See Nichole. See Nichole avoid homework.
Let me tell you a story!
Once upon a time, in a land exactly like this one, there lived a fangirl who could actually finish stories. She's been missing for a while now. Maybe she's been locked in a tower (of homework and gloom), or poisoned by a witch, or cursed to sleep for 100 years (and doesn't that sound nice?). Whatever, the point here is that she's gone, and has been for a while, and as it turns out, I would like her back. If found, please return and all that jazz. I'm going to talk to the milk carton people about making getting a photo put up.
Um. And then no one made out. The end.
THAT IS A TERRIBLE STORY. I CAN'T FINISH ANYTHING. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
I started a new story last night. Yes, another one. The name of this doc file--as I know some of you *cough* will be so very interested to learn--is "hairpullingyay."
"Sergeant," Eames said, his voice lowered and roughened with smoke. He gave a halfhearted salute and disn't miss the way that Arthur's fingers twitch to- Do something. Return the gesture or flip him the bird or maybe grab for his weapon; it'd always been more difficult to predict with Arthur than is reasonable, really.
"Not anymore." Arthur's mouth was thinned, his eyebrows pulled down. He wore well-fitted Levi's and a grey jumper over a collared white shirt. His sleeves were pushed and folded to his elbows and his collar was open. His hair brushed against his jaw, and he shoved it back with an impatient hand. He was everything Eames had forgotten to be dreaming of, and it was like he wasn't glad to see Eames at all.
Eames grinned, the way he always has when faced with a lot of fire.
"I can see that, darling," Eames said so condescendingly it would have mortally wounded a lesser man than Arthur. He reached forward, winding Arthur's hair around his index and middle fingers, and gave it just the tiniest of tugs to emphasize his point.
Arthur broke both of those fingers and his big toe, fractured a rib, and stole the rest of his drink.
"Fuck," Eames hissed, curled around his hand in pain and three-fourths of the way to in love. "Lovely to see you again, honestly."
He pushed his hair away from his face again with the back of his wrist, and grinned quick and painfully sharp, flashing his dimples like a tease. "You too, Eames," he said, toasting Eames with his own now empty glass just to finish him off, "honestly."
So. That happened. Also, Simon Pegg is fanboying about Inception on Twitter and it makes me happy.
Once upon a time, in a land exactly like this one, there lived a fangirl who could actually finish stories. She's been missing for a while now. Maybe she's been locked in a tower (of homework and gloom), or poisoned by a witch, or cursed to sleep for 100 years (and doesn't that sound nice?). Whatever, the point here is that she's gone, and has been for a while, and as it turns out, I would like her back. If found, please return and all that jazz. I'm going to talk to the milk carton people about making getting a photo put up.
Um. And then no one made out. The end.
THAT IS A TERRIBLE STORY. I CAN'T FINISH ANYTHING. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
I started a new story last night. Yes, another one. The name of this doc file--as I know some of you *cough* will be so very interested to learn--is "hairpullingyay."
"Sergeant," Eames said, his voice lowered and roughened with smoke. He gave a halfhearted salute and disn't miss the way that Arthur's fingers twitch to- Do something. Return the gesture or flip him the bird or maybe grab for his weapon; it'd always been more difficult to predict with Arthur than is reasonable, really.
"Not anymore." Arthur's mouth was thinned, his eyebrows pulled down. He wore well-fitted Levi's and a grey jumper over a collared white shirt. His sleeves were pushed and folded to his elbows and his collar was open. His hair brushed against his jaw, and he shoved it back with an impatient hand. He was everything Eames had forgotten to be dreaming of, and it was like he wasn't glad to see Eames at all.
Eames grinned, the way he always has when faced with a lot of fire.
"I can see that, darling," Eames said so condescendingly it would have mortally wounded a lesser man than Arthur. He reached forward, winding Arthur's hair around his index and middle fingers, and gave it just the tiniest of tugs to emphasize his point.
Arthur broke both of those fingers and his big toe, fractured a rib, and stole the rest of his drink.
"Fuck," Eames hissed, curled around his hand in pain and three-fourths of the way to in love. "Lovely to see you again, honestly."
He pushed his hair away from his face again with the back of his wrist, and grinned quick and painfully sharp, flashing his dimples like a tease. "You too, Eames," he said, toasting Eames with his own now empty glass just to finish him off, "honestly."
So. That happened. Also, Simon Pegg is fanboying about Inception on Twitter and it makes me happy.