#also exactly 100 words

[verai-marcel]

“That’s it darlin’, take me in.” The rumble of his voice reverberated throughout your body, limp in his arms, loose and limber from all of his previous ministrations. Afterglow? More like afterthought as he spread you wide and took and took and took. 

“Selfish bastard,” you said, your words bouncing as much as your body. “What about me?”

“What abou’chu?” he sneered, before digging his thumbs into your hips. “Take yer own pleasure, if you can.”

You reached down and touched yourself, wantonly whimpering and moaning for him. 

“Good li’l pet,” he crooned before he pulled out and marked you.

Okay fanfic writers, your mission, should you chose to accept it, is a filthy 100 word drabble, for any pairing, to be posted on Thursday, in time for American Thanksgiving.

Ready, set, write!

[thevioletcaptain]

today dean fucked up 😪

[yourbuerokrat2]

It was Picards retirement party. His former senior crew, some important diplomats and a self-proclaimed 'special guest' were there. Whose presence was, aside from his commentary during various speeches and a clear attempt at hogging Picards attention, strangely tolerable.

Until the end, that is.

It was .. bewildering when Q shook everyones hands, even congratulating Beverly on her new position and Riker on his captaincy.

"I am sure you all will be very busy. But don't you worry. I'll take good care of him from now on."

Putting his arm around Picard, Q snapped his fingers and they both were gone.

[cattewife]

mishaps

a drabble collection for the h/ual/ian modern au series (not snz)

fandom: m/xtx t/gcf rating: T word count (per chapter): 100-300 contains: allergy problems that are *not* sneezing

Sometimes things go a little bit wrong. Life goes on.

just some microfic thoughts & moments that had nowhere else to go.

[ link to fic on ao3 ] or read below the cut!

chapter 1 [mishaps]: on a date

.

"This is the worst.  I'm the worst," Hua Cheng groans, holding his (already ruined) sleeve bunched up against his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

"San Lang!" Xie Lian exclaims.  "It's no big deal!  Yesterday I spilled my whole drink on us and then knocked over the table."

"Yes, but that was endearing," Hua Cheng mumbles.

"It was not, but it's sweet that you think so.  This isn't even your fault!"

No, it's just yet another symptom of his wretched body trying to turn itself inside out in the autumn: stressed nasal tissues from constant allergies meeting the changing weather. 

.

[0sbrain]

i think one of my least favorite troupes in tf2 fanfics has to be scout finds x and y are dating and freaks out/starts being openly homophobic towards them because "canon typical homophobia"

they are mercenaries. fucking contract killers. do you think anyone gives a flying fuck about homosexuality being illegal? you see, they are ok with murder and gruesome violence, HOWEVER they draw the line at two men holding hands because the words on the paper say it's a no no

he would probably tease them because, that's normal that's what friends and annoying coworkers do. and sometimes he might step on a line. but my dear friends. if scout was genuinely homophobic to any of the other mercs, im afraid he wouldn't survive the winter (irse a mimir). he would get snapped by a twig and it doesn't even have to be by the merc he was insulting. anyone in the vicinity would suplex his ass. son, we all suck dick here. get used to it

[thanatos-zagreus-shagreus]

Thanks for the tag @twopercentboy! I'm making a new post bc the other one was getting very long 😅 (link to the old post)

The game: post four characters you would be in another universe

People have been putting very little explanations with their posts, so I'll be rambling in the tags about why these characters

Tagging a lot of people: @azurecanary @constantly-confused-queer @misterybusiness @tostilunch @krukel @greencow @yuespropagandablog @furiouslysleeping @flapdr0l @corvidsforhire @caffeine-high @spencyart @launh @anothera @inbabylontheywept @firelife14 @esskuesli @pride-cookie (please don't feel obligated to participate, but also if I didn't tag you feel free to join in!)

[lumeha]

7. silent fury for whichever YGO side character strikes your fancy >:]

7 - Silent fury

Sora has seen the anger of some the Lancers. The way Kurosaki's burns, not bright and light, but with devouring destruction, leaving nothing but ruins behind. How Yuya tries to swallow rage down, and how its thousand of needles rip through his throat. Serena, dear Serena, no better than him in the end (or perhaps much better, because she stopped and listened before he did.), with anger at the world as the undercurrent of their education.

And yet, none of them cut as deep as Tsukikage's quiet, silent fury. It is undercut by his acceptance's of Yuzu arguments ; of his welcoming of his former enemy as a temporary ally.

And Sora, Sora accepts it, and struggles to understand. Because Sora deserves, more than anyone else, to be the its target.

Send me a number and i ́ll write a micro story

[buildheight]

“Right,” Gem says, keeping her voice steady like a hand of cards to her chest. “What do you know, then?”

It’s not so much a question as it is a threat, and Pix answers in kind. “I think we’re both aware of what’s going on here.” 

It’s a bluff. Gem darts her eyes back at the group in the courtyard, then to Pix again, who gives her a bemused smirk. “Okay,” she says. “Just… don’t mess this up for me.”

“I certainly have no intention of the sort,” Pix says. A cloud passes over the sun, casting a long shadow.

==

This Scott smells very distinctly like llama. It’s not an unwelcome thing. Gem observes the way he talks sweetly to his herd and moves his hands through their coats. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen another Scott act like this. His clothes are garish and, by all standards, mismatched, and his hands are stained with an ever changing array of dyes. He very calmly and confidently attaches the saddle to the llama he’s working with, and it seems soothed by his presence.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a grin that reaches his eyes. “What colors were you looking for?”

==

The rift glows ominously, and pulses with a sick purple energy. Gem can’t keep her eyes off it.

“What’d’you reckon, then?” A voice pipes up from behind her. She bristles.

“No idea,” she says, smiling, then turning around. In that order.

“Bit weird, if you ask me,” Joel says. Gem can’t help but think of a bird puffing out its feathers to seem bigger.

“I don’t know anything about magic, really,” she lies. 

Joel gives her a blank look with those familiar glass eyes. To her credit, her smile doesn’t twitch. “Right then.” He shrugs. “Not much of a conversationalist.”

==

“I’m sure there’s nothing to be afraid of,” Gem says, running her fingers through her hair, watching the way the strands catch the moonlight.

False doesn’t turn to look at her, but her movements do slow. It’s enough of an answer.

“I’m not just saying it,” Gem insists, but something in the way False reaches up to her hair to mirror Gem’s movements makes her stomach flip.

“I think I need a haircut,” False says instead, voice no louder than a whisper. 

Gem moves to close the shutters, not looking at the moon. “That would be nice,” she whispers back.

==

Gem watches as Sausage orbits around Pearl. The Hermits, to their credit, have been very accommodating. They don’t ask too many questions. The dry heat of the Nether Roof is a good excuse for why her palms are sweating.

Pix, to her chagrin, seems bemused.

“Don’t say anything,” she says, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Pix does a convincing approximation of a cough into his hand.

Gem watches as Sausage enters course for collision. It takes her every ounce of strength to turn away when he puts his hand on Pearl’s shoulder. She catches Joel’s eye instead.

==

“He’s a bit pants, isn’t he?” Jimmy whispers loudly. Oli was too loud in his crooning to notice the crowd ignoring him.

“Yeah,” she admits.

“I think it’s nice,” the Old Sheriff says. “He’s trying to recapture his glory years. Good reminder to us all that the past is left dead.” He spits a glob of something mysteriously dusty onto the floor.

“That’s nice?” Jimmy scoffs.

“You’ll get it one day, buddy,” Joel says, and pats Jimmy on the back.

“Darn tootin’,” the Old Sheriff agrees.

Gem feels the words stick in her throat. Someone throws a rock at Oli.

==

“I’m not sure I need something super new,” Katherine says, holding up two nearly identical pink dresses in the mirror. One is a bit shorter than the other, but they’re both lavishly embellished. It’s like playing dress-up. Spending time with Katherine is easy, if nothing else. She’s so very… Katherine. Watching her flutter around the room is a good comfortable feeling. “What do you think?”

“Left one?” Gem offers. “I like the matte fabric.”

“I’m going with this one. I like the shiny silk.”

“Good choice,” Gem says. “Go with what your heart says.”

Katherine laughs, and Gem laughs, too.

==

“Have you known?” Sausage says one night, sitting up on the roof of his tavern, watching the stars. “This whole time?”

Gem doesn’t answer right away. The cool night air feels so good on her face. There’s no need to say out loud what Sausage already knows.

“I just have one question,” he says next. It’s so quiet, so honest. Gem can hardly match the Sausage she knew with the one sitting next to her. “Why leave me there?”

It’s a question Gem has answered to herself a million times over in the mirror. Tonight she confesses. “I was scared.”

==

By the time Gem packs her bags, Pix and Joel have already gone.

“It’s just time,” she says to herself. She’s not sure who she’s justifying herself to. Sausage seems perfectly content to let her go. There’s nothing keeping her here. 

The flight to the Rift is shorter than she anticipated. The sun setting over the Great Bridge casts a long shadow over the land, and she watches as lights flicker on in homes dotted across the valley. The corpse of Grumbot is the only thing left to wave her goodbye.

Perhaps, she thinks, people don’t need the past anymore.

[cupidskissx]

please write 100 words (no more, no less, let yourself write and stop when you reach 100, there is no need to set up the basis of a scene, you can start in the middle, in a climax, in the lowest of highs, etc etc) on the prompt 'HOT SALSA DIP'

Only you’d be able to pull from a writer’s funk by demanding such a feat! Love you endlessly ❤️💍

Just for you, this can live somewhere in Spy AU 🕵️‍♂️

*

“Salsa, target approaching.”

“Copy, Tango,” Max took his finger off his ear-piece and ruffled his hair. He scanned the crowded ballroom, almost making eye contact with the leader of the cartel.

The next thing he knew a pair of hands were on his waist, swaying him side to side.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re centre stage, get those hips working.”

Charles slinked around him and took the lead, matching the pace of those dancing around them.

“You know what they call this?” Charles asked.

Before Max could answer he was swept backwards, Charles supporting his neck, “a hot Salsa dip!”

[veifei]

ok the question is. do i add in a little angst to the birthday fic as a treat or. or is that quite cruel actually

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[plusultraetc]

Fourteen Days of MHA | 4/14: The Ladies

Momo returns to the kitchen with the glass jar of matches from her room, only to find the candle already lit.

“Oh,” she says. The three wicks of the pink scented candle flicker merrily. “You found the lighter, then?”

“Nope!” Mina says from where she’s standing by the counter. Tooru is kneeling on it, passing down mugs for tea.

“Oh.” Momo says again, still staring at the candle. Then she looks around for Todoroki. He is not there. In fact, there’s no one in sight.

“Do you wanna know how we lit it?” Mina asks. From the way she’s smiling, Momo is pretty sure the answer is no.

But she’s the class VP. Since moving into the 1-A dorms, the realm of her responsibilities has expanded. She must, intrepidly, proceed.

“… How?”

“Well,” Mina says, reaching for a roll of paper towels.

“No.”

“No, Yaomomo, listen—”

“No.” The stove looms ominously behind her.

“It worked really well! We threw it in the sink right after!”

Momo slams the jar of matches onto the kitchen counter with a little more force than is probably necessary. Mina pouts. “These are the kitchen matches now. They’re staying here. Forever. Just don’t—no.”

[petrovna-zamo]

Russian pop music recommendations by Katya

[gunpowder-tim]

posting an oc drabble bc i can.

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" They're face to face, hands cradling cheeks and holding waists. "No." It's a lie, he can't tell them the truth. It's not a lie, he didn't kiss back, he didn't want it.  "Have you?" A small head shake, "Kinda hard to find someone willing to be your friend, let alone kiss you, when you’re the prince.” “They’re all missing out then.” They nervously giggle, blue skin turning green with a slight blush. “Kiss me?” A simple request, he knows he would do anything for them. Their lips connect, soft and gentle, nervous energy between them.

[orphiicheartd]

Of those who went to Playful Land, Vil came out of it with a surprising aversion to all things puppets. And a constant Urge to scratch at the right side of his face, fearful of feeling wood rooted in there rather than human skin. Even months afterward, he'd still feel a certain ick when dealing with anything related to puppets and will have a blatantly obvious fear response to finding even stray sticks in his hair.

He wasn't really able to stomach having ribbons on his wrists or even wearing harnesses for commercial or modeling gigs he did that year for a bit either. He'd tossed the clothes from Playful Land in the back of the Film club's costume shed, as he didn't want them to go to waste even still. He'd even asked the other's willing to give theirs up to store them in there too. He doesn't think he would be able to use them for anything, though, as just the idea of wearing that ensemble again is Abhorrent to him. Even the mere thought of Epel try one on left him feeling nauseous.

[free-luigi-mangione]

Chief of NYPD police confirmed there were DNA matches (including prints) in the HBO documentary

I mean they were saying that 1 day after the arrest publicly too when they haven't even sent anything for testing, whatsoever said publicly doesn't matter. It has to hold up in court. In public cases, LE talk too much and more than half the time they have either fucked up the chain of custody because they got excited or there was nothing to begin with

praying that they fucked up so bad nothing holds up in court 🙏