#drabble writings

[oncewasfreelancertrash-blog]

Tuckington and #8!

“Wanna bet?” Washington confronts, stepping close to Tucker and plucking the skateboard from Tucker’s hands.

Tucker’s eyebrows shot up, and a smirk bloomed on his face. His teeth started nibbling on his lip ring in thought. “You want to bet on this? You, an old man, want to bet me that you can make this jump on a skateboard?” Tucker snarks, poking his finger into Washington’s chest.

Washington cocks an eyebrow as he looks away from Tucker to inspect the board. “Old man, huh? You seem to have a thing for those.” Washington points out as he sets the board down.

Tucker’s face fell and he punched a chuckling Washington on the shoulder. Tucker clucked his tongue and said, “Alright, let’s bet. You make that jump-”

Tucker gestured to the ramp across the cargo crates that a soldier was trying to make. They slide and fell through the gap with a loud crack. Doctor Grey was already on stand by with glee.

“and you can prove to me how much of an old man you aren’t. If you don’t, I’ll make you feel like the old man you are.”

Washington smirks, and takes Tucker’s outstretched hand. “Deal.”

With the hand shake, Washington pushed off the ground to mount the skateboard.

One 360 kickflip and a night later, Tucker was the one walking like an old man.

Send me a pairing & a number 1-50, I’ll make a drabble for you!

[toratheexplorer-blog-blog]

drabble for sku under cu t 

gomen

Friendly Practice. He didn’t like the idea ever since coach suggested it. Tengawara and Teikoku.  He never liked them, mostly because they were known for being in the top bracket for years and it was just his policy to generally not like anyone better than him.

Also he wasn’t exactly good with teamwork. Not even his own team. The only reason the other probably put up with Ryouta was the fact he was a better forward than anyone.  So he kicked soccerballs halfheartedly into a keeper less goal in the opposite half of the field as everyone else.

“Hey would you like to shoot goals with me?” Ryouta turned, and the distinctively orange jersey said goalkeeper.  But specifically Teikoku’s goalkeeper. Honestly there wasn’t much special about his physical appearance either despite maybe looking a little airheaded.

“…Why?” The boy shrugged a little,

“Because I heard you were good.” He smiled, “And you aren’t going to get any better kicking balls with no one to catch them.”  He didn’t say anything along the lines of rude but still the way he was smiling just kinda got Ryouta’s hackles raised. It felt like a challenge and he was not backing down.

“Fine then…” he waited there, rolling a ball under his foot while his practice partner moved down to the goal.

“Ready.”  Enough sweet talk, he kicked as hard as he could and sent that ball whizzing at the other.”

~~

Two hours later and both of them are panting hard. There soccer balls littered all over their half of the field and only a couple of them actually made it into the goal.

Dammit! He never took that kid to be actually really fucking good. Of course he hadn’t used hissatsu for practice, but neither did the other and he still nearly stopped all of his shoots. Fuckit , he’s stubborn and is about to take another running start to shoot when there’s a yell behind him.

“Daiki! Ryouta! Practice is over time to go!”  Fuck everything…  The other—Daiki apparently—trotted over, still worn out as much as he was but smiling and holding out his hand.

“You really are good. I look forward to having a match with your team sometime.”  He stared down at that hand, scowling just a little. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah whatever…” He had some serious leveling up to do before then…

[primes-dont-party]

Waking Nightmares

Recharge didn't come easily to the Prime as of late. Not out of workload or the lack of privacy, but due to the tumbling thoughts that plagued his processor. Flashes of battles won and battles lost; the offline, the wounded, the lost. Early in the War, the devastation to peaceful city-states that had nothing to do with the factions. The younglings... Shouted commands and fire, crumbling buildings, the echo of jet turbines as seekers roared overhelm.

He forced himself away from the main console - having taken a moment when Ratchet was not there - to walk back to his quarters; a walk that seemed far longer than it should have. To the sides of him, he saw ruins. Phantom images projected onto the Base walls and floors. Sudden flashes of blaster fire. He grit his denta, optics shuddering against the memories, but they didn't fade. It was like this lately.

Moving to his private sanctuary - spartan at best in accommodations - Optimus stared bleakly at his berth then to the desk and second console that he rarely used. Recharge, if he could, would be his best option. Rid himself of the waking nightmare that seemed to follow him everywhere. Screams of fallen comrades, innocent lives, for the sake of what? A Doomed planet? A cause he supported only to have it fall to ruin? No... He couldn't allow himself to think that way.

Walking back the way he came, leaving his quarters empty, his berth untouched, Optimus Prime trudged to the Training room. He couldn't let his processor wander further. He was the unshakable cornerstone of his team. The Prime. There was no room for weakness, or emotion; his stoic faceplate unchanging. This was his duty, his burden.

And he would carry the weight of a planet on his shoulders with no complaints. 

[cuestickdiamonds-blog]

==>

What an excellent night for depressed binge drinking.

You really hope that this is simply from being unused to dealing with estrogen and its effects on moods and emotion, but honestly this is pathetic. You're just making excuses.

You sent her a message. She didn't respond. You offered amends. She wasn't interested. 

You are such a fucking shitty father.

You don't want to overbear, so you give her space. You give too much space. You hardly get to speak with her anymore. You have no idea what is going on with her life, and it is not because she is avoiding you. It's because you're not putting forth the effort. It's as if you don't even care. You don't even know enough about basic fucking human interaction to recognize whether or not you care.

You do care, you reason. Why else would you be dispassionately drinking 151 rum straight, alone in your apartment, staring at nothing. Your gaze is distant, but pained. It takes you a few more swigs from the bottle to realize you are crying. It is not an active process. You're still and silent, and your face is blank, but tears still stain your cheeks. You don't even have the energy to wipe them from your face.

You are such a coward. You are sitting here sulking alone. One message unnoticed and you've ran. Every logical part of yourself hates you. Even the emotional part hates you. Take another shot. 

You are upset only now that it is convenient to you. You rolled your eyes when she was upset. She told you what you were doing would hurt her, and you didn't understand why  she would be upset and you did it anyway you awful, heartless, insensitive, sociopathic prick. Take another fucking shot. 

Do you just want to make fucking amends because you're getting married and you want her to be there? You want her to be happy for you when you can't even ensure that she herself is happy? You don't even know if she's safe right now. You are awful. You are fucking awful and you are no where near what that girl deserves. Why was it you. Why did you have to try and help that little girl when you could have brought her to someone who could have given her so much more. Why couldn't that little robot girl have found someone who could have shown her the love that she deserves.

Why did she have to make you feel love.

You feel sick. 

You never vomit when you drink. It seems as though you stay true to that constant, but nonetheless you drag your sorry ass to the bathroom and continue your lament pressed against the wall and the linoleum. The alcohol has all but stopped burning in your throat. The tears still hurt though. You can't even recall the last time you cried, but now your body spasms with the occasional silent sob. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, having abandoned the nearly empty bottle on the floor. 

You thought Slick was a fool when you watched him go through the same process. You are the fool. It just took you a bit longer for it to boil over.

You fucking hate yourself and everything that you are.