Can you see me now?

[trinityofone]

ETA: All right, I think I get the general picture. Y'all can stop torturing yourselves now. (And thank you to those who already did!)

Okay, I'm trying to do something cool (read: dorky) with fonts for my Urban Legend Challenge, due tomorrow. The only problem is, I'm afraid that all the shiny pretty fonts that are showing up for me won't be visible for you. So I'd really appreciate it if you'd do me a favor and fill out this



First, take a look at the following sentences. Then fill out the poll.

1. Courier makes essays longer BY MAGIC!
2. Hey, this font is sort of...rakish.
3. And this one's sort of fruity. (Oh God, I just made a font pun.)
4. I like to walk on the beach, but I'm afraid to do more than wade.
5. In my adolescence, I used this font a lot. That says bad things.
6. I'm totally running out of clever things to say.
7. Um, not that I had anything all that clever to say in the first place.
8. Sometimes I'm afraid that my fandom legacy is going to be lesbian ponies.
9. Or priest!kink. Or Canadian spies.
10. Actually, I'm pretty okay with that.

Okay, now in an ideal shiny perfect world, all of those would look different to you--from each other, and from the main text. Did they?

[Poll #681676]

Thank you, thank you, thank you to anybody who actually took the time to fill that horrendous thing out. Um. Now's probably not a good time to tell you that the story doesn't even have any sex in it, is it?

Comments

[siria]

This, of course, is when they're staying near Genoa, right where green mountains tumble down, falling down into the calmer green of the sea. It's near to the city, but somehow, it's quiet and still on this stretch of the coast, and if Rodney closes his eyes and pretends, he can imagine that they're the only two people left. There's a certain kind of peace in that, but with everything Rodney knows, it's too, too easy to imagine, so he only ever does that once, just once.

He prefers to curl himself up in white cotton sheets, around and over John, and sleep in cool white bedrooms. But then in the mornings, always before the sun's up, when everything is still dim, dark, and John's eyes are still grey, John drags him out of bed (what, do you have some kind of fixation?) and up from their villa, up, up, the side of the mountain.

John sits down when they reach the top (or as close as they get, because Rodney might be the fittest he's ever been, but still, not exactly athlete material), legs flexed and stretched out on a bed of grass and wildflowers, tilts his head back and watches the sun come up. Rodney watches the line of John's throat.

Later, John produces a picnic basket (Rodney's never quite able to figure out how he pulled that one off, though he suspects that significant amounts (these words are underlined, in his head. twice) of charm were used on the women in the village) and there's breakfast. Rodney is making these happy little noises as he digs through the basket, and John's grinning, and it's warm and sunny, and the breeze is playing with John's hair, and if ever Rodney thinks he could forget about everything, just forget, it would be here.

John digs a peach out of the basket, curling his fingers around the sun-warmth of it for a moment before biting into the flesh. Rodney swallows once, twice, and he almost has to close his eyes again. Instead, he leans over and licks at the corner of John's mouth where some of the juice has spilled out.


Or something. I miss Tuscany. God, bad me. Essay. Essay!

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Oh my God. You can't do this to me. Peaches. Peaches. I'm a trained Prufrockian, I melt at peaches. And John watching the sun as Rodney watches John's throat...you can't keep doing this to me.

(Please keep doing this to me.)

[siria]

I thought you would appreciate the peaches. I appreciate the peaches. Rodney appreciates the peaches (because the juice is warm on John's skin, and Rodney can taste it, taste peaches and sweetness and John, knows the flavour of him, and he can feel his stomach tighten and his eyelashes flutter closed, and he leans in)

I really should resist the urge to continue writing meandering, self-indulgent crap and just finish this bloody essay. All I need is three to four hundred words of a conclusion, and yet I am stymied. *cries softly*

[wychwood]

Guh.

...I think you broke my feedback muscle.

(I'll write your conclusion! You just, um, get on with what you were doing!)

[siria]

Um. Thank you? I think. I did not mean to inflict pain and injury with my scribblings!

[wychwood]

:) Don't worry, I recovered very quickly...

Such lovely mental images as you were making, though. Mmmm.

[stellahobbit.livejournal.com]

You're story is pure sensuality. I'm getting goosebumps and more please!

Of course, when you finish your essay.

[siria]

Wow. Thank you. What a lovely compliment.

*eyes the essay as it prints off*