Seperis (seperis) wrote,
Seperis
seperis

so. who's up for masochism?

Icon courtesy of zee. You are about to find out why I am using it.

I'm very bored, at work, and so far, the point of high interest has been discussion on whether or not a a cloud has the potential to be a stormcloud later.

Discussion. Of. A. Potential. Stormcloud.

I have no words.

So. Traumatize me.

Give me badfic smut. Except I want you to write it. One line.

See, me and zee started last night! (it was very late. very, very late. I hope.)



He sweetly slicked the tender, puckered, dark-hued rose of his lover's love chasm with his delicate, slender digits, marveling at the rich, chocolately scent of his blond lover's passion.

And

He shoveled his moist emerald cock into his lover's dark chasm and plowed relentlessly into his rich, loamy moistness, emptying his seed into the humid, fertile heat of his fecund lover.

And by zee (hey, it was not a locked post, I can totally quote):

But lo, the skidmarks spelt his lover's name, calling him to venture forth and plunder the dark, musky cave of their origin.



So. One line. The worst smutty badfic with the most awkward metaphors, unlikely similes, and language that can destroy souls. Come on. You totally want to.

(extra points for sentence length. if there were points involved. i could add points?)

ETA: Added from my earlier entry--by emrinalexander



Rodney gasped as John rippled below him like a field of wheat might have done in the long-ago days when Mesopotamia was still Sumeria and had enough drainage and irrigation to produce wheat which would then grow tall and do the aforesaid rippling in the breeze, which of course was not the reason John was rippling (a breeze that is), but he felt quite pleased with his metaphor anyway. Rodney looking down at his emerald cock reflected that he was really going to have to give up the not-quite-spinach quiches the kitchen staff turned out with alarming regularity and...

"More attention to my dark chasm, McKay and less metaphorical musing," John gasped, even now still rippling, "we have triplets to sow in the unbounded fecundity of the loamy moistness of my incredibly attractive self."

"I'll get the Miracle Grow," Rodney muttered reassuringly into John's not-really-shell-like ear, well, not shell-like at all, unless one could find shells that were really pointed, though he supposed that razor clams might be shaped something like that.




It's like watching The Hustler Food Channel. The Gay Hustler Food Channel. The Sci-Fi Gay Hustler Food Channel.
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