Now, I get that people want to be accurate in fic. You've got some sweeping, romatical seahorse multichaptered, cutting/pseuicide/twu wuv/anorexia/girls r meen saga that is going to win the "Lyndsey's Fave Spanderer Fics, Liek OMG" awards. I get that. So... BE ACCURATE. For fuck's sake: you use the word FRIGEDARIUM in your Roman AU fic, yet there is dialogue like: Yeah, alright. You pushy big sod. Psst: the Romans didn't say 97% of those words. You? Yes. Big? Uh huh. Not the others. I'm just saying.
How does a person UNZIP THEMSELF? So... that got me to thinking. How does a vampire that cries soothingly and becomingly with his leaking and weeping cock that can save puppies from drowning unzip himself?
I WILL TELL YOU. He isn't REALLY a vampire! Wait. He is. BUT. He is also an ALIEN. As in, not from planet Earth. FROM MARS. Hence the Alien. AND. He's a mutant. Because The Man is trying to keep him down, OMG, (real alien dialect - I checked) and blocking the AIR. It's time for reinforcements. And they'll have to meet with Kuato - also known as Spikto.
I now give you the ONLY CROSSOVER I WILL EVER EVER WRITE: Total Recall, I Think. Maybe. What?
A Tale of Redemption, Mutants, and lots and lots of skeevy sex, featuring Spike as the Leader of the Mutants on Mars, and the Guvenator as a beefy guy with a glowing red ball up his nose. Yeah. Chicky Bow.
Hauser has been waiting outside the warehouse for what seems like hours. Mars time is different than Earth time. It's only been a few minutes. Hauser is imaptient like a little whiney girl. Speaking of whiney girls, he can hear sobbing and a dripping noise coming from the otherside of the heavy iron door. He has very good hearing. Someone sounds like they found out their mother AND their pet died. Absolutely bawling. And that DRIP! What kind of place was this? The door opens finally, and Hauser is led into its dark, dank, fetid, fecund, turgid - no, that's not right - dismal interior.
Hauser is led into the back room to finally meet with the leader of the underground mutants, or "Underground Mutants" as they call themselves. A large, brooding man with perfectly gelled hair stands. He turns, his head cocked at a slight angle, perfectly showing off his strong jawline and with the tiniest flick of his hip, a black coat swirls perfectly about his strong calves.
"My name is George. You can call me Angel."
"Why deedant you jas tell me your name whas ANGEL?"
"Hmm. Good plan. So. You are here. Are you helpless? I help the helpless, you know."
"Look at mai AHRMS. Do I look helpless? I wahnt to talk to Spikto. They gonna turn the AY-yah off and you gonna DIE. Consider that a demand."
"Oh. Heh. You wanna talk to Spikto?" Angel/George chuckles to himself. "Are you sure? He's kind of annoying and once you get him going he'll never-"
"Okay! Okay! Hang on." Angel/George begins unbuckling his pants, never breaking eye contact with the only man in Hollywood with a larger, more squared-head than he. The pants fall silently to the floor. So silently that everyone forgets to look down - I mean, there was no NOISE to indicate the pants had hit the ground.
A piercing wail penetrates the room, not unlike a massive donkey dick to a virginal carpernter's ass. Hauser looks in the direction of the wail and sees -
A dick. With a head. Okay, okay, they all have those, but this is a HEAD. Like, with HAIR of the crispiest platinum Marilyn never achieved. Jane Mansfield, neither. And a mouth - dear god, it had a MOUTH. Are those... cheekbones? On a cock?
"BLOODY HELL!! Angel/George, give a man a chance to plug in an air freshner next time you pull those pants up. Swamp ass to the Nth degree. I mean, cocks and bollocks and Cor, blimey! It's dark in there."
The penis man tucks himself behind the small, soft sacs under him, then straightens back up with a twitch. And apparently there is a secret pocket where miniature smokes are held. "Got a light?" the dick-head implores.
Hauser leans over, shields the flame from his Bic and lights the wee little smoke.
Spikto talks around the smoke, "So. Came to see the Big Bad, didja? Right. Well. Here I am." He twitches again in anticipation of being looked at. Just bobs and weaves until Hauser begins rethinking that chili-dog he had back on Earth.
"I heard crying. Like a leetle girrrrl."
Spikto spits out his smoke, followed by a creamy white substance. "Sorry. All that buggering I've done over the centuries.. picked up something. Can't help that from just slipping out. Sometimes it's so bad I completely soak Angel/George's pants. Which - medically - should be completely impossible. But..." Spiketo thinks about the leaking and the dripping and starts to make a little sad face, with only accentuates his cheekbones, which are ribbed for YOUR pleasure, and he begins to tear up. Little white dribblets fall from his eyes, and he begins to cry in earnest. Just friggin' WAILING and WEEPING, and yeah... I'm pretty sure those are teeny little dick-head teeth gnashing, too.
Everyone in the room looks away - they've been here before - while Angel/George hunches over his crotch and soothes the poor little weeping cock. The cock with a luxurious yet stiff head of pure, white hair.
From nowhere, oh, okay, from behind the group, a gaggle of geese - no, a squadron of GOONS burst in with guns blazing and mow down the crew, except for Hauser who uses the George/Angel/Spiketo thing as a human sheild. Horrified by the monstrous crybaby dick, the goons sheild their eyes, which gives Hauser enough time to grab a gun, fire an impossible - yet not unheard of - 286 rounds of bullets from a semi-automatic rifle and mow them all down efficiently. Except for all of the civilian casualties, but who cares about them.
"I've learnt NAHTHEENK. Except I will always slip it ON before I slip it EEN so I don't grow a crybaby sad-girl deek."
Kids, don't make your cocks weep. Or leak. OR THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU.
This PSA brought to you by the letters W, T and F. And the number eleven billionity. And it's always Defriend Stoney Amnesty Day. :-D Cheers!