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Nanowrimo, Day 27: Writing almost-sex scenes with kittens as a reward for every 100 words feels really rather wrong. Tomorrow, more sex! Who needs plot anyway?

Excerpt:
Chip rolled over and dragged himself up onto the bed and onto Icarus, his knees on the hard wood then slipping on the blanket, elbows sinking into the mattress. Icarus shifted a leg to one side as Chip eased his way over him and said, his voice breathy but serious, eyes shining, "This is Crowley's bed," and Chip was not sure if Icarus was upset or amused at the fact, so he dipped his head and kissed Icarus, arms slipping under his chest and pulling him up, and laughed into the hollow of Icarus' throat. It was a high-pitched, strident and fast laugh at the absurdity of it all, because here he was groping a fallen angel on a demon's bed and tomorrow they were going to steal an army. The world was in a hand basket and his lover was dead and the man in his arms could be dead tomorrow and all he wanted to do was press himself closer to the body beneath him and melt into it.




45404 / 50000 words. 91% done!


* E. E. Cummings, "i like my body when it is with your"
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