Words, words, words
You know me. When I get bored, Ash is my fall-back. So, more drabbles for my perfect little weirdo.
Enjoy!
Title: Moods
Word: Joy
Count: 100
He doesn't write when he's happy. That high joy makes him want to go do something, someone. He goes a little wild on the upswing. His body pulses and tingles with a positive charge and staying home, sitting at a notebook to write just seems like torture.
When he's low, he writes. When he's sad or angry or just moody in general, he stops, sits, spills his guts onto the pages. There's some hope inside of him, beneath the black, it might lance the boil, bring that joy back but when it doesn't, it still results in some fantastic writing.
Title: Ink
Word: Sunburn
Count: 100
He falls, quick and hard, in love with the feeling of a fresh tattoo. The way his skin feels like it's being pulled tight over bone and radiating heat like a sunburn with a sharp flash of pain every time it stretches, moves, is pressed upon. When he smiles, there's a small, heartshaped sunspot on his cheek that flares and pops and hurts so good, oh God. His fingers come up to brush, every so often, against the simple black ink and knows that it has sparked in him something that will become almost like an addiction and a fetish.
Title: Food Porn
Word: Pudding
Count: 100
“You are, I think,” she says in this exasperated tone that he's heard more times than he can count and he can imagine the roll of eyes that comes along with it, “the only person I know that can make the consumption of a pudding cup an NC-17 event.”
He just smiles and pulls the spoon from his mouth with a pop, a lick of his upper lip. “Are you jealous?”
“No, just suddenly aware of what you sound like when you come and it's a piece of information that I'm pretty sure I never needed.”
Title: Courtside
Word: Tennis
Count: 100
“If I wanted to see men wearing nothing but white grunting and playing with balls, I'd have stayed at home and watched a porn. Why the hell are we here?”
“Ash, tennis is a fascinating sport.”
“No, it's a boring as shit game for noveau riche and wannabe celebrities to watch and pretend that they're sophistocated. The only sport that's worse off than this is golf.”
“Ash...”
“Don't take that tone with me. I'm not sitting here and taking this shit in silence. If you thought any differently, you really need to know me better.”
Title: Bring the Hammer Down
Word: Punishment
Count: 100
The hand comes down, hard and sharp with the crisp snap of flesh on flesh, against his already cherry red backside and he shudders as the force of it moves the whole of his body; the sensitive flesh and warmed metal of his cock and piercings shift against the fabric of the slack and sweet mother of mercy... He ducks his head and huffs out a “16” in a shaking voice. Fuck... The hand slides in a slow drag over the abused flesh in a gesture of something like comfort, raising gooseflesh in it's wake and he shivers again.
Title: Beautiful
Word: Skin
Count: 100
Beauty is pain. Or something like that. And in his tattoos, piercings, dyed hair, he feels beautiful. More than that, he feels, finally after years and years of awkward pushing and fighting, comfortable in his own flesh. So what if people stare when he comes on the scene with green hair, his face full of metal and the dark black band of ink encircling his neck? He finally feels like he's wearing clothing that fits instead of handmedowns too big or too tight for years and years, doning them only because they were what he was supposed to have on.
Title: Praised
Word: Applause
Count: 100
“Ash... This...”
“It's nothing,” he mutters. Just a story about a boy, trapped for years in a dark closet by a drunken and neglectful mother every time she wanted to leave and couldn't, wouldn't pay for a sitter, passed off as an insightful and deep bit of fiction and adored by the bleeding hearts everywhere. He'd entered it on a whim, a fit of boldness that was so different from his usual fearlessness, and it had won. “A joke.”
“It's beautiful.”
“It's shit and they're crackheads for liking it. Trust me. I know my crackheads.”
Title: Pranks
Word: Flag
Count: 100
“You ran what up the flag pole?”
He just smiles, wide and bright, and settles happily in the chair. It was his own boxers that he's strung up alongside the pristine version of Old Glory that was raised up every morning. He's almost waiting to hear what kind of punishment they're going to try to throw at him for it.
The principle just sighs and shakes her head. “Well, we've called your mother...”
He doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. That warm, clever feeling congeals in his veins and he just feels sluggish and cold and afraid.
Title: Home
Word: Caution
Count: 100
He has rules. With most, he's been known to bend, to toe the line or walk right over it, should the situation demand it but there are a few he follows to the letter. Don't bring anyone home; you don't want them to know where you live, do you? Don't leave your drink unattended; if you have to leave your drink, order a fresh one when you come back. Don't cheat or be a part of anyone else's cheating; just don't. Don't ignore “No”; if you need to ask why, you really shouldn't be around people, end of story.
Title: Strategy
Word: Tactic
Count: 100
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The shortest distance to a good, quick fucking is the same. Or at least, that's his philosophy. Why dance and skirt around what you really want when you can just go up and ask for it? There's nothing better than a fast, hot screw against a bar bathroom wall after a “Hey, baby, want to go fuck?” He's never understood the pining thing or the batting eyelashes across the room; blunt is best and has always been and if you want it, go fucking take it. Why not, right?
Enjoy!
Title: Moods
Word: Joy
Count: 100
He doesn't write when he's happy. That high joy makes him want to go do something, someone. He goes a little wild on the upswing. His body pulses and tingles with a positive charge and staying home, sitting at a notebook to write just seems like torture.
When he's low, he writes. When he's sad or angry or just moody in general, he stops, sits, spills his guts onto the pages. There's some hope inside of him, beneath the black, it might lance the boil, bring that joy back but when it doesn't, it still results in some fantastic writing.
Title: Ink
Word: Sunburn
Count: 100
He falls, quick and hard, in love with the feeling of a fresh tattoo. The way his skin feels like it's being pulled tight over bone and radiating heat like a sunburn with a sharp flash of pain every time it stretches, moves, is pressed upon. When he smiles, there's a small, heartshaped sunspot on his cheek that flares and pops and hurts so good, oh God. His fingers come up to brush, every so often, against the simple black ink and knows that it has sparked in him something that will become almost like an addiction and a fetish.
Title: Food Porn
Word: Pudding
Count: 100
“You are, I think,” she says in this exasperated tone that he's heard more times than he can count and he can imagine the roll of eyes that comes along with it, “the only person I know that can make the consumption of a pudding cup an NC-17 event.”
He just smiles and pulls the spoon from his mouth with a pop, a lick of his upper lip. “Are you jealous?”
“No, just suddenly aware of what you sound like when you come and it's a piece of information that I'm pretty sure I never needed.”
Title: Courtside
Word: Tennis
Count: 100
“If I wanted to see men wearing nothing but white grunting and playing with balls, I'd have stayed at home and watched a porn. Why the hell are we here?”
“Ash, tennis is a fascinating sport.”
“No, it's a boring as shit game for noveau riche and wannabe celebrities to watch and pretend that they're sophistocated. The only sport that's worse off than this is golf.”
“Ash...”
“Don't take that tone with me. I'm not sitting here and taking this shit in silence. If you thought any differently, you really need to know me better.”
Title: Bring the Hammer Down
Word: Punishment
Count: 100
The hand comes down, hard and sharp with the crisp snap of flesh on flesh, against his already cherry red backside and he shudders as the force of it moves the whole of his body; the sensitive flesh and warmed metal of his cock and piercings shift against the fabric of the slack and sweet mother of mercy... He ducks his head and huffs out a “16” in a shaking voice. Fuck... The hand slides in a slow drag over the abused flesh in a gesture of something like comfort, raising gooseflesh in it's wake and he shivers again.
Title: Beautiful
Word: Skin
Count: 100
Beauty is pain. Or something like that. And in his tattoos, piercings, dyed hair, he feels beautiful. More than that, he feels, finally after years and years of awkward pushing and fighting, comfortable in his own flesh. So what if people stare when he comes on the scene with green hair, his face full of metal and the dark black band of ink encircling his neck? He finally feels like he's wearing clothing that fits instead of handmedowns too big or too tight for years and years, doning them only because they were what he was supposed to have on.
Title: Praised
Word: Applause
Count: 100
“Ash... This...”
“It's nothing,” he mutters. Just a story about a boy, trapped for years in a dark closet by a drunken and neglectful mother every time she wanted to leave and couldn't, wouldn't pay for a sitter, passed off as an insightful and deep bit of fiction and adored by the bleeding hearts everywhere. He'd entered it on a whim, a fit of boldness that was so different from his usual fearlessness, and it had won. “A joke.”
“It's beautiful.”
“It's shit and they're crackheads for liking it. Trust me. I know my crackheads.”
Title: Pranks
Word: Flag
Count: 100
“You ran what up the flag pole?”
He just smiles, wide and bright, and settles happily in the chair. It was his own boxers that he's strung up alongside the pristine version of Old Glory that was raised up every morning. He's almost waiting to hear what kind of punishment they're going to try to throw at him for it.
The principle just sighs and shakes her head. “Well, we've called your mother...”
He doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. That warm, clever feeling congeals in his veins and he just feels sluggish and cold and afraid.
Title: Home
Word: Caution
Count: 100
He has rules. With most, he's been known to bend, to toe the line or walk right over it, should the situation demand it but there are a few he follows to the letter. Don't bring anyone home; you don't want them to know where you live, do you? Don't leave your drink unattended; if you have to leave your drink, order a fresh one when you come back. Don't cheat or be a part of anyone else's cheating; just don't. Don't ignore “No”; if you need to ask why, you really shouldn't be around people, end of story.
Title: Strategy
Word: Tactic
Count: 100
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. The shortest distance to a good, quick fucking is the same. Or at least, that's his philosophy. Why dance and skirt around what you really want when you can just go up and ask for it? There's nothing better than a fast, hot screw against a bar bathroom wall after a “Hey, baby, want to go fuck?” He's never understood the pining thing or the batting eyelashes across the room; blunt is best and has always been and if you want it, go fucking take it. Why not, right?