Roswell: I'd forgotten how much fun this used to be. I'd forgotten why I watched it. Insert Homer Simpson drool noises here. Moody Kyle, thin Michael, Sinister Sheriff Valenti, not dead Alex, Toby as an alien hunting Fed, Liz and Maria as annoying as ever, Isobel as a bitch and Max actually smiling and being likeable. Mmmmmm....Max. (drooool...)
24: Keifer is just absolutely adorable. I'm besotted all over again. And don't they wish they had SMS in America. It'd have sure ironed out a few plot wrinkles. Not being able to call for help on the phone my arse. If they had SMS they could be sending out little coded messages the whole time, even with the phone hidden down their clothes. Sorry, just an itch. Too silly. I keep thinking just SMS the guy already. Sheesh.
- He popped the buttons on Clark's jeans and slid his hand in. Nice.
It's feeling oddly spring like. Too bad I've no flowers left to tell for sure. Well, okay, my two rosemarys are doing alright and flowering, blue and white.
Families. Just when you're ready to put in that bulk lime order, they turn around and surprise you. While I was catching a friend up on Smallville (did I not implore her to watch it cause I knew it was right up her alley? Did she listen to me? Of course not) Mother toddled off to a fete in the posh suburb atop the hill (we being "the riff raff down by the river") picked up several near mint catalogues from the Met. Did I have them already? Well, once, briefly. These were the exact catalogues I'd bought and posted home to myself, way back when, only they'd been stolen, along with everything else I'd posted back from New York, bar the lava lamp, which had been voted the item most likely to be nicked, ironically (this was a good 18 months before you could buy lava lamps here). So now I have them, at last, and I swear it's them, finally making their way home. It's all some fiendish plot to have me stop hating and cursing NY daily. Well, no. I'm moved to tears to have my precious books back, but I still hate NY. I want my varmit recipe book back, dammit.
Just put tea bags on the shopping list. With the server still playing silly buggers, having to move my desk just when I got it perfect, and the pms hitting the red zone, it is going to be a week of many cups, I suspect.
Imagine a tight closeup of a Hitchcock heroine screaming in horror. Then do a jump close up on what is making her scream. There on the bench, lying in pieces, was the lone and only teapot. It's dead! It's been murdered! Arrrgh! Call in Det. Munch, dust the scene for prints. How am I going to survive this week now?
The following SV excerpt is rated MA, cause it's a hell of a lot tamer than last night's QAF, and that was rated MA. It contains strong suggestions of m/m sex:
Nothing stirred in the empty halls of the mansion bar the sound of enthusiastic fucking coming from one of the bedrooms.
Jonathan poured himself a large stiff scotch and tried not to think about the fact that his teenaged son was the one being fucked. Eventually Luthor wafted from the bedroom, trailing a soft lilac silk gown that he was barely wearing, and saw Kent stewing down below from the landing.
"Clark, your Dad's here," he called, as if Jonathan were picking up Clark from football practice.
Clark appeared a moment later, looking flushed and tousled and wearing nothing but some hastily pulled on jeans.
Jonathan could have bitten through the thick cut crystal glass he held in his hand and ground it to powder with his teeth.
"Time to go home, Clark," he announced tiredly, swallowing the last of Lex's scotch and putting the empty glass down with some sense of finality. "You know I don't like you staying out late on a school night." That last was emphasised, to see if it provoked any sort of reaction in Lex. It didn't, aside from his usual mild smirk.
Clark looked to Lex, who nodded and Clark, like an obedient puppy, ran off to dress and collect his school bag. On his way down the staircase he grabbed Lex for one last searing kiss, then pulled away, touching Lex's hand as he drew away, dragging out the moment, as though the two were glued together like toffee.
Kent collected his son without a word and only the briefest parting glare, and Lex wondered again why Kent wasn't putting up more of a fight to keep Clark away from him. Perhaps Kent was worried about the stigma more formal matters such as a restraining order might imply, as simply grounding the boy obviously hadn't worked.
The drive home was a tense affair, Clark sitting sullenly by his father who was so ready to snap, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, stretched to the breaking point.
"Was that really necessary?' he asked quietly, jaw still tight. "That display you put on for me, you don't have to rub it in my face."
"You don't like Lex," Clark sulked.
"No, I don't like Lex. I don't trust him. I think he's using you and if you think you love him he's only going to break your heart."
He glanced at his outraged son and sighed.
"But you're not going to listen to a word I say. You're going to have to find out for yourself and it hurts me because I've tried my best to protect you."
"I don't need to be protected from Lex."
Jonathan regarded Clark sadly. "I think you do. I'm afraid son, I'm afraid of what he might do if he found out who you really are."
"He won't," Clark promised, determined.
Jonathan changed down a gear. "You know protecting who you are, what you are, it's the most important thing, to both of us. I just wonder if you can truly love someone who can never know who you really are."
The truck rattled over the uneven road as the silence fell thickly between them.