I'm on FIRE!
First part of chapter 3 of The Art of Love and Cooking has just been sent to beta reading! Yaaaaay!! I feel super relieved right now; I'll try to write the next two parts as fast as possible -- I'm on a roll! They will be cake compared to that first part, though -- that bitch made me die a thousand deaths, but I ended up prevailing, muahahaha!
Below the cut you'll find the first -- unbeta'd, which means there might be some grammar mistakes -- paragraph of the chapter that you can take as a preview cookie for what's coming, just to say sorry for the long wait and that this fic isn't dead; it's just that I'm horribly slow (and, yeah, I got slightly sidetracked by Sherlock too). Thank you all for your encouraging comments, they've been a great help to me! <3
By the way, there will be only three more chapters to this fic, and the next ones won't be as monstrous as this third chapter, so bear with me, hopefully the wait won't last for months again.
Here we go, preview cookie:
The fuck if Puck knows how they've come to this. Never in a million years would he have imagined how much more fucked-up this situation could be.
And so far everything has been going so great, too... up until the sleeping with Kurt bit. Now that was stupid, he'll concede, but Aurélien can't possibly know about it, now, can he? So why this whole giant mess, all of a sudden? Fuck.
Gill looks utterly lost and keeps searching Puck's face with her eyes, hoping he'll snap out of his speechlessness to finally take things in charge and start giving out instructions. Beatrix may or may not be having a panic attack somewhere inside the house, away from her employers' eyes. Kurt...
He wants to turn Kurt around so he can see his expression. All he sees is his tense back, arms brought up, suggesting Kurt may be hugging himself right now, or maybe just crossing his arms, pretending he doesn't care at all, watching his life, all his carefully laid-out little plans crumble in front of him, with the placidity of a statue.
Puck feels a pull, the strange need to reassure him, to tell him it's going to be all right. Except he isn't entitled to do that, not in front of an already thoroughly fucked-off Aurélien, anyway. Plus, and Kurt would agree, he would even insist on it, what they did doesn't give Puck the right to take Kurt in his arms and kiss the pain away. It doesn't give Puck any right at all, really.
Even if they had the possibility to go back in time, he wouldn't know how to fix this disaster.
A day is all it took for everything to come down crashing.
Below the cut you'll find the first -- unbeta'd, which means there might be some grammar mistakes -- paragraph of the chapter that you can take as a preview cookie for what's coming, just to say sorry for the long wait and that this fic isn't dead; it's just that I'm horribly slow (and, yeah, I got slightly sidetracked by Sherlock too). Thank you all for your encouraging comments, they've been a great help to me! <3
By the way, there will be only three more chapters to this fic, and the next ones won't be as monstrous as this third chapter, so bear with me, hopefully the wait won't last for months again.
Here we go, preview cookie:
The fuck if Puck knows how they've come to this. Never in a million years would he have imagined how much more fucked-up this situation could be.
And so far everything has been going so great, too... up until the sleeping with Kurt bit. Now that was stupid, he'll concede, but Aurélien can't possibly know about it, now, can he? So why this whole giant mess, all of a sudden? Fuck.
Gill looks utterly lost and keeps searching Puck's face with her eyes, hoping he'll snap out of his speechlessness to finally take things in charge and start giving out instructions. Beatrix may or may not be having a panic attack somewhere inside the house, away from her employers' eyes. Kurt...
He wants to turn Kurt around so he can see his expression. All he sees is his tense back, arms brought up, suggesting Kurt may be hugging himself right now, or maybe just crossing his arms, pretending he doesn't care at all, watching his life, all his carefully laid-out little plans crumble in front of him, with the placidity of a statue.
Puck feels a pull, the strange need to reassure him, to tell him it's going to be all right. Except he isn't entitled to do that, not in front of an already thoroughly fucked-off Aurélien, anyway. Plus, and Kurt would agree, he would even insist on it, what they did doesn't give Puck the right to take Kurt in his arms and kiss the pain away. It doesn't give Puck any right at all, really.
Even if they had the possibility to go back in time, he wouldn't know how to fix this disaster.
A day is all it took for everything to come down crashing.