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It was a Cupcake weekend
Sep. 21st, 2009 11:39 amI bait this trap carefully. Everything is laid out to perfection, just so: cake, frosting, sprinkles. Paints, brushes, water.
He appears in my head, in my apartment, and says "OH HELL NO." Turns and glares at me, all height and bulk and in-your-face pissed-off-ness. "No. He -" and he stabs a finger vaguely bridgewards - "he promised. No cake. None. I will airlock that little-"
"Dude," I say, "that's my lunch. Mine." He's still glaring. It makes him look constipated. "Glaring makes you look - "
"Shut up." But he relaxes a little, enough to strip and pose with the strategically-placed phaser. There's a tattoo on his shoulder, old school sailor-style, but simple. An anchor, and the letters NCC-1701. He's quieter now. "This is my ship," he says. "You think I'm just here to frog-march stowaways and die on away missions. But this is my ship, this is my crew, Kirk is my goddamn captain and I'll die for him if he needs me to, cake or no."
I paint. We're happy. But the air has the scent, ever so slight, of frosting and sprinkles and I can tell it's getting to him. He's no Vulcan; he fidgets. He casts sidelong glances. And finally, FINALLY, when he thinks I'm not looking, he reaches out a nonchalant hand and swipes a finger at my so-called lunch.
Hah! You're in my head, dude. I'm always looking. And there he is, caught: Cupcake and the cupcake, licking pink frosting off his finger with an expression close to bliss. Gotcha.
Preview:
( Click for pics. Nudity: one bare butt. )
He appears in my head, in my apartment, and says "OH HELL NO." Turns and glares at me, all height and bulk and in-your-face pissed-off-ness. "No. He -" and he stabs a finger vaguely bridgewards - "he promised. No cake. None. I will airlock that little-"
"Dude," I say, "that's my lunch. Mine." He's still glaring. It makes him look constipated. "Glaring makes you look - "
"Shut up." But he relaxes a little, enough to strip and pose with the strategically-placed phaser. There's a tattoo on his shoulder, old school sailor-style, but simple. An anchor, and the letters NCC-1701. He's quieter now. "This is my ship," he says. "You think I'm just here to frog-march stowaways and die on away missions. But this is my ship, this is my crew, Kirk is my goddamn captain and I'll die for him if he needs me to, cake or no."
I paint. We're happy. But the air has the scent, ever so slight, of frosting and sprinkles and I can tell it's getting to him. He's no Vulcan; he fidgets. He casts sidelong glances. And finally, FINALLY, when he thinks I'm not looking, he reaches out a nonchalant hand and swipes a finger at my so-called lunch.
Hah! You're in my head, dude. I'm always looking. And there he is, caught: Cupcake and the cupcake, licking pink frosting off his finger with an expression close to bliss. Gotcha.
Preview:
( Click for pics. Nudity: one bare butt. )
