WiPpet Wednesday: pretty distractions

Despite not actually liking dolls because I find them disturbing, I've wanted an asian ball-jointed doll for a while.  And for a while, I mean "at least seven years".  I think I like them because the kind I'm interested in aren't intended to look cutesy.  They're intended to look like grown men and women, which somehow makes them significantly less disturbing.

So somehow, to commemorate me actually completing Ready, Set, WRITE without dropping out and with actually increasing bit-by-bit the amount I wrote, I finally ordered myself one.

It's a tiny bit terrifying.

But the funny thing is...  after over seven years of waiting and wishing, and then finally ordering myself one...

About ten days after that, I ordered another.  So after all this time, I'm now waiting for two!  And I have to admit, I'm particularly looking forward to the second...  He's a limited edition re-run of an old model, and the reason why I ordered him is because the moment I saw him, I realised he looks uncannily like one of my characters.  The character in question is Milos, and he's not a character I ever expected to be able to find, being as he is this guy to the right, a dokkalfa with a quite specific face shape (his nose and jaw in particular don't seem that common...).

So of course, I couldn't resist...

And now I have to wait at least three months for him to even be made!  *whimper*  Even when he gets here, there's so much work that'll need to be done: he'll need eyes (yep, scary...) and hair, and I'll have to paint his face so he's not just plain dark grey resin...

I'm actually really looking forward to it!  Enough that I've finally started working on 2012's NaNo again, which I always felt a little bad about never finishing, particularly since it left a gaping hole in the continuity of the shorter stories.  And best of all, I'll finally to write one scene that's been in my head all this time and throw Milos's partner Alex off a tower block.  *grins*

As to whether doll!Milos will get an Alex as well...  well, I'm categorically not looking for one...  *cough*

WiPpet Wednesday

It's WiPpet Wednesday, a weekly blog hop organised by the always-lovely K. L. Schwengel that shares snippets from participants' works in progress where every entry relates in some way to the date, either by simple means or complicated WiPpet Maths.  You find out more, can read other posts and join in yourself by signing up over here.

Today is the 9th September, 09/09, and the maths is simple: 9 + 9 for 18 sentences that follow not-quite-directly on from last week, but near enough.  Fayth considered shooting RQ in the legs and carrying him instead, but didn't feel too inclined towards being bled on...  (I'm sure RQ appreciated it too.)

Two corridors along he found what he was looking for.  RQ stopped struggling, standing sullenly as far from Fayth as his reach would allow, while Fayth pounded at the elevator call button and prayed it wasn’t occupied when it arrived.

“You don’t understand.”

Fayth thumped the button again, hoping it disguised the way he jumped at the words.  “I don’t understand what?”

RQ wouldn’t look at him.  “Anything.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the ping of the opening door beat him to it.  There was no point reasoning with RQ now anyway, the determined set of his jaw screamed that he wouldn’t listen to a word Fayth said.  He dragged him inside the elevator instead. 

The problem was, even sulky and obstructive, RQ was still easily the most stunning man Fayth had ever seen.  His mood reflected in the lower lip pooched out without his even realising it.  His blue-green eyes were half-closed and determinedly distant.  He still wore the clothes Fayth had left for the expected woman in his room.  If Fayth shoved him against the wall and kissed him like his life depended on it, it’d only be his own fault, looking as incredible in cheap, flimsy clothes and dangerous surroundings as he did.

Only it’d be all Fayth’s fault, not RQ’s, and he couldn’t inflict that kind of pain on him again.  Not on anyone without their implicit permission, in fact—and hadn’t that fallen flat before, with the kind of situational misreading Fayth hadn’t made since he was a teenager.

Resting his free hand on the pistol in the back of his trousers, he glared daggers at the button panel instead and swore to God that if anyone called the lift on their way to the bay floor, he’d kneecap them.