#( challenge 001. )

[muravushko]

collab with @lcfrsm0415

[hwang-inhos-fish]

Something some people don't understand is that Squid Game is an ALLEGORY

Yes, many characters are very dictated (/doomed) by the narrative, beholden to their convictions, BECAUSE IT’S AN ALLEGORY.

Yeah, some things don't seem 100% realistic (although it's a fantastically well thought out world and story), BECAUSE IT’S AN ALLEGORY.

This story, these characters, THIS ENTIRE WORLD was meticulously staged TO SEND US A MESSAGE.

It's about capitalism. It's about classism. It's about the evil of hoarded wealth. It's about the dehumanization and infantilization of disadvantaged groups by privileged ones. It's about choice and autonomy, and how neither of those mean much - and yet, mean EVERYTHING - when all you have are bad choices. When all you've BEEN GIVEN are bad choices.

It's about the violence of poverty. About what people become when they have no other choice. About what people become when they don't have even the basics of life provided for them, the selfish beasts we must become to survive when those situations are imposed - and about how, then, we're blamed for it.

It's about the way we're pitted against one another while those in power sit back and watch. It's about the violence of consumption - specifically media consumption.

Of course In-ho is a little evil; HE EXISTS TO SHOW US WHAT HAPPENS TO NORMAL PEOPLE WHEN YOU FORCE THEM INTO THOSE CHOICES.

Of course Gi-hun trusts too easily, accepts Young-il as a friend despite that damning number on his chest; HE EXISTS TO SHOW US THERE’S ANOTHER WAY.

[milo-igidk]

big fan of this lately

[lenorenevermore99]

The thing that gets me the most about this picture is how freaking red his lips are. Like, how much has he actually been drinking?

Bro forgot he has only one kidney 😭😭😭

[boneskullravenriver]

Watching the hot ones thing with Lee Byung-Hun and Lee Jung Jae and omg the way their faces immediately start sweating from a single bite is killing me lmao.

[hypocratic]

@rvolving for roman.

Sun in Venice has been a near permanent fixture. His sunglasses, meant most gravely to conceal his identity, have found more fulfilling purpose in their intended, manufactured use; like his wine key—bought and carried in his front pants pocket as protection—exclusively piercing corks. Frederick chooses to lounge at a table outside the restaurant despite the heightened exposure. More walk by and see him, but their gazes are glazed grazes; the image of him—as attractive as it may be—never permeates their long term memory. Inside the restaurant, it would be different. The world there is sedentary. Stares stew and stir as long as the meals do.

The sun begins to strain into the dark; stars like tiny, orderly perforations. Everything here feels individually placed yet comprehensively whole. Stone brick roads and homes and private wood pillar piers. His white linen shirt (borrowed from Benedict Hemingway's closet) fit the day well, but in this sinking temperature the short sleeves and two generously opened buttons at his chest (no further, or his scar would peek through) chill him. Unshaven graying-speckled hair no longer than a centimeter along his throat and face (appropriated utility like the sunglasses, the wine key) retains his body heat well. Like a warmed towel laid across the jaw.

His dinner is done. Plate removed. His legs are outstretched beneath the table and crossed at the ankles, socks peeking out. The edge of the shoe heel not hanging over the other is neatly stuck-tucked into the bevel-bubbly bricks of the street. Frederick remains to finish his wine. He overhears the waiter at the table next to his informing the guest they have already sold their last bottle of that selection. Bored and buzzed, Frederick interjects: "Pardon me. I am a glutton. I bought the last Super Tuscan. Would you—?" He tilts the quarter-emptied bottle by the neck towards the man, raised brow mirroring—amplifying—the gesture. "Like a glass?" Positively unfettered ambrosial notes when one knows, for certain, the oak barrel the grape juice fermented in contained wine and only wine.

[aercnaut]

oh god oh jesus i just realized pedro's gonna be in the em cee ewe and the full weight of how rancid the tag is going to get is sinking in

[troubleah]

CONTINUED FROM HERE, WITH DAMON DANIEL ( @crowsalvation )

               Leah doesn’t give a damn about the corpse or the mess or even the vampire fledgling himself ( one of the brothers that her siblings have taken a strange interest in. so far, she’s not impressed ). But she’s bored. Bored, restless, trapped; wishing she was anywhere else in the world but fearing what Nik would do if she ran again. The combination leaves her itching for a fight.

               If she’s stuck in this miserable excuse of a town for gods know how long, she needs a good source of entertainment. Judging by Damon’s display, she has chosen the right person to bother.

               A sigh escapes her. It’s long and heavy like a cloud about to rain – fake, too. “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than this to offend me, Daniel. For now, you’re about as irritating as one of those tiny designer dogs that just won’t. Stop. Yapping.” The challenge is obvious in the curl of the smirk she throws back at him.

               “Can’t you go and take this – “ She gives the body a light kick. Her sneakers are dirty anyway, with spots of mud and dried off blood, stars on a once white sky. “ – somewhere else? For example, Elijah’s wardrobe. Enough napkins there you could open up a napkin store or, better yet, a whole napkin retail chain. The smell is making me hungry.”

[keztis]

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: on an average day, what can be found in cal's pockets?

              𝙰  𝚆𝚁𝚈  𝚂𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙴  𝚃𝚄𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚃  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙴𝚁  𝙾𝙵  𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚂’𝚂  𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷 as he began searching through his pockets. ❝i try to travel light, but there are a few essentials i always keep on me.❞

first, he pulled out a few credits, glanced at them briefly, then discarded them onto the table.  too obvious, not worth the explanation.  next, he presented a small handheld repair torch, its casing scuffed and worn from years of use.

       ❝this,❞ cal said, holding it up, ❝has been with me since my scrapping days on bracca.  old, sure, but it’s never let me down.  you never know when something’s going to break, need patching up, or just require a little fine-tuning.❞  he gave the torch a quick spin before setting it down.  ❝there’s a compartment in the grip for connectors and spare components.  doesn’t take up much space.❞

he reached into his pockets again, this time producing a few pieces of scrap metal, holding them up between his fingers.  ❝oh—right, these.❞   BD-1 perked up beside him, his audio receptors flicking toward the pile.   ❝BD has this habit of sneaking junk into my pockets when i’m not looking,❞ he explained with rather fond exasperation.  ❝says they ‘might be useful.’  and, yeah, okay—sometimes he’s right.  but most of the time, i sound like i’m smuggling half a droid in my jacket.❞

       BD-1 honked indignantly, jumping around to face cal as though prepared to argue the point.  snorting back a laugh, the young jedi knight dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a communicator.  ❝and, of course, this.  greez is constantly on my case about answering it more.  i keep telling him it’s hard to pick up when i’m in the middle of fighting for my life.❞  he dropped it onto the table with a casual shrug.   ❝it’s an ongoing debate.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: what seemingly insignificant memories have stuck with you?

              ❝𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙽𝚃?❞  𝙺𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙸𝚂  𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 , his brows furrowing in slight confusion.  the phrasing didn’t sit quite right; it struck him as wrong, like a circuit forced into the incorrect port.  if a memory wasn’t significant, why would it linger?  his thoughts drifted, unmoored, until an old face surfaced.

❝prauf,❞ he murmured, a rare softness invading his gaze, ❝my old friend.  he. . . had this terrible sense of humor.  one of the worst jokes he ever told me—something about a sullustan, a wookiee, and an imperial officer walking into a cantina.  i can’t even remember the punchline, but i remember how he laughed.  he couldn’t get through the joke without cracking up halfway through.  that’s what stuck with me.  just him—alive, laughing over nothing.❞

verdant green eyes grew remote as the memory drew him into a time when life had been simpler, even if no less painful.  it wasn’t just prauf’s laughter he remembered, but the sound of it cutting through the monotony, the endless despair.  but nostalgia, cal had learned, was a double-edged blade, and he quickly shouldered it aside.

        ❝sorry.❞ cal brought up a hand to cup the back of his neck, grounding himself in the action.   ❝didn’t mean to make it heavy.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: are there any types of weather that you’re afraid of/dislike?

              ❝𝙸  𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃  𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆  𝙸𝙵  ‘𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳’  𝙸𝚂  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃  𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳,❞ kestis began slowly, ❝but. . . i don’t like fog. it messes with your senses—makes you question what you see, what you hear. makes you doubt what’s real.❞

the memory of dathomir crept back, unbidden and vivid.  he could still picture the endless shroud of mist, so thick it clung to his body like a living thing.  he’d wandered through it with BD-1 perched on his shoulder, his senses stretched to the limit, driven outward by unchecked unease.  indistinct shapes—phantom silhouettes—seemed to move in the distance, always flickering just out of reach.  BD-1 hadn’t sounded an alarm, but that small comfort had done little to settle the erratic drumbeat of his heart in his chest.

❝i’ve seen strange things in foggy places.❞ denial encompassed the memory, enkindled by a bizarre sense of finality.  ❝shadows, tricks of the light.  but some. . .❞ he trailed off, testing the thought.  ❝weren’t tricks.  some were ghosts.  things i’d rather not talk about.❞

𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :: how loosely or strictly does cal use the word ‘friend’?

              ❝𝙳𝙴𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚂  𝙾𝙽  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚄𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽.❞ it wasn’t the most satisfying answer, but it was certainly closest to the truth.

❝i use ‘friend’ pretty loosely,❞ the young knight admitted after a moment.  ❝sometimes, it’s just a word.  a way to smooth things over.  if i cross paths with a sleemo who doesn’t immediately shoot first, or if a local decides to give me directions instead of trouble, calling them a ‘friend’ gets the job done.  keeps things simple.❞ he leaned back slightly, arms crossed, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against his sleeve as he mulled for longer.

❝but the meaning of that word—it’s changed a lot since i was a youngling.❞  cal carded a hand through thick, unruly locks, faltering midway between regret and sudden annoyance.  ❝it’s. . . complicated.❞

[survive-object-poll-island]

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[onerandomtrope]

Round #001: Make-Out Point

A standard teenage hang out where all sorts of canoodling takes place in cars. Usually features a father and/or police finding young people there to "break it up" and drag people back home. Depending on the broadness of the comedy (and the innocence — or lack thereof — of the setting), Don't Come A-Knockin' may be in play. (Source.)

And so it begins!

For the first round of One Random Trope, the prompt is Make-Out Point, and it'll be happening from March 1st to March 31st.

However, you, the writer decide to interpret the prompt is up to you. You can take it literally, or you can go ahead and take some liberties. What matters the most is having fun, and as long as whatever you're writing has something to do with the prompt it's fair game. Don't forget that contributions must be at least 100 words long.

After you're done, don't forget to tag it as #ort2024 and/or #ortwriting so we can make sure to reblog it. Don't forget to check out our collection on AO3. If you have any questions, feel free to message us.

Happy writing!

[criticalfai1ure]

There is no sound in space. No echo, less interference. The radio waves, abundant, can stretch from the birth and death of stars, seemingly unimpeded. The conspiracy theorist in her always wondered whether the things out there ( because they couldn't be the only sentient beings in the universe ) would be able to harness the waves the way humans had.

If they could communicate, would they?

Gigi had been studying the static cling of communication and its tech since she was old enough to wield a walkie-talkie. As she grew and technology continued to advance, she worked her way into the world of linguistic AI. She was fascinated by the evolution of language — how it adapted, compressed, and reformed across cultures and mediums. But more than that, she was captivated by the gaps in communication, the unspoken, the mistranslated, the lost signals that could mean the difference between understanding and oblivion.

Her early work had been with natural language processing, training AI to better interpret human intent — a necessity when split-second decisions and delayed responses could make or break survival. But as the world finally lets go of the breath it'd been holding and makes its amends, curious eyes turn back toward the unknowns of space. G turns her attentions skyward, too, and becomes obsessed with a deeper question:

What if we aren’t the only ones listening?

Through her research, she builds systems designed not just to facilitate human-to-human communication, but to recognize patterns beyond human speech—waves, pulses, even the anomalies buried in cosmic noise. Her work, funded by an anonymous donor, leads her down rabbit holes, only one of which is to discover the source of the money.

Some of her peers dismiss her ideas, calling them speculative, pointless. Teasing her, as if she expected aliens to shoot right past the asteroid belt and beam her up ( this isn't Star Trek, but how could you watch the dozens of sequels made over a century and not have some little... hope for something more? ).

But, when her mysterious donor finally reveals himself—whether it's because she had successfully traced him down or else he had finally stepped out from behind the curtain—she is gifted the chance to prove them all wrong. Or maybe just confirm their worst fears.

Because something is out there. And she intends to listen.

[wilsonthemoose]

He is standing alone in a room in the Bunker. Automatically fixing the tie, the collar, the cuffs, the hair. Bites down on the impulse to look for someone, ask for an assurance, you are yourself. This is real.

"Is it?" he asks. Just the voice, soft and edgy. Just over his shoulder, just like old times.

Cas sighs, looks away from the mirror, away from the eyes of his vessel, a corpse if he weren't pulling the strings, a father if he had left well enough alone.

"You talk too much, brother. " Cas inflects the last word with respect and deference, half mockery, half a habit he doesn't remember forming.

"Oh, all the time," the voice is deep, amused. There's the shadow of a wing closing around Castiel's shoulder, a caressing gesture. Half mockery itself.

It's a figment of Sam's trauma, a constant passenger in Castiel's mind, close to the original but it doesn't have teeth and Cas reminds himself he is not afraid.

He reminds himself all the time.

"You are not real," he says and waits for an answer before he remembers he is not supposed to.

He is standing alone in a room in the Bunker. Smooths the shoulder of his jacket, the front of his shirt.

[rossberry]

challenge accepted | loganberry

Ross had been in the auditorium, as he usually was during the hot summer months. He detested the heat. Besides, it wasn't ideal for a singer to be subjected to it, anyway. So, he spent most of his days working through audition pieces, honing his craft - that was when he wasn't up in Logan's suite being dominated out of his mind. Which, it appeared, was what was next on his agenda. His cock, so well-trained at this point, barely twitched under his skimpy, plaid short-shorts. His lean little upper body was clad in nothing but a complimentary navy blue polo. If he could say so himself, he looked quite adorable. His cheeks were flushed by the end of his text conversation with Logan, and he wasted no time getting himself to Logan's suite. Once there, he knelt in front of the door and knocked, bowing his head properly and keeping it there - no matter how excited he was to look up at Logan and show him just how easy it'd be for Ross to get off on that sight alone. @domloganlodge

[trnabout]

@thronecage liked for a starter.

( Answers. I need answers. ) He’s been scouring the library for what feels like hours now , trying to find any little hint as to why this might have happened. There’s books about the history of Spirale , but they moreso cover the expansive towns and their architecture more than anything of substantial use to him.

He slams the book shut ( far too hard for being in a library , he’ll admit ) and rests his head in his hands. He knows just as much about this damn town as he did when he entered the library in the first place.

When he lifts his head again , he’s met by a man gazing judgmentally in his direction. ( Why is it always me ? Am I really that easy to judge ?? ) And , in his already frustrated state , he doesn’t stop himself from sounding a lot harsher than he means to.

❛ Can I help you ? ❜

[aercnaut]

one of these days i'll open pedro's tag and won't want to set myself on fire