18,000 words and counting
Jul. 19th, 2009 10:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
redorchidsSpending most of my time working on the mirrors for my CSI 'verse. I'm writing both remaining mirrors at the same time, for a lot of different reasons, and so far, it's all coming together nicely. The 18k (I'm projecting 70k for both, because I'd like all three parts to be of equal length.) I have now is nearly all backstory. The Spyro is more or less done. The Ryden is somewhere around 75%, I think. Joncer is getting into drinking games and Pete is being cryptic. Fun times for all. :-)
LAS VEGAS - SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Brendon wakes up with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that something is very, very wrong.
He opens his eyes, looks around. He's in his own bed, alone. Good. The sheets are a tangled mess but don't smell like someone has been having crazy monkey sex on them. Or thrown up anywhere. Also good.
He does a mental check of his body and reconfirms his headache, along with a queasy feeling to his stomach and general sluggishness. He's sweaty but not sticky; ass and throat both feel fine. So he didn't get fucked then. For some reason, there's a sting of disappointment as he draws the conclusion. Which doesn't make sense, because Brendon promised himself after the last disastrous time he ended up sleeping with a guy he met at a club that he would stay away from random hook ups.
Something is floating at the back of his mind, just far enough out of reach that he can't tell if it's a memory or a dream or some kind of combination of the two. He can sense pleasure in it. Kissing. Bodies moving together. Even through the layers of confusion, it's enough to make his pulse speed up. He knows from experience that it won't get clearer even if he tries to sort it out, though, so he doesn't bother, brushes it off as spoils of war.
He sits up in bed and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Freezes. Does a double-take.
This is not the shirt he was wearing to the bar last night.
LAS VEGAS - SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Brendon wakes up with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that something is very, very wrong.
He opens his eyes, looks around. He's in his own bed, alone. Good. The sheets are a tangled mess but don't smell like someone has been having crazy monkey sex on them. Or thrown up anywhere. Also good.
He does a mental check of his body and reconfirms his headache, along with a queasy feeling to his stomach and general sluggishness. He's sweaty but not sticky; ass and throat both feel fine. So he didn't get fucked then. For some reason, there's a sting of disappointment as he draws the conclusion. Which doesn't make sense, because Brendon promised himself after the last disastrous time he ended up sleeping with a guy he met at a club that he would stay away from random hook ups.
Something is floating at the back of his mind, just far enough out of reach that he can't tell if it's a memory or a dream or some kind of combination of the two. He can sense pleasure in it. Kissing. Bodies moving together. Even through the layers of confusion, it's enough to make his pulse speed up. He knows from experience that it won't get clearer even if he tries to sort it out, though, so he doesn't bother, brushes it off as spoils of war.
He sits up in bed and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Freezes. Does a double-take.
This is not the shirt he was wearing to the bar last night.
