Maybe one day. But today you're *my* little bitch.*

[bending_sickle]

Earlier Today: I've been sitting down for so long that my body literally cannot take it anymore. My poor bum :( Writing the Acknowledgement section makes me feel like an ass, and I don't quite know why. It's hard to say, Omg, I love y'all or I guess you helped, officially in purely scientific-article speak, which translates to "thanks to" and "I appreciate" and so on.

...I am so, so tempted to write, "thanks to X for his mad driving skillz". *sigh* Science-speak is boring!

Jeezy-creezy, I almost put in a smiley-face. My brain, it is fried. Also, I'm such a sap.


Nano: Still 724 words behind. Icarus is coming out too much like Castiel for my liking. (Well, no, I like it fine, I just don't want to get flamed for making a blue-eyed unemotional fallen angel that toes that line of "It's my creation!") Hopefully he'll be more his own man later on. Hey, he beat Chip up, so that's +1 to him and a big fat 0 to the early version of Cas. Writing this right now is like pulling teeth for two reasons: 1) my days are long and lacking in breaks, and I end up writing in the wee hours and 2) the characters are doing things relevant to the plot rather than having freak-outs. Argh.

There was no doubt it was the same man, no matter how unbelievable it was. Those same unnaturally blue eyes that had so startled Chip on the fourth floor were looking at him now on the third. The green plaid boxers that constituted the entirety of Icarus’ wardrobe were right there, skimming a pair of boney knees. The broken chopstick that Saunders had used to splint a broken finger was still dangling from the left hand. Even the black hair that Chip had repeatedly moved back from a sweat-beaded forehead was still the same, still a rebellious mess of cowlicks.

But it simply couldn’t be the same man.

There were no bruises littering the skin, no cuts and scratches crisscrossing arms and chest, no peeling scabs or pink scars. Even Saunders’ home-made stitching was gone without a trace. Chip had the sick feeling that he would find them, sewing thread of a myriad colours tinged with blood, strewn along the hallway and stairs.

Hell, the only physical thing even remotely familiar were the dry and peeling lips. Nothing Saunders did ever fixed that – and for a man armed with the chapsticks, lipbalms and lipglosses of an entire apartment building, that was saying a lot.

Chip tried to coalesce his confusion into a question, something he could say to make the world explain itself yet again for some serious mindfuckery. His mind flickered through all clichés – Who are you?, What are you? How did you get here? How did you heal? – but none satisfactorily expressed his most pressing concern.

“What the hell is going on?” There, that did it. It was the perfect question: covered all angles and expressed an emotion. A very confused, very pissed off and very demanding emotion.

Icarus cocked his head inexpressively, his bird-of-paradise eyes locked on Chips with a frightening focus. “Not yet,” he said quietly, as if to himself. Then he straightened his head said, slightly louder, “We must leave.”

27615 / 50000 words. 55% done!


Quote of the Day: Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation, here

You’re going to leave me, aren’t you? …you’ve had enough of me, haven’t you? You’re probably so tired of all this crying and all these moods, and I’ve got to tell you, so am I. So am I. Sometimes it seems like my mind has a mind of its own, like I just get hysterical, like it’s something I can’t control at all. And I don’t know what to do, and I feel so sorry for you because you don’t know what to do either. And I’m sure you’re going to leave me now.

Links of the Day:

Supernatural
iwantpie's 5x04 "The End" Icons ; Salt and Burn Fanwork Archive
deanscookie's 5x09 "The Real Ghostbusters" Icons
cakeholes's Icons

Doctor Who
qthewetsprcket shares a Master macro - Non-spoilery comment on that moment in the trailer.
passionstorm's Doctor Who Icons
lanarien's Fanvid Just Have Fun (The Master)
mishaland's flocked Clasp, Clasp!, signed by Misha

Random
The Big Penguin Project - 412 Ways to be Killed by the Penguin of Death
Edward Monkton Books - Including, of course, the Penguin of Death


* Castiel, Supernatural

Comments

[seschat.livejournal.com]

NEED TO READ LATER, but this?

Hey, he beat Chip up, so that's +1 to him and a big fat 0 to the early version of Cas.

ZWEBODHIO WMAAGAGAAHAHHAHA PURE GENIUS ♥ :D

[seschat.livejournal.com]

Oh noes.

Now that you say it: I have a character who possibly might coincide with the Luke from Gilmore Girls up to, say, 100%.

His name is even Luke.

What have I done.

[bending-sickle.livejournal.com]

Like with Icarus, Luke isn't that Luke. It's just a source of inspiration or a literary commentary on the character or a charming little shout-out or or... *flails* They're their own people!

That's my story and I'm sticking to it :)

[bending-sickle.livejournal.com]

:D And Chip's all "Omg, I can't move!"

...excerpt, for your mwuahahaing:

...he only got in one swipe and two more hits before retaliation struck.

Bastard struck hard.

Chip staggered back, his vision breaking out the bright lights like it was Christmas, and tried for a blind punch anyway.

Having your fist grabbed mid-swing, Chip learned, was completely emasculating. And painful. Very, very painful.

Fortunately, the even more painful feeling of having said fist squeezed distracted from the initial experience of swinging your fist into a concrete wall.

Chip groaned and tried to twist around enough to swing with his left fist, but the freakishly strong hand pulled him close and around, pressing him against the intruder’s chest. Chip struggled against the weight of his own arm as it was stretched across his chest in a tight band, his shoulder screaming at the strain. When he tried to pry his hand free with his left hand it too was trapped in a vice and pulled down towards his hip.

I’m going to die in a lame rapper pose, thought Chip.