911, what is your emergency?*
Nano: Action scenes, or flashbacks of action scenes, are flippin' hard. Not as hard as keeping your guts in whilst careening down the highway, or patching up major wounds in the dark, but still, hard. Also, there's slight slash, as in fade-to-black after the first kiss. Still, squee, right? (Except oh gods, my family wants to read this.)
“Goddamnit, Steve, hold still!”
“It hurts! You hold still!”
The car swerved wildly, running off the street and scratching the metal along the sidewalk before Chip straightened it one-handed. His other hand was crimson up to the wrist, pressing against Steven’s side.
“If you can whine, you’re fine,” said Chip, but their age-old motto rang hollow over the car’s engine and Steven’s groans of pain. Chip stepped down harder on the gas pedal, anything to get away from the goddamn carnage back there, the whole city gone up in blood and guts, floor slick like an altar for the Mayan Gods, whose pyramids ran with rivers of blood.
He was hurt too, he knew, from the sting in his shoulder and the sick tickling sensation slipping down his arm. That didn’t matter, though. Steven mattered and Steven was shredded. He didn’t know what weapon had done it - anything from a broken compact disc to a switch-blade - but it had left a gaping hole in Steven’s side, his guts slipping out like a slow-motion piñata.
Chip pressed harder at the wound, eliciting a groan from Steven which made him wince but he wasn’t going to let up the pressure. Steven’s hands clenched around Chip’s, the nails digging deep into the skin.
“Come fly down from Vancouver,” panted Steven, throwing Chip’s invitation back into his face, “we’ll have a whale of a time.” He grimaced painfully and Chip gave up on watching the road, just kept his foot on the gas and his hand on Steven.
“I fucking hate whales,” muttered Steven.
38494 / 50000 words. 77% done!
* 911, USA
“Goddamnit, Steve, hold still!”
“It hurts! You hold still!”
The car swerved wildly, running off the street and scratching the metal along the sidewalk before Chip straightened it one-handed. His other hand was crimson up to the wrist, pressing against Steven’s side.
“If you can whine, you’re fine,” said Chip, but their age-old motto rang hollow over the car’s engine and Steven’s groans of pain. Chip stepped down harder on the gas pedal, anything to get away from the goddamn carnage back there, the whole city gone up in blood and guts, floor slick like an altar for the Mayan Gods, whose pyramids ran with rivers of blood.
He was hurt too, he knew, from the sting in his shoulder and the sick tickling sensation slipping down his arm. That didn’t matter, though. Steven mattered and Steven was shredded. He didn’t know what weapon had done it - anything from a broken compact disc to a switch-blade - but it had left a gaping hole in Steven’s side, his guts slipping out like a slow-motion piñata.
Chip pressed harder at the wound, eliciting a groan from Steven which made him wince but he wasn’t going to let up the pressure. Steven’s hands clenched around Chip’s, the nails digging deep into the skin.
“Come fly down from Vancouver,” panted Steven, throwing Chip’s invitation back into his face, “we’ll have a whale of a time.” He grimaced painfully and Chip gave up on watching the road, just kept his foot on the gas and his hand on Steven.
“I fucking hate whales,” muttered Steven.
38494 / 50000 words. 77% done!
* 911, USA