AWAITING SPAM.
OK JIHYE. GIMME WHAT YOU GOT, BB. :D
Hell yeah, pyro_o is gonna spam me in my sleep!
That sounds... kind of weird. But only because it's 5am.
I don't know what I will be spammed with, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?
Hell yeah, pyro_o is gonna spam me in my sleep!
That sounds... kind of weird. But only because it's 5am.
I don't know what I will be spammed with, but that's part of the fun, isn't it?
Comments 101
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Denmark doesn't recognize him - not like this, not when he's in control and much, much older.
They've lived through too much to acknowledge their past faults. (To think, Denmark muses, that the man fucking him tonight was once a child, an island nation too weak to defend itself.)
"Didn't think you had it in you - "
England tugs his hair sharply, eyes hard and cold.
"Look at you," Denmark pants between shallow thrusts - England keeps his hips trapped, straining for touch, for encouragement. It’s a thrill, for once, to spit out words between slaps and crashing kisses and still talk, still laugh down England’s ambitions.
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Of course, Arthur Kirkland isn't fooled - he can't be, not when he's watching Matthew's hips lift and his mouth fall open, soft cries mingling with Alfred's own voice.
He doesn't say a word; not while Matthew quickens the pace and Alfred matches him, thrust for thrust - not when his voice breaks and his face flushes, and especially not when he's pushed over the edge, fingers trembling as they grip hard, lacing with Alfred's, stomachs sticky.
Instead, Arthur turns on his heel and marches out before the lights turn on, signalling the film crew to wrap for the day.
He doesn't stay for the money shot; he doesn't see Matthew kiss Alfred, tug him down for a right good snog - he can't, because he's already out the door and pulling at the sudden tightness of his collar.
Whew. Awfully ( ... )
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America drives. He insists on it, okay, because Canada needs to read maps and England needs to pick music, so he gets to drive. And it's his car, and his roads, okay, Matt, put the map away, I don't need to cop out to a map when I'm driving in America!
Just for that, England picks the Sex Pistols, and grins in satisfaction when he notices America eventually wheedle for something slightly more melodic.
Tom Waits is not any better.
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England fucks America in the car while Canada is inside the hotel lobby, negotiating rooms and card keys. America's gasps fill the silence - England enjoys this, enjoys seeing him shuddering on his knees and nearly breaking a headrest, pleading, moving. For him.
"He's tuckered out," England whispers loudly to Canada, when he comes back to the car.
Understandably, Canada is disgruntled; there's something about America, England reflects, that is so singularly charming that once he looks at you, you wish to keep his attentions on you forever.
While England contemplates, Canada draws a bath and tugs him on his feet.
Canada is finally taking off his shirt when England realizes that the bath is big enough for two. The look in Canada's eye is unmistakable - possessive bastard, England thinks fondly - and when he's soaking in swirling hot water, his body tight around Canada -
America is snoring in the next room.
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To John, after all, Sherlock Holmes was a story - he was a character, a mystery novel character, something born of Arthur Conan Doyle's imagination.
It isn't until his twenty-fifth birthday, when John dreamt of him. Sherlock Holmes, himself, alive and breathing, in the flesh.
His gaunt, thin face was like that of the drawings he'd seen; elegant fingers that reached for a magnifying glass and tape measure. His stride was long, his eyes keen and intelligent; they tracked him as John Watson, too, stared back.
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Irene is at a loss as to the curious case of John Watson's Obfuscating Denseness to Sherlock Holmes' Advances.
Given that her best friend has the sexual magnetism of a duck-billed platypus, maybe she shouldn't be too surprised at his oustanding lack of success.
"You can just tell him," she suggests one day. Irene beats herself up for it immediately afterwards; that kind of crap doesn't work on Sherlock. Never has, never will. If he's going to do something, he'll go all-out on it. No such thing as simple. Right."I'm not doing it ( ... )
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She still snickers whenever she hears "Bad Romance", the image of the stiff, jerky movements imprinted in her mind clashing with his usually easygoing demeanor.
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"No, you don't. You love me for what I am," Arthur says quietly.
He avoids the look in Alfred's eyes. This will be easier for both of us in the long run.
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