Not writing essay, rereading Secretary.
Appropriate icon like whoa.
What should I be doing? Writing my essay. What is my brain doing? Spitting out the following: "A Passage to India is a really boring book. I didn't like it at all. In fact, I barely read any of it. I just read the part of the book I was required to summarize, and even that was boring. I hate it. It's just an Indian 'To Kill A Mockingbird' except with a gay Atticus who loved an Indian man who, in my mind, looks like Naveen Andrews."
Until my mind works again, I'm rereading some Secretary and this bit just got me.
She always watches him when he does this. He reads fast; eyes skimming and flickering, and he doesn’t miss a thing. This letter’s perfect, not a comma out of place; a work of fucking art if you go in for that sort of crap. The ink’s black, and the paper’s cream, and it’s elegant and under-stated, just like him. She starts to think about his bare back, hidden under those crisp shirts, two shades darker than the paper, no more, because he’s so not the soaking up the rays kinda guy, and goes off into this daydream where she’s writing on him, maybe with one of those fucking sharpie pens, hearts and loops and -
ASKFJAKLSJFAKSFJKJFDAFD. I love this fic. I love its hot. I love the mental pictures it shoves in my head.
What should I be doing? Writing my essay. What is my brain doing? Spitting out the following: "A Passage to India is a really boring book. I didn't like it at all. In fact, I barely read any of it. I just read the part of the book I was required to summarize, and even that was boring. I hate it. It's just an Indian 'To Kill A Mockingbird' except with a gay Atticus who loved an Indian man who, in my mind, looks like Naveen Andrews."
Until my mind works again, I'm rereading some Secretary and this bit just got me.
She always watches him when he does this. He reads fast; eyes skimming and flickering, and he doesn’t miss a thing. This letter’s perfect, not a comma out of place; a work of fucking art if you go in for that sort of crap. The ink’s black, and the paper’s cream, and it’s elegant and under-stated, just like him. She starts to think about his bare back, hidden under those crisp shirts, two shades darker than the paper, no more, because he’s so not the soaking up the rays kinda guy, and goes off into this daydream where she’s writing on him, maybe with one of those fucking sharpie pens, hearts and loops and -
ASKFJAKLSJFAKSFJKJFDAFD. I love this fic. I love its hot. I love the mental pictures it shoves in my head.