chapel sexy

Tie Game!

The results are in! You think Karl Urban and Padma Lakshmi are equally attractive. possibly_thrice suggests they should just join forces to create a single child of incredible hotness. I disagree, but only because if anyone gets to have sex with Padma Lakshmi, it should be me!




Photobucket Photobucket


I really can't stop looking at that photo of Karl Urban.

This post has spawned a McCoy bondage fest over in boosette's journal.
I think we should have some impromptu McCoy bondage commentfic.


I vote Chapel does the tying.
I dunno, I'm in the middle of Epic Uhura McCoy friendship fic, so I kind of vote Uhura. Or both Uhura and Chapel, maybe.
IMPROMPTU COMMENTFIC
49 hours. 25 of them unexpected.

When he gets home, Joss is waiting in the kitchen, a naked woman-bodied shadow with the light of the streetlamp through the window richly orange and broken on her back.

"I'm sorry," he says: if it were anything else he were trying to tell her he doesn't know if he could manage it, the intricacies of communication, but these words are carved in the marrow of his bones and they come easy as blood from a reopened scar.

He holds onto the doorway. She steps towards him, her bare feet squeaking on tile.

"Good," she says, and "Come," putting her long hand over his, unwrapping his fingers one by one from the sleek synthewood.

Her breath on his face smells of too much coffee. She turns her head and the light flashes off the tear track along the side of her nose, a triangle of sudden pale gold slicing out of solid dark flesh, gone again when she tugs him forward. "Joss," he mumbles, "Joss, Joss;" and stumbles at her guiding. In her arms, the strange underwater grace of exhaustion.

He did that. But the guilt seems like it's happening to someone else, so far away.

Their bed, unmade and cool, feels like a kiss.

She lowers him onto it. "Don't you call me that," she warns him. "Not right now."

"No sir," he says, smiling stupidly. "Thank you," he adds, because he has to, his gratitude so hard in his throat.

"Hm," Joss says. She explores his tie with a light touch. It's askew, badly, pulled almost over his shoulder sometime in the course of the night. She straightens it, and drags him an inch off the pillow with it, everything steady from shoulder to wrist and the rest of her trembling faintly, blurred at each bright edge.

When she lets go he blacks out for a second.

"Len?"

"'mfine," he says.

Her laughter jangles.

"Maybe so, honey," she says. The knot comes apart for her after a gentle twist, and maybe she did something while he couldn't see or maybe she didn't and she just knows how to undo things too well to waste time with loops and physics. Anyhow she understands knots. Always has.

Off his shirt comes, in a whisper of bloody fabric, dried stiff.

"Roll over," she tells him.

He tries, he really does, but he's too heavy for his slack muscles, and eventually she has to help him along, with a grunt and a curse and a flicker of tongue against his nape.

He whines low into the staticky folds of the pillow cover.

"Hush," says Joss, expertly weaving half the length of his tie in and out of his forearms until they're laced together like the flaps of a shoe. The material is quick, slippery; he can feel the raised rougher parts of the design (red planets on blue silk, he remembers, because she picked it for him, two days ago) scraping his tender tendons.

She finishes up. He can't move for his tiredness, he hasn't blinked in minutes because he doubts he'll finish the job if he starts, but even if he could he wouldn't be able to move his hands. It's the principle of the thing that counts, he knows, with Joss. So only after she's satisfied with the firmness of her binding does she undress him the rest of the way and tuck him under wrinkly sheets and tether the other end of the tie to the bedpost.

"Hope you didn't have plans for next week," she says, sliding in after him to the saggy depths of the mattress.

"None that I know of," he says.

She hugs him close; reaches up to grip his right arm. Her thumb digs into the well of his elbow, hot and round, and in the morning-- or the afternoon, more like-- her anger will be awful and true, and there will be limits to what limits can do for them both, then.

But he has: a line and a safeness and the person he loves best in the world, surrounding his skin.
You say that like their having a baby of ultimate hotness and you having sex with her are mutually exclusive!
Yay! Everyone wins!

And that picture of Karl is mesmerizing....