#100 words challenge

[teawithmagician]

Warhammer 100 Challenge, pt 3

I took up Dragon Age 100 Challenge and turned it into the Warhammer 100 Challenge. Each drabble for each key is 100 words or less. So here go drabbles 30 to 45:

30. Drowning

He gripped the railing, ceramite creaking under the gauntlets. “Ezekyle,” he whispered, “you’d have me follow you into damnation?” The Mournival was breaking, and Aximand was caught in its riptide. He staggered, breath hitching, as if the void itself pressed against his chest. Mournival was not just duty. Mournival was brothers. “I cannot choose,” he growled. He knew full well he would chose Abaddon over and over again.

31. Foreign

“Brothers,” Argel Tal began, standing before the World Eaters, “we bring the truth.” “What is this?” one spat on the dirt. “Speak plain, priest.” Argel Tal’s eyes met Khârn’s instead. “We speak of unity,” he said with conviction, “of purpose beyond slaughter.” “Your tongue’s too soft for war,” Khârn grunted, but he lacked venom. Argel Tal smiled. “And yours too sharp. Yet we’re kin.” His voice ran through Khârn’s mind, sweet as bloodwine.

32. Night

Night encumbered the galaxy, and Fulgrim’s lips met Ferrus Manus’s. Elsewhere, Horus and Sanguinius stood beneath the stars in knowing silence. In his dreams, Konrad yearned for Corvus, love a phantom ache in the dark. But only Argel Tal and Khârn surrendered to night’s embrace. “Brother,” Argel muttered, lips grazing Khârn’s ear, “let the gods wait.” Khârn’s breath hitched as Argel’s fingers run through his hair, their bodies moving as one.

33. Arrows

“Again!” Lotara barked. The Conqueror shuddered, its lances sending the arrows of fire. “Hit them harder, woman,” Angron growled, stepping closer. Lotara shot him a glance. “I will, lord,” she spat the title like a curse, ordering another one. A frigate exploded, debris glittering like spilt blood, and Angron laughed. She reminded him of a friend from the pits, that little angry human woman.

34. Holding Hands

“Stay with me,” Talos grabbed Uzas’s gauntlet. Uzas’s head snapped up, froth on his lips, but Talos’s grip was iron. “You’re First Claw,” Talos gave him a shake. “Not a beast.” Uzas’s eyes cleared, just enough. “Brother,” he rasped. Talos squeezed harder, his own pain buried. They sat in silence, hands clasped, two sons of Nostramo defying their curse. “Fight another day,” Talos said, his nose dripping blood, “Or by Night Haunter I swear, I’ll end you first.”

35. Rain

Mortarion raised his head, facing the rain. The rebreather hissed, helping him inhale. He tilted his head, letting the water stream over. Then, he extended a hand, water pooling in his gauntlet. “What would it be,” he murmured, voice lost in the gale, “to live unburdened?” His rebreather clicked, reminding him it needed refill. Mortarion sighed and walked away.

36. Creation

“They’ll be magnificent,” the Emperor said. Erda nodded half-heartedly. She knew they would. But she also knew that,   Horus, bold and bright, will crave approval never given.  Corvus, quiet and sharp, will yearn for connection, but never get one. Sanguinius, gentle boy. Would he know love, or only sacrifice? Konrad, dreamy prophet-child. Would he find peace, or only torment? “They’ll be unhappy,” she whispered, too soft for Him to hear.

37. Siblings

“Where you go, I’m going,” Omegon said, and Alpharius finished, “For there’s no me without you.” Others fought alone, but the twins were never apart. Even when galaxies separated them, their thoughts had a psychic echo stronger than Astronomicon. “I am Alpharius,” Omegon murmured, and Alpharius laughed, “And I am Omegon.” Omegon clasped Alpharius’s forearm. “No me without you,” he repeated, softer. Alpharius placed a hand over his.

38. Spirit

“Give yourself to us,” they hissed, “and we’ll make you a god.” His blood dripped onto runes, his chants turned into a scream. The spirits surged, seeping into his marrow. Erebus’s body spasmed, eyes rolling white, as they used him—vessel, pawn, altar. His mind fractured, visions of Horus’s fall, Terra’s ruin, flooding. “More,” he gasped, offering everything—his loyalty, his humanity, his body.

39. Moon

“The wolf’s moon,” she said, eyes tracing the craters. Before Loken could reply, she turned and pressed her lips to his. The moon watched, a silent witness. He wanted to speak, but words failed. “The wolf hunts alone,” he said finally. Mersadie smiled, undeterred. “Not tonight.”

40. Stars

“Be careful,” Saul warned. Lucius laughed, his perfect face lit by starlight. “Afraid, Saul? My star shines brighter than theirs.” Saul felt love and dread in equal measure. Lucius was a comet, and comets fall. Under these foreign skies, Saul wanted to shield him, but Lucius was a star too bright to hold. “I’ll outshine them all,” as if having overheard his thoughts, Lucius promised. “I know you will,” Saul said, forcing a smile.

41. Mothers

They grew up motherless. But what if each had a mother who loved them, fiercely, humanly? Horus might have learned humility. Sanguinius might have seen his wings as gifts, not curses. Konrad could learn the whole extent of his gift, mother’s love a shield against madness. Angron could have known love before hate. Mortarion could have learnt strength beyond endurance. But they had none, and Erda mourned them.

42. Fathers

They grew up with an absent father, a distant god who designed them for war. But what if they’d had a father who loved them as sons, not tools? Horus could have learned loyalty over ambition, his father’s pride shielding him from Erebus’s lies. Sanguinius, with a father who knelt to kiss his wings, might have seen himself as whole. Konrad, guided by a Nostraman stern love, could have learned justice, not terror. Fulgrim might have sought satisfaction, not excess. The Heresy’s wounds might have healed before they formed, pain erased by a voice saying, “You are enough.”

43. Sympathy

“You’re lost, Konrad,” Corvus said. The sympathy was genuine. Konrad bared teeth. “I don’t need your pity!” “We’re not so different,” he continued, reaching out. His fingers brushed Konrad’s matted hair, and Konrad froze. No one had touched him like this, not in Nostramo’s dark, not in the Emperor’s cold. He remembered himself and recoiled, snarling. “Don’t touch me!” Corvus’s eyes were not judgmental, just sad. “As you wish,” he said, stepping away. Konrad’s heart raced.

44. Dancing

Lucius spun, catching Saul’s gaze. “Dance, Tarvitz!” he called. Saul joined him, clumsy but earnest. “You’re too serious,” Lucius teased. Saul smiled coyly. “And you’re too reckless.” The music faded, and Lucius bowed, mockingly grand. “For you, Saul,” he said, winking. Saul’s love burned, but Lucius’s love was different—a starburst that warmed but never stayed. He’d fight for Saul, kill for him, but never give his heart.

45. Annoyance

Horus Lupercal paced the strategium. Sanguinius hadn’t answered in weeks! “Does he doubt me?” Horus muttered. Was Sanguinius with Guilliman, planning without him? Abaddon entered, sensing the mood. “Trouble, Father?” Horus waved him off, but his annoyance lingered. A vox chimed—a message. Sanguinius’s voice was warm, apologetic: “Forgive my delay, Horus. I’m with you.” Horus laughed. “You’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, already drafting a reply.

To be continued...

[sofasoap]

For @deadbranch's 100 words challenge.

Warning: Angst. Talk of trauma and Oc's. Minors DNI. Pairing: Nikolai x F!reader Linking into "Lastochka - Raging waves" series.

Nikolai startled awake. There’s that nightmare again. 

The nightmare of losing you. 

He looks down towards the little bundle he’s hugging close to his chest.

His little Anya, crying for her mama as she clutching onto him for dear life even in her sleep. 

The nightmare is real. 

He’s lost you again, for the second time. 

The anger and the guilt are rising again. 

At the enemies, at himself. He promised you no harm will ever come to his Lastochka ever again.

“You promised!” He could hear your scream in agony in his mind.

Someone will pay. For the suffering.

[guentzel]

100 Words/Day Writing Challenge

For 2025, I’m attempting to write at minimum 100 words a day. Trying to write consistently can be a struggle, but managing to get down 100 words a day is better than nothing at all. I also decided to post monthly roundups so people can follow along (if they’d like)

Color Key:

100 - silver

200 - brown

300 - green

400 - pink

500 - yellow

600 - orange

700 - purple

800 - pastel pink

900 - real/light blue

1000+ - burnt orange color

January Goal: 3,100

Estimated Total: 10,700

[thebluewritingbench]

you & me in the wreckage

a supercorp ficlet

written for @ekingston's flash fiction challenge! :)

this was fun!! the prompts i got were: thriller, only survivors of a zombie apocalypse, celebrity/just some guy (gender neutral), and blood. thematically consistent, at least. tw for (a fairly small amount of) blood and gore, unsurprisingly. enjoy!

+

Someone is breathing on the other side of the vehicle.

No, Kara reminds herself yet again. Something.

It’s hard to say when the simple sound of another creature breathing became an instant trigger to send adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every tiny hair on her body rises. Her heart rate accelerates until she can feel it behind her teeth, a war drum. She moves with utmost caution; she cannot make a sound.

There’s a creak of metal. A low groan.

Kara recognizes the sound. The pleading moan of perverse hunger.

She can’t see it, as she creeps around the passenger side of the dark vehicle. The thing must be inside the car. The sound came from low down, though. Maybe it’s on the ground. Unsurprising—they always seem to end up there in the end. After having exhausted the limits of human muscle, with no prey left to chase down, they collapse like expended cargo.

The car is a solid black Rolls-Royce. A rare sight in the city, let alone out here. This one has seen better days, though. Shiny paint marred by dust, pock-marked with dents, half the bumper hanging off. How it ended up swerved into the ditch of this rural, two-lane road is a mystery.

Probably someone trying to escape.

Kara’s mind constructs the story even as she rounds the front of the car, reaching for her weapons. It must have contained someone wealthy or important, someone with the resources to get this far. But they must have been infected before they could escape. Though shaken, they would have attempted to brush it off. Nothing but a scrape. The teeth had barely punctured their skin. They would have sped away, gotten off the interstate at the first chance, taken turn after turn until they found a safe, isolated road. This is how far they got before the alien pathogens hijacked their brain.

But that would mean—Kara’s pulse spikes again—that would mean the creature on the other side of this vehicle is the most dangerous kind. Starved for the taste of human flesh. Not spent, but with the full power of the human body. When used without regard for muscles tearing, flesh rending, bones breaking, it could do remarkable things.

Kara knows. She has witnessed it.

The way Alex moved, when the disease took hold…

She shudders. Pushes the image from her mind. That thing hadn’t been Alex anymore.

Kara considers her weapons. A large kitchen knife. A small handgun—the better bet. Not much ammunition left, though. She’ll have to move quickly. She’ll have to make it count.

She lifts the gun, then lunges around the front of the car and fires.

The shot echoes across the scrubby hills. A shriek rings out, black hair flying as the creature shields itself. It begins to turn to her. She missed. Kara’s finger is pushing down on the trigger again when a voice cries, “Wait! Wait!”

She wrenches the gun aside. Her shot flies wide.

There is nothing but heaving breathing in the wake. Human breathing.

The woman crouched on the ground, staring up at Kara in terrified shock, is alive. Truly alive. What’s more, Kara knows her.

 “How are you here?” Kara says. The cognitive dissonance of seeing that face here, now, is so intense that she wonders if she’s hallucinating.

“What?” says Lena Luthor. “Why are you trying to kill me? Do I know you?”

We’ve met before.

“No.” Kara feels herself flush. How absurd that she’s even capable of such a reaction anymore. “I’m nobody.”

Lena Luthor stands on unsteady legs. “No, you’re that reporter. From… BuzzFeed, was it? You came to my office with Clark Kent.”

“CatCo Magazine,” Kara corrects automatically. It feels like a lifetime since she was Cat Grant’s assistant, barely daring to aspire to journalism. Struck nearly speechless by the presence of this woman—her inarguable celebrity crush.

Embarrassing.

Lena looks uneasily at the gun. Kara realizes it’s still pointing in her direction. She drops her arm. “Shoot. Sorry.”

“Don’t shoot, preferably,” Lena says dryly. It takes a second for Kara to realize it’s a joke.

“I wasn’t trying to— I thought you were… one of them. You’re not infected, are you?”

“None of them have touched me. This thing is bullet-proof. I did plow through a few of them…” Lena looks queasy. Kara follows her gaze to the front of the car. There’s blood congealed on the grill.

A flash of memory. She sees the creature that was once Winn charging at her. Her panicked swipe of the kitchen knife across its throat. The spray of his blood, copious, vibrant, across her shirt, across the pavement. For hours, she was terrified the blood had found its way into some scrape, some opening. Infecting her.

She grimaces, presses her thumb hard into the space between her eyes. Stop.

“Where did you even come from?” Lena says. “There’s nothing around here.”

“I walked from the city. I’ve been trying to find anywhere with supplies. There was a group of us. I’m the only one left.” That awful, leaden truth. Kara pushes past it. “How did you get out? I haven’t seen anyone else in weeks.”

“I hid in my office. I had it outfitted as a kind of bunker years ago. I thought I was being insane at the time, and yet…” She trails off, ashamed. “I did nothing to help. Nothing. I stayed there until it quieted down. Then I took the car, and I ran.”

“You couldn’t have done much. No one could have.”

“And now my stupid tire blew, and I am somehow incapable of changing it, so I’m pretty much fucked.” Lena kicks the deflated tire. “Fuck!”

“Your tire?” Belatedly, Kara notices the spare lying on the ground, alongside a toolbox and a badly misplaced jack. She feels a wild urge to laugh. That’s it? “I can fix your tire.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” She swallows. Remembers that somehow, Lena Luthor is standing in front of her. A woman who Kara has followed extensively in tabloids for years. A world leader for tech. Generous. Brilliant. Beautiful. “On one condition.”  

“What’s that?”

“Take me with you.”

Lena Luthor leans against her car and, miraculously, grins. She gives Kara a lingering once-over. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere. Away from here. I need to find out what happened to my cousin. And my mom.”

“Well, I could use the company,” Lena says. “It’s a deal.”

She holds out her hand. Kara shakes it. At the feel of Lena’s hand in hers, warm, chapped, alive, Kara feels a spark of something she hasn’t felt for ages, since before her life turned into a nightmare.

Hope.

[elluqien710]

day 11: credit ⛔️

“To my credit, it wasn’t all my fault,”

protested Turko.

Nelyo sighed. Káno stomped his foot, holding up his ripped and mud-stained papers. “Yes, it is! Turko’s supposed to watch Huan, it’s his dog!”

Turko growled. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave your scribbled sheet music out in the open! You watch your own things!”

“How is this my fault!? Nelyo, tell him it’s not my fault!”

Curvo materialized at the door, his head cocked disinterestedly. “Káno, keep it down, will you?” he said coldly. “I’m trying to work at the moment.”

Nelyo groaned. “Eru, why must I deal with you gremlins?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“To my credit, it wasn’t all my fault,”

muttered Celegorm.

Maglor slammed his fist on the table. “It wasn’t all your fault? It wasn’t all your fault!?”

Celegorm and Curufin winced before Maglor’s threatening voice. “We were only trying to—” Celegorm started.

“What happened to both Finrod and Thingol’s daughter was all your fault, and you know it!” Maedhros shouted, his face twisted in fury. “I cannot believe how absolutely horrible you two are!”

Curufin scoffed. “We were trying to help, dear brother. Nargothrond would have been—”

Maedhros stood up. “I have had enough of you two.”

He walked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<- day 10: serenade 💗 | day 12: scones 🥐 ->

all drabbles

[twopointsinspace]

Flint’s gaze lingered again. Too long, too heavy. Silver felt it, as he always did, like heat crawling up his spine. He didn’t turn right away. Let him look. Let him wonder if he had been caught. When he finally glanced over, it was slow, deliberate. A tilt of the head. That glint in his eye - mischief, challenge, something darker. Flint looked away first. Again. Silver’s smirk curled, not unkind. There was power in being watched. But more in knowing why. He turned back to the sea, pretending the air between them was not crackling with things neither dared name.

[ohgeesoap]

Just a little something for @deadbranch 's 100 word fic challenge 🩷

---------

It really should be a thing you're used to by now – the way he always seems to sneak up on you. Instead, the glass you were holding crashes to the kitchen floor and shatters the moment he startles you.

You both crouch down to pick up the larger pieces, but he quickly puts a hand over yours.

Taking the hint, you get up to retrieve the broom and dustpan. “Explain to me again how you're so big yet so quiet?”

“Years of practice.”

You roll your eyes, teasing him.  “Years of being weird, Simon.”

“Oh yeah,” he chuckles, “that too.”

[writeforfandoms]

For the 100 word challenge! Hosted by @deadbranch

“Simon.” You cupped his cheeks in your hands, smiling at the way he leaned into you, like a great affectionate cat. “I love you, but you need to rest.”

“‘M fine,” he grumbled, stubborn man that he was, hands settling at your waist.

“Please?” You stroked your thumbs over his cheekbones softly.

Which is how you ended up sitting on the couch, Simon’s head pillowed in your lap, a movie playing softly in the background.

It was the perfect way to spend the evening. Simon's head in your lap, eyes slowly closing as your fingers helped soothe him to sleep.

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

To simulate the burning of the heart -Patrizia Cavalli

I learnt how to make a zine a few days ago and decided to do make one of Noel with the words of one of my favourite poems, which i think fits him rather well.

[teawithmagician]

Warhammer 100 Challenge, pt 2

I took up Dragon Age 100 Challenge and turned it into the Warhammer 100 Challenge. Each drabble for each key is 100 words or less. So here go drabbles 16 to 30:

16. Water

Little Horus flowed like water. In the strategium, he mediated between captains, his voice smooth, disarming. His resemblance to Horus was a power without force. But alone, his thoughts swirled.

Water was life, but also destruction—floods that drowned worlds. Aximand felt that. He’d flowed with Horus’s rebellion, but each step eroded him.

He’d be what the Legion needed: adaptable, relentless. Yet in his quarters, he traced a Cthonian glyph for “peace” in spilt wine, a fleeting wish for stillness. Water could not rest; nor could he.

17. Earth

Garviel Loken held like the earth. His heart bore the weight of loss, yet he withstood for those who followed. He was no leader like Horus, no fire like Abaddon—he was the soil that nurtured, the stone that endured.

In his dreams, he saw Cthonia’s caverns. They called him home, but Loken refused: he was Terra’s soil now. His brothers’ betrayal had shaken him, but he’d rebuild, brick by brick. Garviel Loken, the last Luna Wolf, was Earth—the ground where hope grows.

18. Fire

Ezekyle Abaddon was fire. His rage was a furnace, forging the Black Legion out of Horus’ sons. He burned for glory, his yearning a flaming pyre; but fire destroyed as it illuminated—Abaddon’s pyre was Horus’ funeral.

Aximand’s presence could temper him, but never douse. Fire needed fuel, and, without fuel, Abaddon would burn himself.

When he led the Black Legion, he saw Cthonia’s forges, their heat the dragon’s cradle. The true child of fire, Abaddon embraced it as his future. He’d burn until nothing remained, and the galaxy would kneel before his ashes.

19. Air

Tarik Torgaddon was air, a restless wind. His laughter lifted spirits, his jokes eased tension. In the Mournival, he balanced Abaddon’s fire, Aximand’s water, Loken’s earth—and made sure they wouldn’t kill each other.

But the air could turn tempest. Tarik’s loyalty to Loken made him defy Horus. He’d die for it, but the thought didn’t slow him. Life was motion, and Tarik was its breath.

In his final moments, Tarik laughed at Erebus’ face, “You’re not worth the air I breathe.” The Mournival wind was gone, but it returned withthe eastern breeze, whispering of brotherhood to the Earth he loved.

20. Alone

Corvus Corax was alone. Sanguinius’s warmth, Guilliman’s reason—they were distant now. Corvus had always been there for them, but had they been there for him?

Claws flexed, itching for purpose. He remained loyal, but Terra felt a universe away. Corvus’s visions whispered he’d end alone, a ghost in the dark. He accepted it, but the weight pressed hard.

A raven landed on his shoulder, its caw breaking the silence. Corvus smiled faintly. “You’re enough of a company to me,” he murmured. But the bird flew off, leaving him to the night.

21. Hero

Vandred clawed for control. The void beyond roared—enemy ships closing, their lances primed. Talos needed time, his men facing annihilation. A hero? Me? A hero of murderers, traitors, cowards.

“Yield, worm,” the Exalted hissed. Vandred’s lips twisted, spitting blood onto the deck. “Sosnul by ty huitsa, bratets.” He seized the command throne, ceramite grinding.

“Talos!” Vandred roared, voice cracking through vox. “Go, now!” His will surged, wrestling the daemon back. The Exalted writhed, its claws raking his soul. You are nothing, it snarled. Vandred laughed, bitter and broken. “I’m enough to spite you.”

22. Yin and Yang

Fulgrim was perfection; Konrad was the opposite.

Konrad watched Fulgrim, and his heart stirred with desire not for flesh, but for the light. Konrad craved Fulgrim’s purity and hated it; he wanted to reach out to touch his cheek and to tear that beautiful face away.

Fulgrim, oblivious, clapped Konrad’s shoulder. “Brother, your terror serves us well,” he laughed. Konrad gasped, visions flashing—Fulgrim’s fall, his madness. He wanted to warn Fulgrim, but words choked in his throat.

23. Friends

Ezekyle Abaddon and Horus Aximand were friends.

Abaddon’s gaze lingered on Aximand’s face, so like Horus’s, but softer. Aximand’s hand was on Abaddon’s shoulder. The touch burned, but Abaddon grunted, turning away. To name it was to ruin it.

Aximand felt it too, his hearts quickening when Abaddon’s rare smile broke through. Aximand wanted to speak, to confess, but Cthonian pride silenced him. They were friends, not lovers—yet the line blurred.

On Istvaan, they killed side by side. Afterwards, they stood apart.

“Good fight,” Abaddon muttered, eyes avoiding Aximand’s.

“Always,” Aximand replied, voice tight.

24. Silence

Alastor Rushal was condemned to silence.

“Quiet as ever, Raven?” Sevatar taunted. Alastor's thoughts went round and round: betrayal, darkness, chains. A hand holds a knife, another hand forces his mouth open. There’s pain, and there’s blood, and there’s lust born of hate.

Alastor’s eyes were locked on Sevatar’s scarred face. The First Captain’s cruelty fascinated him, but Alastor’s desires would shame his old legion. He would use the same knife to geld Sevatar; and he would make Sevatar watch him eat.

25. Challenges

Mortarion lingered in the apothecarion. Blood stained his lips, phlegm rattled in seared lungs—a constant, gnawing pain.

Unlike Sanguinius, who breathed freely, Mortarion’s every gasp was forced. He found pride in endurance and taught his sons to do the same, but alone, coughing crimson, he cursed his pride. Exhaustion crept in—he envied his sons, his brothers, their painless lives.

“I would give my soul just to be free of this,” Mortarion snarled, coughing blood again. Nurgle listened.

26. Storm

Talos Valcoran staggered, nails raking his own face.

Cyrion’s voice cut through, “You’re a fool. It’s chasing ghosts!”

Talos’s eyes, black as Nostramo’s night, glared through the pain. “I see truth,” he spat, blood trickling from his nose.

Cyrion sighed, stepping closer. He caught Talos as he swayed, helping him to the floor.

“You’re killing yourself.” His hand rested on Talos’s shoulder. “Let it go, just once.”

Talos laughed, bitter. “And abandon them? Never.”

“Stupid,” Cyrion said, but his grip tightened. Talos leaned into it.

27. Blue

Corvus Corax stood under the azure skies. Sapphire ocean lapped at white cliffs, cerulean flowers swayed in the breeze. The campaign had ended, but Corvus lingered, his black armor stark against the blue.

He imagined a life here: a man, not a shadow, waking to this endless blue. “If only,” he murmured.

A raven circled above, its cry sharp. Corvus’s eyes hardened. He was born for the dark, not this fleeting blue. Yet the longing lingered.

If only…

28. Music

The music swelt through the dust, pure and haunting. Saul’s helm was off, forcing the melody through the vox felt like a sartiliege.

The composer had poured her heart into this piece, and Saul felt a pull, a near-love for her passion, her fragility. He imagined her—flawed, human, her hands dancing over strings. His hearts quickened; oh, to love her, even in memory!

“I am above this,” he told himself. His voice lacked conviction.

29. Heal

Garviel Loken was an open wound. Tarik’s laughter, his easy grin—all gone forever on Istvaan III.

Loken’s feelings were always a maze, but Tarik’s loss was clear: an empty void where his hearts had once been. He knelt in Titan’s chapel, the Emperor’s light dim. “I miss you,” he whispered: to Tarik, to the past.

“I miss you too,” he knew Tarik would say. And through pain, warmth rose.

30. Drowning

He gripped the railing, ceramite creaking under the gauntlets. “Ezekyle,” he whispered, “you’d have me follow you into damnation?”

He staggered, breath hitching, as if the void itself pressed against his chest. Love for Abaddon was a current pulling him toward rebellion. But Mournival was not just duty. Mournival was brothers.

“I cannot choose,” he growled, slamming a fist against the bulkhead. He knew full well he would choose Abaddon over and over again.

To be continued...

[sofasoap]

For @deadbranch's 100 words challenge.

Warning: Mature. Minors DNI.

Pairing : Rodolfo " Rudy " Parra x Reader Linked to the " Love at first sight " Series.

“Rudy?”

“Yes Cariño?”

“You really want me to marry you?” You asked shyly. He chuckled, amused to see the usual bold and dominating you being so shy for once.  

“Having second thoughts?” You shook your head.  

“Never.” Never again. Is what you should have said.

You aren’t letting him go again, the mistake you have made before. The pain and heartache it had caused. “Come on. Everyone is waiting. Food is getting cold.” Giving you a quick kiss on the head and squeeze of the hand, he leads you out the door.

Start of happily ever after. 

[galebecky97]

watched terminator 2

[sir-cookieton]

Just a boy and his Chirithy

Ven thinks he sometimes dreams about before. It’s not something that’s quite as coherent as his days training with Terra and Aqua and the Master, but it’s something that’s he can’t reason to be anything else. Ventus hadn’t remembered Xehanort, or Vanitas’s creation. But looking at the creature before him, there’s something that makes his heart elated to see the creature. Even with its cautious stance and nervous demeanor, something in Ven’s heart sparks.

And it’s without even thinking about it, he reaches out with a smile.

“Come on.”

Overjoyed, the creature happily leaps for an embrace. The moment they’re in his arms, it feels like the boy and his Chirithy have never been apart.

[elluqien710]

day 09: enjoy 🌸

“Enjoy.”

Káno looked up. “What?”

Turko narrowed his eyes, lips tightening into a thin grimace. “You enjoy this?”

Káno glanced around him. Music books and scribbled notated papers were strewn about in a cluttered mess. He clutched a quill in one ink-smudged hand and a flute in the other.

He grinned. “Yes.”

Turko snorted and flipped through Káno’s illegibly written sheet music. “You’ve locked yourself in this room for days, have been singing non-stop, and is clearly sleep-deprived.”

Káno let out a dreamy sigh. “And I love it. It’s wonderful. The melodies…the music…how could you not enjoy it?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Enjoy.”

Maglor didn’t know what it meant anymore.

Walking, day after day, across the shore against the crashing waves and roaring ocean. Dragging his weary feet through the sand. Shivering as wind gusts pierced his skin and rattled his bones.

He was but a wraith. A ghost, drained of all passion or life.

His instruments had long broken. He merely opened his cracked lips and sang the melancholy Nolodantë, his voice but a thin whisper drifting through the air. Mourning, as a shadow-folk, mist-haunting, dropping vain tears in the salt thankless Sea.

Enjoy.

He had long forgotten what it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<- day 08: stars 💫 | day 10: serenade 💗 ->

all drabbles

[blackrosesandwhump]

100 Drabble Challenge: Gothic Whump Edition

The challenge: pick one of the 60 word prompts below and write a short drabble using it!

Faint

Ashen

Candle

Blood

Delirious

Weak

Coughing fit

Vigil

Drugged

Decay

Storm

Castle

Darkness

Dagger

Chains

Mirror

Poison

Forest

Straightjacket

Stabbed

Masquerade

Dungeon

Bandages

Experiment

Monster

Haunted

Insane

Imprisoned

Laboratory

Obsessed

Isolation

Coffin

Restrained

Ritual

Skeleton

Cursed

Buried alive

Hypnosis

Cemetery

Drained of blood

Nails

Cage

Foggy

Terror

Corpse

Scream

Ruins

Afraid

Locked away

Ghost

Midnight

Crypt

Vampire

Demon

Nightmare

Creature

Crumbling

Torture

Dead

Wasting illness

[canisalbus]

Hello CanisAlbus ♥️ I love your work so much, and I wanted to bug you about a Machete dream appearance I had ✨

He was like, a modern progressive Christian “I’m absolutely not gay but god loves gay people in a “you should stop being gay” kind of way :))” having a raised voice argument about homosexuality with Vasco, a gay atheist who he just met at like,,, idk maybe a church fundraising event? It seemed like Machete was taking it very personally and it was pretty intense. But my like,,, narrative dream brain definitely meant it as a meet cute 💕 ty for your time :)

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