Gotta flex my word muscles

[marisolfcanela]

Ask me about a time my character(s):
…drank way too much.
…ran into an ex.
…lost their cool.
…went overboard shopping.
…made an unusual friend.
…won something they didn’t expect to.
…found a book they couldn’t put down.
…did something that they were really proud of.
…did something that they ended up being ashamed of.
…laughed so hard they cried.
…couldn’t stop crying.
…got dressed up for an event that they didn’t want to go to.
…fell asleep in an inappropriate place.
…kissed someone they didn’t expect to.
…got away with something.
…spent way too long lying in bed.
…had something turn out better than expected.
…couldn’t stop thinking about something (or someone).
…found a new favorite food.
…got really sick.
…had an awkward moment with family.
…had an epiphany.
…couldn’t sleep.
…tripped over their own ego.
…lost a bet.

If u want an Eris or an Olive just ask mmmmmkay

Comments

[nathan_attford]

"...ran into an ex."

[marisolcanela.livejournal.com]

This was absolutely not at all what she had come to expect. The drenched scarf around her hair, entirely normal. The nicked and singed fingers, welcomed. But being close enough to knock elbows with her - that's nearly entirely too much. Zurie was supposed to have gone back to France, with her soft consonants and her soft, round limbs and soft, pink lips and soft, wet--

The hiss and bubble of flesh against an engine-hot pan was more than enough to snap Marisol out of her reverie. The sweat rolling down her forehead was from the heat of the kitchen, not from any of the strenuous acrobatics she might be recalling. She risks a glance from under eyes half-lidded against the stove-top's flame, Zurie's translucent skin nearly reflective against the light from the lick of fire, the plump woman's hair a silky cap tied with the pink ribbon that Marisol had been so fond of untying, slowly, and running the slip of fabric--

Another snap of burning on her palm brings her back to the burre blanc she's attending to, the ringing crackle of the Chef's admonishment to pay more attention or the sauce will separate ringing sharp in her ears. It would be too easy to think 'just like Zurie and me, to Marisol's mind, the sound of it too self-pitying and self-soothing. No, it had been for the best for the both of them when Zurie had decided to go back to France, when Marisol herself had called their relationship off. Not a sauce. A salad, different parts coming together but distinct, still. Able to be picked apart.

Zurie's pale hand brushes against Marisol's dark fingers. Marisol's brown eyes catch Zurie's blue. The moment hangs in the air, paired faces dripping sweat, matching smooth burns on wrists and knuckles.

It's Marisol who breaks the silence first. "El batidor, por favor," she asks, hand extended as if to ask for a dance.

"Aquí está." Zurie's fingers linger a moment longer than they ought to as the utensil is passed over.

Marisol wonders, when the warmth of skin has passed its caress and left behind nothing but memory, when the fiery Hell Zurie is actually going back to France.

[nathan_attford]

Aah cooled romance and kitchen stuff! I really like this one A+ drabble filling

[nathan_attford]

"…got away with something."

[oliveclement.livejournal.com]

A third-floor window on the North-facing side of the girl's senior dormitory looks as if it's surrendering - a white slip of fabric whipping in the wind, billowing out like so many unattended bedsheets, a stream of pale cloth slowly beginning to get wet in the late Spring drizzle. A pair of legs kicks somewhat fruitlessly from the center, unceremoniously and gracelessly trying for some purchase against the slick glass of the window in which that long, sunless pair of legs are mired. The stockings are, by now, hopeless.

"You promised," hisses the torso half of the pair of legs stuck in the window, all damp against the apples of Olive Clement's narrow cheeks.

"You weren't supposed to get yourself so precariously situated," Mags hisses back, hair a pristine and dry halo of brunette around her pale face, cupid's lips pursed with amused disdain.

Olive's fingernails, ruined from the arduous process of scaling brick and ivy, scrabble hopelessly at the window's frame. "Miss Worde," there's a good deal of huffing, and only some of it due to the pressure against Olive's ribcage, "if you won't assist me, I'm afraid I shall have to scream, and then I will sing your name to the headmistress as if I were a songbird. I refuse to be implicated alone again."

Mags makes a good show of examining the latch, trying as best she can not to take too much interest in the hilarity of the situation - Olive, trapped as she is, bare legs kicking against glass, stockings wetly slicked against pale skin, knickers on display for all the grounds and trees. It's the snicker that shifts her shoulders just enough, smacks her laughing hand against the sill just enough to creak open the swollen wood. The jar of gravity's pull on the window is enough to leave Olive wheezing for a moment, the loud crack of the shock reverberating through the empty classroom with enough of an echo to be worrisome loud. Olive's bony fingers keep their tight purchase on the lower end of the sill, feet catching purchase against the thin strands of vegetation climbing the brick. Her hands ache.

There are footsteps coming down the hall as Olive swings, catches a slipper against the trellis, and presses herself against the vines.

"Ollie," Mags head appears from the open window above, brown waves framing a now frightened face. "You've got to come back up, please, Miss Hettinger's on her way. I can't open this door from the inside."

But Olive has already begun to work her way back towards the first floor, an easier window, a less sweet prize than they were after.

[misskarin_ebz]

…found a new favorite food.

[delphinewhipple]

Marisol couldn't sleep.