![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Monthly word count - november
TOTAL: 4 272 words, slight progress compared to the last couple months... :X
Posted: nothin
In progress:
-madatobiizu ABO chapter idk (1 825 words)
-bleach grimmichinelhime suburban ot4 (1 379 words)
-bleach... BLOODSPORT (1 068 words, let's see if it returns straight to its hibernation cave or what.)
--
madatobiizu
--
Izuna was having fun holding court with the other three, but Haruno Koumei stayed by Madara, offering a pleasantly tart stream of observations on the shops they passed by and some civilians she knew, light and amusing enough that Madara only had to snort or chuckle here and there to keep her entertained. Then they got started commenting on the architecture, and Madara, it turned out, had Opinions.
He had not been aware he had Opinions. The fact that these strange tile toppers had originated in Earth Country instead of being some strange Daimyo-encouraged fad did not endear them to him. They were in the capital of Fire Country and their ancient style was fine as it was, and it didn't match anyway. No, not even in copper. Ugly. Ugly and the little statues of lion-dogs were borderline an invasive species.
"So, did you guys actually want to see the play, or do you want to criticize the theater first?" Izuna asked them eventually, smirking with his whole face. Madara flicked his ear in revenge and swept inside first, Koumei following on his heels with a pretend-haughty huff that cracked into a laugh the second she was in. Her sisters packed up close, the trio immediately starting to repeat snippets of commentary they'd overheard in funny voices.
"Party of six, sir?"
"Regrettably, yes," Madara agreed dryly, and pulled out his purse.
--
bloodsport
--
"How's dad?" he murmured from the doorway. His mom glanced over her laptop, made a commiserating face.
"Oh, he's..."
"Mostly alive!" Isshin tried to chirp, but didn't lift the arm he had rested across his eyes. His feet kept dangling over the arm of the couch like dead weights.
So... It hurt enough to keep him from sleeping.
For the tenth time today Ichigo reeled in his empathy -- telekinesis, awareness, whatever the fuck his hollow sense was, that mapping/echolocating/grabbing/feeling here's-something-alive and here's-how-it-tastes. He pulled it to him like a fisherman drawing his nets closer; but it wouldn't help long, because no matter how he trained the second he stopped paying attention his field of effect would relax and spread out all over again.
But when he touched Dad with it, his dad noticed, and his dad was a psychic null. Nowadays.
Kind of.
Mostly.
Ichigo had a bad night, and this morning his dad had a migraine. "Sorry."
His mom sighed -- closed the laptop, patted the armchair next to hers. "Come here, Icchan."
Ugh. Ichigo didn't want to talk. He'd wanted to go to the bathroom and back. Maybe with a kitchen stop. But his sisters were out of the suite and he'd spent the last five days brooding like an emo teen in his room, and his dad's head hurt. "... Yeah, okay."
There was a water pitcher on the coffee table; his mom filled a glass for her husband, and went rummaging in the room service cart next to her. "Soda? Beer? Vodka?"
"... *Mom*."
"Vodka for me, darling honey."
"Haha! Not even in a dream. You can have another pill in a half-hour and that's my best offer."
--
suburban ot4
--
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: don't ignore me kurosaki
Cat bastard: i will piss on your pillow
Me: good luck getting your dirty dick past my dad and my kick-happy soccer sister in one piece
Cat bastard: oh, i'll get my dick *past* them at some point
Cat bastard: but this ain't about getting laid for now.
Me: ...
Me: i will fucking GELD you.
Cat bastard: your sisters *and* your dad will be sad, though.
Cat bastard: :)
A bark of laughter makes it out of Ichigo's mouth without Ichigo's permission. Orihime makes an inquiring noise. He shakes his head, he'll tell her in a minute, that azurean taint muncher is still typing.
--
and another bit because i wanna :p
--
"Why are you upside down in the cupboard, Grimmjow."
There's a broom cupboard on the landing, or at least they use it for brooms. Right now they're not using it for anything because the pipes running at the back of it are sweating rust water.
So when Ichigo walks up he is treated to the sight of long legs in shorts walking up the walls and a torso bared almost to the nipples by the tanktop failing to cling to the rippling muscles underneath.
"... Fuck off," Grimmjow grumbles from down there, hands splayed on the ground with the tendons in sharp relief. His face is a little flushed and Ichigo wants to pretend it's all blood going to his head and effort. He also wants to pretend it's embarrassment for being caught doing something weird, because Grimmjow usually has the self-assurance of a cat accidentally fallen off the counter -- I meant to do that and you can't prove otherwise -- but that would embarrass Ichigo by proxy.
"No, seriously."
"What does it look like," Grimmjow grumbles, and tucks his heels behind the built-in hanging rod.
Then he crosses his hands behind his head and folds up.
Hhhghg.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
Holy shit that fucking bastard has the rib muscles. The side zigzag ones that only exist on pro boxers and underwear models.
"Most solid -- hff -- thing -- in the house-- and I ain't -- exercised -- in weeks."
"... Oh... Makes sense."
"Work's good -- for lifting crates--but--"
"Oh yeah, no, it's not a complete workout, yeah, fair."
If he tears the bar out of the wall somehow -- Ichigo doubts, it looks like it's embedded into the wall instead of leaning on tiny nails -- Ichigo is fully willing to blame the leaky pipes for rotting through the bricks or something.
Up, down, up. Grimmjow holds position, elbows almost touching his knees. Ichigo watches dumbly. Fucking shoulders. Why are they so thick.
Posted: nothin
In progress:
-madatobiizu ABO chapter idk (1 825 words)
-bleach grimmichinelhime suburban ot4 (1 379 words)
-bleach... BLOODSPORT (1 068 words, let's see if it returns straight to its hibernation cave or what.)
--
madatobiizu
--
Izuna was having fun holding court with the other three, but Haruno Koumei stayed by Madara, offering a pleasantly tart stream of observations on the shops they passed by and some civilians she knew, light and amusing enough that Madara only had to snort or chuckle here and there to keep her entertained. Then they got started commenting on the architecture, and Madara, it turned out, had Opinions.
He had not been aware he had Opinions. The fact that these strange tile toppers had originated in Earth Country instead of being some strange Daimyo-encouraged fad did not endear them to him. They were in the capital of Fire Country and their ancient style was fine as it was, and it didn't match anyway. No, not even in copper. Ugly. Ugly and the little statues of lion-dogs were borderline an invasive species.
"So, did you guys actually want to see the play, or do you want to criticize the theater first?" Izuna asked them eventually, smirking with his whole face. Madara flicked his ear in revenge and swept inside first, Koumei following on his heels with a pretend-haughty huff that cracked into a laugh the second she was in. Her sisters packed up close, the trio immediately starting to repeat snippets of commentary they'd overheard in funny voices.
"Party of six, sir?"
"Regrettably, yes," Madara agreed dryly, and pulled out his purse.
--
bloodsport
--
"How's dad?" he murmured from the doorway. His mom glanced over her laptop, made a commiserating face.
"Oh, he's..."
"Mostly alive!" Isshin tried to chirp, but didn't lift the arm he had rested across his eyes. His feet kept dangling over the arm of the couch like dead weights.
So... It hurt enough to keep him from sleeping.
For the tenth time today Ichigo reeled in his empathy -- telekinesis, awareness, whatever the fuck his hollow sense was, that mapping/echolocating/grabbing/feeling here's-something-alive and here's-how-it-tastes. He pulled it to him like a fisherman drawing his nets closer; but it wouldn't help long, because no matter how he trained the second he stopped paying attention his field of effect would relax and spread out all over again.
But when he touched Dad with it, his dad noticed, and his dad was a psychic null. Nowadays.
Kind of.
Mostly.
Ichigo had a bad night, and this morning his dad had a migraine. "Sorry."
His mom sighed -- closed the laptop, patted the armchair next to hers. "Come here, Icchan."
Ugh. Ichigo didn't want to talk. He'd wanted to go to the bathroom and back. Maybe with a kitchen stop. But his sisters were out of the suite and he'd spent the last five days brooding like an emo teen in his room, and his dad's head hurt. "... Yeah, okay."
There was a water pitcher on the coffee table; his mom filled a glass for her husband, and went rummaging in the room service cart next to her. "Soda? Beer? Vodka?"
"... *Mom*."
"Vodka for me, darling honey."
"Haha! Not even in a dream. You can have another pill in a half-hour and that's my best offer."
--
suburban ot4
--
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: kurosaki
Cat bastard: don't ignore me kurosaki
Cat bastard: i will piss on your pillow
Me: good luck getting your dirty dick past my dad and my kick-happy soccer sister in one piece
Cat bastard: oh, i'll get my dick *past* them at some point
Cat bastard: but this ain't about getting laid for now.
Me: ...
Me: i will fucking GELD you.
Cat bastard: your sisters *and* your dad will be sad, though.
Cat bastard: :)
A bark of laughter makes it out of Ichigo's mouth without Ichigo's permission. Orihime makes an inquiring noise. He shakes his head, he'll tell her in a minute, that azurean taint muncher is still typing.
--
and another bit because i wanna :p
--
"Why are you upside down in the cupboard, Grimmjow."
There's a broom cupboard on the landing, or at least they use it for brooms. Right now they're not using it for anything because the pipes running at the back of it are sweating rust water.
So when Ichigo walks up he is treated to the sight of long legs in shorts walking up the walls and a torso bared almost to the nipples by the tanktop failing to cling to the rippling muscles underneath.
"... Fuck off," Grimmjow grumbles from down there, hands splayed on the ground with the tendons in sharp relief. His face is a little flushed and Ichigo wants to pretend it's all blood going to his head and effort. He also wants to pretend it's embarrassment for being caught doing something weird, because Grimmjow usually has the self-assurance of a cat accidentally fallen off the counter -- I meant to do that and you can't prove otherwise -- but that would embarrass Ichigo by proxy.
"No, seriously."
"What does it look like," Grimmjow grumbles, and tucks his heels behind the built-in hanging rod.
Then he crosses his hands behind his head and folds up.
Hhhghg.
Down. Up. Down. Up.
Holy shit that fucking bastard has the rib muscles. The side zigzag ones that only exist on pro boxers and underwear models.
"Most solid -- hff -- thing -- in the house-- and I ain't -- exercised -- in weeks."
"... Oh... Makes sense."
"Work's good -- for lifting crates--but--"
"Oh yeah, no, it's not a complete workout, yeah, fair."
If he tears the bar out of the wall somehow -- Ichigo doubts, it looks like it's embedded into the wall instead of leaning on tiny nails -- Ichigo is fully willing to blame the leaky pipes for rotting through the bricks or something.
Up, down, up. Grimmjow holds position, elbows almost touching his knees. Ichigo watches dumbly. Fucking shoulders. Why are they so thick.