air and choked on Dean’s cock, Hugh came over the magazine with an almighty shout of WEEVILS! And Dean came and dislocated his shoulders trying to do the arms while shouting ‘Hey- aaaarghnnnnrrrrrrggghhnrrrfff’
Despite the visit to the casualty department and the embarrassing red marks on his wrists, the plan was a success. Dean was converted to the way of the cock, the golf club handle and…the other end.
And somewhere, Don Mckellar was being interrogated…and enjoying it quiiiite a lot.
Yes, that is right. Walking around a chemists this morning, I found a box with 'dryer balls' written on the front, and spent a good five minutes giggling about it. 'I want dryer balls.' 'Try this powder, sir'. I eventually moved on, only to find that the next thing that caught my eye were 'nipple shields'.
I have finished reading the Vikingporn. I shall miss it. I mean, the main character was a surgeon (who knew how to do acupuncture, using the acupuncture needles that were somehow miraculously on a VIKING BATTLEFIELD!), with a high IQ (I know this because she says it, many many times), who is talked to by God, in italics. Italics are now the voice of God (yeah, what she said). The thing was, she didn't really have any importance to the future of humanity, her relationship with Selik the viking, wasn't jeapordised by satan, God just talked to her. Because apparently, H/she wants her to have sex. (Darn right I do). But why????? Perviness? So the vikingporn has ended, and I now know more about sex than...actually, no, her descriptions of sex are like the two a penny mary sues who all seem to want Snape to make them throb in their 'secret womanly tunnels'. Selik the viking is, of course, a man with a Tragic Past, who needs to be nurtured by a good woman so he, apparently, can punish her with orgasms and have her cry and worry about him when he's gone. As Virginia Woolf said, fuck that shit.
Re: feminism and other stuff, my ma, bless her soul, says unfeminine dressing women look 'like lesbians'. I- I just- I giggle like a fool wheever she says that. 'Elizabeth, you are dressing like a lesbian. Please stop it immediately'. Hee hee hee hee *g*. She's not homophobic, her and dad are very accepting of it (Stephen Fry and Matthew Paris are gay, why shouldn't the rest of the world be?), but things like that do make me wonder how the hel they'd react if they found out about the slash. And oh, dear lord, the dean/callum/paul golfclub commentfic I wrote. Oh! Oh! Also, you all need to write golfclub porn! I do not want to be the lone golfclub porn lady, as I am not the most twisted member of this fandom, by any means *looks sternly at people*. I have written two golfclubsex fics now, it is time for others to take up my mantle.
So during the bits of rat_jam chat I was there for, I had a cunning plan: writing fanfiction as one of the six_degrees characters/actors. I mean, how would Hugh Dillon write slash? Whoever answered that question miiiight just get my undying love *g*. We do know how Paul Gross writes slash, children. It's called seasons 3 and 4 of due South. Guy x punches guy y because he CANNOT HANDLE HIS LOVE, and makes guy y punch him back, and their relationship is in TROUBLE! Oh no! So guy y kisses guy x on a sinking ship, underwater, because he's kinky like that, and they havelotsandlosofsextheend. So it's time for the characters to grab a little bit back for themselves, methinks. I would welcome suggestions as to what sort of a challenge I would make this, because I cannot think properly *g*. And also, vague answers would help me create a poll and work out what to do and when to do it et cetera.
And lastly, I wrote the Werewolf!Hugh fic! It was lost among the general consquee, but it is here. Just to prove I do not just write GOLFCLUB PORN!
ETA: uh, as some of you weirdos wanted said golfclub porn, here it is. Dean and a golfclub. You have been warned. Do not read if you have standards.
Dean woke up with an ache in his head, chafing to his wrists and...the unnerving feeling of vaseline being lovingly slathered over his manhole. He tried to turn around, but the head restraints made it impossible to do so. Behind him, a surgical glove snapped, and he heard a high pitched giggle.
"T-Tori?" he quavered, then realised the giggle was too high to be his snugglemuffin. The giggle continued, the rubbing also continued, and he decided that today was going to involve-
"Golf. Golf is, uh, everything. Like everything. You know how if you haven't tried a food, like frog's legs? They always say it tastes like chicken. Well, everything is like golf."
Callum skritched the back of his neck, threw a red rubber ball from hand to hand and watched with an adorably shy smile as Hugh heaved a red leather couch down the stairs to the dungeon- dungeon??
"Where am I?" Dean asked, repressing the quiver of excitement that came from Callum talking about...golf...
"Gross's house. Too many fucking stairs. Cool dungeon, though," Hugh panted. "Apparently, when Paul's really-"
"Dillon, shut it. Otherwise, we try my methods first."
The voice came from behind him, grunting with the effort of scissoring his fingers inside Dean. He was starting to get used to it. Callum sat back on the couch, Hugh took a flying leap at it and somehow ended up with his head on Callum's lap and his feet over Callum's shoulders. Strangely, neither seemed too perturbed by this. Callum went on talking through Hugh's crotch. Dean wondered if the talking cocks nightmares had restarted
“You like golf,” Callum said-- or Hugh’s cock said. Either way, Dean whimpered, and tried to think and have his prostate stroked at the same time.
“Y-yes. Golf. I play golf. Golf is…gnrrrrgh…”
He was about to explain that it wasn’t the golf that made him groan, but Callum was already nodding, which made Hugh whimper as his forehead massaged his crotch.
“Yeah, I like golf like that too. Sometimes, when I’ve got the club in my hand, I just want to unzip my pants and-”
“Christ, Rennie, give it a fucking rest, I’ve got three fingers stuck up his ass and I really don’t need more trauma. Just get on with it, reprogram him or whatever the fuck it is you’re going to do.”
Callum stood up and went to the corner of the room. Dean heard a zip, and the familiar clunk of-
Golf clubs?
He closed his eyes and hoped it was going to be either a game of crazy golf, or some terrible terrible dream. Paul kept moving his fingers, humming Santa Drives a Pickup.
“He ready?” Callum asked from behind him.
“My fingers are cramping. I’ll never be able to play a seventh chord again.”
Hugh laughed. “Thank fuck for that.”
Dean was about to defend Paul’s music when his fingers were withdrawn from Dean’s ass with a weird squelchy noise. Dean squeaked and then moaned at the loss of the pervily comforting massage.
“Christ, Rennie, not that end!”
“You sure? Once you get used to it…”
Paul whimpered, and he felt something cold and metal pressing up against his hole…
It was ok once you got used to it, Dean decided as Callum eased a bit more of the golf club into his ass. The continuous whispering of ‘golf, not Spelling’ was strangely mesmerizing, as Callum withdrew the slippery pole, warming up a bit now, and angled it so the end was brushing against his prostate. Paul was still humming, Hugh was sprawled on the couch reading what looked like a magazine on pest control and idly stroking his own nipple.
“Golf. Golf is everything. Become the golf,” Callum intoned, thrusting the club handle in. Dean decided golf made him happy in his pants, and Hugh pricked up his ears at the sound of his brain being rewired.
Paul walked around, studied Dean’s face intently. “I am going to sing around your cock. It isn’t going to be about golf. It will be a song about being gay, celibate, or fucking anything other than that…uh, yeah, her. It is called Voodoo.”
If Dean’s hands hadn’t been tied, he’d have clapped them. Not only was he being fucked with a golf club, his cock was being sung to!
“Mmmm smmg n nn ay oo alk,” Paul sang, the vibrations and beauty of the song making Dean’s toes curl. Hugh moved his hand to his other nipple, and turned a page of the magazine. Remarkably, he could still understand the lyrics, and his rendition of the guitar was nothing short of heroic. Callum also seemed to be moving the club in rhythm, and-
Was he playing air guitar with it?
“Ells ike uh in is loahng, eels ike a uhi ane’s ohng…”
Hugh stroked down his chest, unfastened his trousers and leered, muttering something about hyraxes.
“oo ah ooh, o knowgh I oo, u i gown oo uh gur o ove, u i own oo ay,-”
And at the hey, a number of things happened: Callum jerked the golf club, then let it go entirely, Paul put both his arms up in the air and choked on Dean’s cock, Hugh came over the magazine with an almighty shout of WEEVILS! And Dean came and dislocated his shoulders trying to do the arms while shouting ‘Hey- aaaarghnnnnrrrrrrggghhnrrrfff’
Despite the visit to the casualty department and the embarrassing red marks on his wrists, the plan was a success. Dean was converted to the way of the cock, the golf club handle and…the other end.
And somewhere, Don Mckellar was being interrogated…and enjoying it quiiiite a lot.