[FIC] Murder Most Foul. PG-13 Christian/Steve
Okay, this ficlet actually was born out of an unfortunate typo I made when sending the word "rimshot" to candygramme on Y!M; which then descended into me indulging in imagery of post-drinking foulness simply to amuse myself, as I am that highbrow :D
Caution, this is crack, purile and scatological humour (no, don't worry, no scat, cuz just no. But potty humour, ahoy. Don't worry, nothing graphic. Just nothing that even borders on maturity either, blame my parents.)
Title: Murder Most Foul
Author: Oncidium
Archive: None right now
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Christian Kane/ Steve Carlson
Characters: Christian Kane, Steve Carlson
Category: Steve POV. Humour. Crack. Crack humour. Purile humour with potty humour
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Uhhhhh
Feedback: Keeps the plot weasel fed
Disclaimer: No money, no profit and all I have to my name are several out-dated computers and a ferret named Nairi. No offense meant to Mr Christian Kane, who, in reality, I am sure is a complete delight in the bathroom after beer and Jack
Summary: Christian Kane is kinda... uh... have you been around people after they've been to the bar who need to use the facilities???
I have a conditioned response that's kind of hard to explain.
The sports section of the newspaper makes me tear up. Not because of the latest scores, or that my teams get, undeniably, trounced all the time. But because of all the other things it stands for.
Because when I see him fold up the sports section and head for the back of the bus or hotel room facilities, I know what will come next is about an hour of probably the most agonizing torture I ever have to endure. I know no one is a fucking rose garden; but what Christian Kane can produce in there, after a night of too much Jack and Bud, would be considered by NATO as chemical warfare unleashed on porcelain.
I've heard the term "eye watering" used to describe stenches, but this would be closer to "eye bleeding". It not only makes you question what kind of toxic mess he's got going on in there to be able to create this particular brand of foulness, but actually makes you question the existence of a God who'd allow this to happen.
Worst part is, the shit... yeah, I know, punny. Fuck you, I'm allowed... always looks perversely proud of himself to be able to create spasms of toxic shock in me. "Problem, Steve?" he'll say, smirking.
Nope. I won't let him have this. I grit my teeth at him.
Nothing wrong at all.
Nothing but you setting up yet another Herculean test of my gag reflex. Don't get me wrong, between me and Kane; it's a study in gross out a lot of the time. We're sleeping together, in love and all that... shit... yeah, but we're also still guys. Nose picking, belching and other treats appeal to the underdeveloped (and often controlling) parts of our brains, but this was beyond any of that.
This almost, but never quite, actually makes me wish that I could trade places with one of the fangirls who wished they could trade places with me. I envy their ability to have their fantasy, and sanitized, version of Christian. You know, the one who never needs to use the toilet. EVER.
Not this grinning maniac giggling at me and announcing that "that was a GOOD one!"
Mostly, I envy their ability to breathe air that doesn't remind them of a cross between a sulfur pit and a barn on a hot day.
I know I always get a look of bliss when we manage to roll back into our house in Nashville. I think Kane attributes it to just being off the road for a bit, but really, it's that the bedroom has no en suite. But those times are getting less and less; so, I make do (ha! see what I did there?) with my incense. And if he complains about it? I'll tell him to do with it what would probably be the most helpful,
shove it up his ass.
************
My sincerest and deepest apologies for this. No, really. Or not really.
I'm sure Christian Kane is, in reality, a complete delight in the bathroom.
Caution, this is crack, purile and scatological humour (no, don't worry, no scat, cuz just no. But potty humour, ahoy. Don't worry, nothing graphic. Just nothing that even borders on maturity either, blame my parents.)
Title: Murder Most Foul
Author: Oncidium
Archive: None right now
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Christian Kane/ Steve Carlson
Characters: Christian Kane, Steve Carlson
Category: Steve POV. Humour. Crack. Crack humour. Purile humour with potty humour
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Uhhhhh
Feedback: Keeps the plot weasel fed
Disclaimer: No money, no profit and all I have to my name are several out-dated computers and a ferret named Nairi. No offense meant to Mr Christian Kane, who, in reality, I am sure is a complete delight in the bathroom after beer and Jack
Summary: Christian Kane is kinda... uh... have you been around people after they've been to the bar who need to use the facilities???
I have a conditioned response that's kind of hard to explain.
The sports section of the newspaper makes me tear up. Not because of the latest scores, or that my teams get, undeniably, trounced all the time. But because of all the other things it stands for.
Because when I see him fold up the sports section and head for the back of the bus or hotel room facilities, I know what will come next is about an hour of probably the most agonizing torture I ever have to endure. I know no one is a fucking rose garden; but what Christian Kane can produce in there, after a night of too much Jack and Bud, would be considered by NATO as chemical warfare unleashed on porcelain.
I've heard the term "eye watering" used to describe stenches, but this would be closer to "eye bleeding". It not only makes you question what kind of toxic mess he's got going on in there to be able to create this particular brand of foulness, but actually makes you question the existence of a God who'd allow this to happen.
Worst part is, the shit... yeah, I know, punny. Fuck you, I'm allowed... always looks perversely proud of himself to be able to create spasms of toxic shock in me. "Problem, Steve?" he'll say, smirking.
Nope. I won't let him have this. I grit my teeth at him.
Nothing wrong at all.
Nothing but you setting up yet another Herculean test of my gag reflex. Don't get me wrong, between me and Kane; it's a study in gross out a lot of the time. We're sleeping together, in love and all that... shit... yeah, but we're also still guys. Nose picking, belching and other treats appeal to the underdeveloped (and often controlling) parts of our brains, but this was beyond any of that.
This almost, but never quite, actually makes me wish that I could trade places with one of the fangirls who wished they could trade places with me. I envy their ability to have their fantasy, and sanitized, version of Christian. You know, the one who never needs to use the toilet. EVER.
Not this grinning maniac giggling at me and announcing that "that was a GOOD one!"
Mostly, I envy their ability to breathe air that doesn't remind them of a cross between a sulfur pit and a barn on a hot day.
I know I always get a look of bliss when we manage to roll back into our house in Nashville. I think Kane attributes it to just being off the road for a bit, but really, it's that the bedroom has no en suite. But those times are getting less and less; so, I make do (ha! see what I did there?) with my incense. And if he complains about it? I'll tell him to do with it what would probably be the most helpful,
shove it up his ass.
************
My sincerest and deepest apologies for this. No, really. Or not really.
I'm sure Christian Kane is, in reality, a complete delight in the bathroom.