wherein my brain is fried
Yesterday there was fic: next stop, dinner theater. Sam/Dean, NC-17. I was shocked at how I did not have a hard time writing Dean POV Wincest.
Normally that's something that my brain does not want to do.
Huh.
MEANWHILE I am writing the most self-indulgent OFC het story EVER and I may be shunned for it. Will oral sex on a boat make up for it? Or have I doomed myself?
Right, I am going to finish that damn story if it kills me.
Because...there are ten thousand and one other stories that need to be written.
Part of what I've written so far:
snippet from hook, line, and sinker
He's still taking in her home, noticing the Cutty Sark on the dividing sill between the pullout bunk bends and the galley, a model that she's repaired herself. He chuckles at the little clear-green alien wedged onto the deck, legs stuck over a little barrel so he can't move. Dean flicks his green eyes over to her, watches her through the sails, and for a moment, she pretends to be a giant, lording over Lilliputians or something, and not a little green alien that she got ages ago from an ex, maybe, at an arcade, one of those cheap five tickets for a prize gifts that happens when you're stupid and in love and everything means something.
"That's pretty cool," Dean says, runs a finger along the plaque proclaiming it to be a limited replica.
"Thanks," she says, handing him the beer, realizing at the last moment that she forget to pop off the cap but he does it with little fanfare. Pops it off in his hand, takes her a moment to realize that he uses the ring on his finger to bear the weight of yanking the bottle cap off.
The bedroom at the bow, without anything to separate it from the rest of the living quarters, is distracting enough, thinking how they're going to fit there, it's just barely six foot across on an angle and he could be a bit bigger than that, she's terrible with heights. There's only taller than her, same height, and shorter than her.
"Endlessly rocking," Dean quotes back to her, lets loose a deep laugh when he nearly whacks himself in the mouth with the bottle as a hard wave hits against the boat.
*
Seriously...I must be stopped. I have Dean quoting Walt Whitman back to her (she quotes it earlier). And this is such a summer romance kind of story but at the same time, if I don't finish it now? I'm never going to. Damn my brain.
Normally that's something that my brain does not want to do.
Huh.
MEANWHILE I am writing the most self-indulgent OFC het story EVER and I may be shunned for it. Will oral sex on a boat make up for it? Or have I doomed myself?
Right, I am going to finish that damn story if it kills me.
Because...there are ten thousand and one other stories that need to be written.
Part of what I've written so far:
snippet from hook, line, and sinker
He's still taking in her home, noticing the Cutty Sark on the dividing sill between the pullout bunk bends and the galley, a model that she's repaired herself. He chuckles at the little clear-green alien wedged onto the deck, legs stuck over a little barrel so he can't move. Dean flicks his green eyes over to her, watches her through the sails, and for a moment, she pretends to be a giant, lording over Lilliputians or something, and not a little green alien that she got ages ago from an ex, maybe, at an arcade, one of those cheap five tickets for a prize gifts that happens when you're stupid and in love and everything means something.
"That's pretty cool," Dean says, runs a finger along the plaque proclaiming it to be a limited replica.
"Thanks," she says, handing him the beer, realizing at the last moment that she forget to pop off the cap but he does it with little fanfare. Pops it off in his hand, takes her a moment to realize that he uses the ring on his finger to bear the weight of yanking the bottle cap off.
The bedroom at the bow, without anything to separate it from the rest of the living quarters, is distracting enough, thinking how they're going to fit there, it's just barely six foot across on an angle and he could be a bit bigger than that, she's terrible with heights. There's only taller than her, same height, and shorter than her.
"Endlessly rocking," Dean quotes back to her, lets loose a deep laugh when he nearly whacks himself in the mouth with the bottle as a hard wave hits against the boat.
*
Seriously...I must be stopped. I have Dean quoting Walt Whitman back to her (she quotes it earlier). And this is such a summer romance kind of story but at the same time, if I don't finish it now? I'm never going to. Damn my brain.