[ The entrapment of Adam Parrish: a play in seven acts, alternating between soulful dedications to cats and mice and back again. Like any good squad, they infiltrate the home without alerting the sleeping enemy (Opal) of their presence and negotiate a slow, valiant journey to the great kitchen unknowns.
Warmth wafts around them, sickly. He lets the heaters scream out their metallic joy until there's a lick of comfort riding up the ice path where Adam's fingers crossed his belly earlier, demure. Until he looks at Adam's hands, straddling the counters and fridge surface, and sees something resembling human flesh and not frozen extensions.
Now, he supposes, would be a good time to remind Adam about the benefits of a decently well supplied pantry. Observe, from Ronan Lynch's dexterous hands, unto the world, delivered in two sheepish treks to and fro crowded shelves: Kraft mac. A virtual mountain of obscenely overpriced cheese, to complement it. And a wild, likely hazardous burden of spices.
Behold, too: a pot, dangling and respectably clean.
Lo, he is a provider, and his duties have been met. ]
How about you get cookin', good-lookin', and I spare you the theatrics til you no longer look likely to swoon all over me? [ A beat. ] At least fall on my dick, for fuck's sake.
[ He's not... deflecting. That's for lesser men, none named Lynch. But there's no harm in biding time and coming up with a solution to his tenebrous, long-winged problem, before he serves Adam yet another reminder of why going in for the Lynch long-haul is an eternally losing bet. ]
no subject
Warmth wafts around them, sickly. He lets the heaters scream out their metallic joy until there's a lick of comfort riding up the ice path where Adam's fingers crossed his belly earlier, demure. Until he looks at Adam's hands, straddling the counters and fridge surface, and sees something resembling human flesh and not frozen extensions.
Now, he supposes, would be a good time to remind Adam about the benefits of a decently well supplied pantry. Observe, from Ronan Lynch's dexterous hands, unto the world, delivered in two sheepish treks to and fro crowded shelves: Kraft mac. A virtual mountain of obscenely overpriced cheese, to complement it. And a wild, likely hazardous burden of spices.
Behold, too: a pot, dangling and respectably clean.
Lo, he is a provider, and his duties have been met. ]
How about you get cookin', good-lookin', and I spare you the theatrics til you no longer look likely to swoon all over me? [ A beat. ] At least fall on my dick, for fuck's sake.
[ He's not... deflecting. That's for lesser men, none named Lynch. But there's no harm in biding time and coming up with a solution to his tenebrous, long-winged problem, before he serves Adam yet another reminder of why going in for the Lynch long-haul is an eternally losing bet. ]