#333 words

[rockingrobin69]

high voltage

Potter’s lips made a wet sound as they released tortured-red skin; he blew over it gently, like an absolute fiend, and Draco choked on a moan. It was all too—sticky-close and uncomfortably hot; itchy under his skin, this buzzing, thrumming thing, a current running through his insides. Every breath was half-gulp, half-whimper. There was no space for air in him anyway.

It shone from underneath his tightly-squeezed eyelids, bright-bright and sizzling, all this Potteriness all around him. Like he grew an extra set of hands, or eight of them, touching everywhere: fingers skimming under Draco’s loosely-kept-together shirt, nails catching delicately, maddeningly not-enough; behind his head, pulling on his hair, keeping his neck open for ceaseless attacks, a thumb pressing gently on his Adam’s apple; tickling his sides and undoing his zip and tracing his bottom lip, incongruently reverent, distracting.

All of it was—

“Potter,” Draco cried, back arching into tightening hold, cresting a tiny peak with every broken inhale. Lightheaded and trembling with it. With, “Potter,” biting the whimper, unsuccessfully, and Potter laughed, because he was a fiend, and Draco couldn’t, truly, could not, for a moment longer.

“Fucking—touch me,” he said, nonsensically, as though there weren’t at least a million hands on him already, “Potter, please,” and the noise Potter made, between a growl and a wail, and—clutching at him to bring him closer, gods, closer, so that Potter was crushing him and the kiss which Draco barely noticed deepened, sharpened, teeth and soothing tongue and, shattering, breath-stealing—

“Ah,” Draco said, helpless, “ah, ah, Po, tter,” not really quite words into Potter’s mouth, bucking and mewling, sticky and uncomfortably hot; Potter switching this chain reaction within him, a million-trillion fairy-lights buzzing into a sudden, brilliant flare.  

Potter was endless, on top and everywhere around him; all hands and wet mouth and scorching eyes and heavy panting. Stupefying. Draco kissed him, fizzing with constant sparks, mad with it. Potter was magnetic, electric, and Draco was more than ready to burn.

@apricitydays-lazynights, hi friend, here's your trick!

[sadlystartinganew]

Word Sprints!

~message @elisalromagnoli to join!~ 

Optional Dare: Use the word uphold. 

15 minute sprint starting at :05

“You can’t expect me to just take care of your family! I am not a mother! I am not a maid! I’m not in charge of feeding your children nor am I in charge of preparing their meals! I am 16! I am your fucking daughter!” Tears streamed down her face and she wiped them away with the sleeve of her sweater. She was crying, but her voice didn’t crack, it stayed strong and accusatory. “You can’t go out for days at a time to drink and gamble and leave me here alone with two 3 year olds and a 6 year old! I have to work too. I have to go to school! I can’t bring them to daycare because I don’t have money to pay for it! You are irresponsible and unfit to be a mother. You don’t know how many times I have debated whether to pick up the phone and call child protective services. This is so pathetic,” tears continued to stream but she was strong. Her eyes searched her mother’s tired face for any sign of regret. It was stone cold, not an ounce of apology in her eyes. “You are 16 Elisa. You can take care of a couple children for a little bit. I had you at 16 and I took perfect care of you. You turned out wonderfully. So why don’t you quit complaining and get your shit together. You can take care of the kids, I have to go to Milwaukee for a bit. I should be back in a few days.” Elisa’s eyes were cold. “You are a fucking bitch. I’m not in charge of your children that you had with another drunk idiot!” her mother had no regrets and grabbed her suitcase. “I’ll be back.” She walked out the door. Elisa collapsed, crying. Her mind raced with thoughts that were so demeaning she almost couldn’t stand it. “Your mother doesn’t love you,” her mind whispered, “She wishes you didn’t complain so much.”

Ah, I forgot to include “uphold.” Oh well. :)

[asheewrites]

Azar’s Misadventures of Self Discovery part7

The next time I woke up, the world was warm. And I did feel better. Less tired.

Over me? The noise of a page turning.

And a hand was still in my hair, but only stroking lightly.

I yawned. And then opened one eye to look up.

Sir Israfil was still there, and now moved his eyes to meet mine. And smiled: “Good morning...”

As if it was the most normal thing in the world.

He then closed the book and put it on the nightstand a little further up. All without looking away, giving me his full attention.

One hand in my hair and the other now placed on the pillow on his lap.

The pillow my head was also located on.

… my head was on his lap.

I blinked.

Actually, I was wrapped all around him.

Sir Israfil was sitting perfectly straight and I was... wrapped around his sitting form, head on his lap.

…

I... supposed there were... worse situations.

“... are you... comfortable? Sir?,” because... it might be worth asking?

“But of course,” he smiled again, inclined his head a little, too.

“... so we... stay like that...?,” it was a little off.

“If you wish,” he aid and moved his hand a little, stroking over a different area of hair.

I wished. Kind of.

“... Lady Michelle said I am... normal now,” I frowned, and then nodded. That was the gist of it.

Sire Israfil hummed for a moment, then shook his head lightly: “That would be... incorrect. You were enchanted before birth, I believe you were not aware of this form... were you?”

He raised his brows to ask me.

“... ah... no, this... no, I was not aware of this, no one knew anything about this!,” seriously!

“So your dad didn't say anything. Ah well. It's allowed. I hope at least your mother knows about his Ifrit-nature,” he rubbed his chin.

“Ifri-,” I frowned.

“My DAD?!”

[wordvomitlit]

The Harrison Bergeron short film was very moving to me. Watching the ballerinas highlighted the state of mediocrity and the crushing of artistic beauty, excellence and innovation. It was so painful to hear Hazel comment on the pretty ballerina dance when after seeing it, I know it was clumsy and improper but would have been so much better if it were not for the handicaps. Why can’t the handicaps be excused just for the sake of entertainment and art? Because that upsets those of average intelligence, and average skill. But when everyone is the same and completely equal, everyone is equally mediocre. If the society boosted people to be at an equal higher level of everything the society would seem much less depressing, but they have to bring down people, not help people improve and exceed.  That’s what happens in communist totalitarian regimes, everyone is equally poor and equally uneducated, and equally suffering. (Except for those in the government). The only case where someone was improved was when the anchor’s stutter was removed, but Hazel couldn’t recognize how bad it was, she thought he should get a raise, just because he tried. What really moved me about the short film version was the audience agape at what uncensored and interrupted art looks like. A ballerina dancing properly and a beautiful cello without the rest of the subpar orchestra. Then switching the end to have George unable to remember that he saw his extremely extraordinary son killed by the leader of their equal nation, where everyone should be equally happy. Clearly, those with the handicaps are not. It frustrates me that innovation and brilliance will be stunted to ease those of lesser ability. Equality in attitudes towards people should not mean that people must be equal in all capacities. It just really frustrates me, because the road to hell is always paved with good intentions, but the people who went down that road will excuse their state of hell because of the good intentions.

[therealencolpuis]

Three Little Piggies Came In, One Didn’t Come Out. Maybe.

We didn’t know that the luxuries weren’t over yet. The tables were cleared to the music and 3 albi sues (white pigs) were brought in. They were adorned with tintinnabulis (bells) and capistris (muzzles). The nomenculator (keeper) said that the first was 2 years old, that the second was 3, and that the third was 6.

With all the entertainment so far, we were expecting petauristarios (acrobats) to appear or that the pigs would perform portenta (tricks). The anticipation was shattered though when Trimalchio spoke up. 

“Which of the 3 would you want to be cooked? Any country folk can cook a gallum gallinaceum (rooster), Pentheus hash, or trifles of any kind. My cooks are accustomed to making vitulos (calves) even in a aeno (cauldron).”

A cook was immediately called in as well as the third and oldest pig being chosen without consulting anyone else. When the cook arrived, he was asked what faction he was in and whether or not he was sold to him or was born in his household.

 “Neither. I was left to you in a will” The cook said to Trimalchio. With a threat to be moved to the position of messenger if he cooked the pig wrong, the cook left with the pig chosen. Trimalchio then turned to us and offered us better wine. Hallelujah!

“Everything that makes your mouth water tonight was grown on one of my estates. I don’t know which one. I think it is on the boarder of Terricina and Tarentum. I wish I could join Sicily with my properties so that if I wanted to go to Africa, I could do so without leaving my property.” Trimalchio told us.

He then turned to Agamemnon and asked him about gossip in the are of law that Agamemnon practices. He claimed he could keep up with the conversation because he had three bybliothecas (libraries). One was in Greek and the other was in Latin...what?

[inthedarknesstherebedragons]

3, Camille/Teddy

3. Drunk/sloppy kiss

There you go :)

(hope you like it!)

He's sitting at one of the tables, watching the others laugh, dance, talk with grand gestures. He's just worn out. And slightly drunk. No, completely drunk. His drinks is empty in his hand now that he looks at it. He considers getting up but just the thought, just the thought makes all energy flee his body. Not that he had much left.

And all of a sudden, he's up, lead down halls and corridors, up stairs and through a door. His room. That's his bag right there, his number is on it, he’s sure of that. He's sat down and a beer is pushed in his hand. Bed dips by his side. He turns his head and his eyes fall on a very happy, very beautify grin. Teddy. That is Teddy's smile. And Teddy's face. His hair that he's wanted to touch for so long. His fingers itch at the thought. And they're in Teddy's hair now and he is most probably smiling a 10 years old kid right now.

Fingers join his, but they're not his, they're Teddy's. And they gently pry his hand away. But they stay on his hand.

The -thankfully unopened- beer is forgotten on the bed when Teddy leans forward. His face is incredibly close. He smells good. That's what hits him first. And his lips. Very... Very- very inviting. He licks his own. Swallows. Has a hard time. Anticipation, desire, all mixed up in his brain. (and groin)

He closes his eyes, and the sudden dark makes his heart beat faster. Or maybe it's the heat coming off Teddy's body (that is so close), his fingers digging into his thigh for support, his invigorating smell.

And then, the gap is closed. Lips meet. Soft tender lips, tasting of mint -oh, clever boy.

And just as suddenly they're gone. Teddy's still smirking when Camille opens his eyes again. His hand is resting on his thigh, warm. He looks at it. He's a little dumbfounded... What are they doing?

[quercetums]

Day 8 - 8,064 Words

Only 333 words today! Which is a nice round number at least, even if it's not a very big one. Still, it's Saturday now so I'm sure I can make it up :)

[xandranihilo100]

Pardon My French

He’s standing at the pisser and this is what he sees, printed on the subway tile in crude red sharpie:

“michel FoUCault is cRap??”

This is the philosophy library john, on the third floor of Doolittle Hall, on the campus of a mid-sized Midwestern…

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