byrdm4n

“Goddammit, Cindy, could you at least try to smile?” John McCain snarled as he tugged uncomfortably at his uniform, as Col. Saul Tigh from Battlestar Galactica. “Just because you’re … cosplaying as a robot doesn’t mean you should act inhuman.”

“But I am smiling, John,” Cindy McCain insisted placidly, her rictus grin fixed on her face, as she smoothed down her skimpy, slinky red dress, as Number Six. “You should keep the eyepatch,” she cooed, adjusting it for him. “It makes you look … mmmm, rugged.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” John nodded. “It’s a miracle I didn’t lose my eye in ‘Nam … yeah, that’d remind people what I went through, when they try and argue with how I define ‘torture,’ since I’ve actually been tortured –”

“Oooh, John,” Cindy hissed through clenched teeth, rubbing up against him. “It gets me so hot when you get all worked up like this.” Her eyes twinkled as she purred demurely, “Does this mean you’ll be … ‘interrogating’ me again, later on?”

John grabbed her roughly, by the perfectly coiffed hairs on the back of her neck, and pulled her forcefully into an embrace. “What do you think, you traitorous Cylon whore?” he growled, devouring her mouth with an overpowering kiss.