#200 words a day

[writingwife-83]

Ok friends, I’m gonna do daily word count updates to keep me accountable for the 200 Word a Day for May challenge.

Google doc start point- 676 words

I’ll be back later to update!

If you’re not interested in updates like this idek why you’re following a blog like this lol but go ahead and filter “may writing challenge”

[thewritingsofevbrowne]

May Writing Challenge

So I saw this writing challenge on Tumblr for the month of May. I wanted to keep up my writing schedule. I wrote a total of 26,479 words. Which is a whole 47 words more than I wrote in Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm pretty proud of myself and deserve a little pat on the back for my accomplishment.

The whole reason I did this challenge is because I usually expect way too much of myself. I used to think 1k words a day was a good goal but it's way too high for me. Usually, when I didn't meet my goal I would become disappointed in myself for not making it. So smaller goals mean more achievable goals. I think I'll try to continue this writing challenge in my daily schedule. Some words are better than none.

[seravphs]

modern intimacy —

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO x FEM READER

Gojo watches you get ready for your anniversary date. 

tags — married au, Gojo is the annoying type that doesn’t have to do any skincare or makeup to look good, so he’s doubly interested in your routine

“What’s that one?” 

“It’s mascara.”

“Huh. Okay, what’s that?” 

“It’s blush, honey.” 

“Can I try?” 

“Try it on?” You look up at him, surprised. Gojo, being Gojo, always looks perfect. You’re not sure what he would need makeup for. 

“Can I try putting it on you?” 

When you shrug, Gojo grins eagerly and pulls you onto his lap. You did not agree to that, but you let it slide. He takes the little compact in one hand and your fluffy brush in the other. His tongue peeks out in concentration as he taps rouge onto your cheeks. 

You catch a glimpse in the mirror against his protests. No wonder why-

“I look like a clown!” You protest. 

“But my adorable little clown,” he says. 

“Don’t try to wriggle your way out of this one! Give me that-“ you snatch your makeup back. 

You wince at you stare into the mirror once more. It’s useless. Your base is completely unsalvageable. You’ll have to start all over. 

“It’s fine,” Gojo drawls. “I’ll just get us another reservation.” 

You turn gleaming eyes on him and lift your blush brush. 

“Hey, wait!”

[sunlitsorrows]

Editing Notes: dates may have to be adjusted depending on current/future events, don’t really know when this story is set, maybe last year?

aZylum #28

Previous Part #27 here

POV - Eugene

Eugene scrolls through the guy’s channel—four hundred and fifty nine videos spanning a little over six years, wow. That’s, what—more than once a week? On average? And they’re extremely well organized; snippets of news reports named by Country-Channel-Air Date, breakdowns and explanations of articles and reports from…. Eugene doesn’t recognize all the different acronyms but he does know the WHO and the CDC, it’s easy to extrapolate from there.

“So what kind of zombies?”

Because the thing is, it is possible. Not actual dead people getting back up for a stroll and snack, but sicknesses making people aggressive; rabies comes to mind—that fungus that infects caterpillars—or a new party drug—but even if it isn’t anything so dire, they’re due for the next pandemic.

(Go figure it would be starting while he was taking an internet break—but it would have been something, the world doesn’t stop turning just because you crawl under a rock.)

“Who even cares, I’m more worried about the reactionists. Got home just in time to catch my dad loading his rifle because Mrs. Fletcher didn’t turn around when he said hi to her this afternoon.”

Because this is America, where people get shot every day for way less than chewing on their neighbors—honestly, you’re lucky if you don’t get shot for chewing out your neighbors.

“Isn’t she deaf?”

He re-sorts the page by most recent and clicks the newest video, but it’s from a French news broadcast and Eugene flunked French all three times he took it, backs out and scrolls down to USA CNN Live 08.03.25. Four days ago.

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[disguisedcheezed]

Just take this. They could never leave my fucking mind.

[after-witch]

A Snowy Interlude [Yandere Illumi x Reader]

Title: A Snowy Interlude [Yandere Illumi x Reader]

Synopsis: You play in the snow--a rare treat.

Word count: 1418

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of past abuse

“Are… you… sure this is… allowed?”

Even if it weren’t cold, your words would have come out slow and almost stuttered. But the cold air doesn’t do anything to help the eloquence of your speech, which comes out haltingly, words carefully chosen and accompanied by puffs of your whitened breath. 

Illumi’s face remains, as almost always, impassive.

“What do you mean, allowed?” He asks, finally, watching as you take each piece of winter clothing from the standing butler and slip them on. Gloves, a scarf, a hat, all fitted perfectly to your form. 

It would have been nicer to put them on before stepping out into the winter air, but you hadn’t been outside in months, and you weren’t going to complain about a thing. He did have you step into winter boots first, at least, and a winter coat. 

“I just mean,” you reply, watching as the butler gestures for you to step into a pair of thick, puffy snow pants–the kind you used to wear as a kid, “I haven’t been outside in… a while.” 

Your voice warbles as you hold onto the butler’s arm support and step into the puffy pants; butlers were the only other people you were allowed to touch, besides Illumi. Even then, they knew to never touch first; you could touch them like furniture, like a useful thing. 

Illumi hums. “No, you haven’t. I felt it inappropriate for you to be outside.” 

You don’t comment–you don’t want him to elaborate and change his mind. Or worse, decide that it is inappropriate for a newly-minted Zoldyck wife to step outside the mansion looking like an oversized marshmallow.

Once you’re dressed, the butler stands aside, and you let your gaze wander across the garden. 

It had really been snowing. Illumi had let you sit at the window watching as the flakes fell, thin and almost rain-like at first, but then gradually getting thicker and fluffier as the day went on. It snowed for almost three days straight and now the entire estate looked like something out of a pretty winter story–the roofs all covered in white, the same pretty sparkling white that covered the ground and went up past your knees.

It was all waiting, just beyond the cobblestone path leading back inside the estate. It had been neatly shoveled out and you tried to picture the butlers shoveling it bit by bit, as your neighbors were no doubt doing back home. Well. What had been home, before all this. 

Illumi doesn’t make to move, and you give him an awkward look. 

“Um. So. Can I… go out there?” It’s a silly question, you realize. Why get you all dressed up for being outside if you were just going to stand on the shoveled path? Oh. Well. Actually. Maybe it's not so silly, and Illumi was just being irritatingly over-protective about the cold.

And perhaps you’re right to question it, because Illumi’s eyebrows furrow. Just a little. Just enough to notice.

“Oh,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered it. He pauses, and you wonder if this is it, your time outside will just be spent standing at staring. “... Yes. I suppose that’s all right.”

Something like happiness prickles your chest and you step away from the shoveled cobblestones, boots sinking into the deep snow. The sound of each step is so familiar, so nostalgic; the swish of your snow pants with every movement, the soft crunching of the snow, the way it yields underneath your boots.

Your smile grows without you realizing it as you make your way into the garden, arms out at your sides for balance. How long is it since you’ve been in the snow like this? Even before Illumi took you, it wasn’t like you had the time for it. 

You were a kid, surely. Maybe 12 or 13, the last time it was still considered cool to dress in bulky outerwear and trudge your sled up to the neighborhood sledding hill. 

A sense of wonder overtakes you, and it feels like the past few months are left behind you, standing alongside Illumi and the butler–the training, the pain, the burns, the bruises, the broken arm and fingers. The instructions and etiquette and rules, rules, rules. 

How could they come with you, as you begin to trudge–happy then happier–through the snow? 

It’s so thick you feel like if you fell down, you’d be lost in it. Maybe you’ll sink to the ground. Maybe you could make a snow angel–or a cave. The urge to fall overtakes you as it so often did in childhood and you simply plop backward in the snow. The thump hides the sound of Illumi rushing forward, though perhaps he would have known how to run through the snow silently anyway.

When you look up, you see Illumi, of course. But beyond that is what you’re interested in: the sky above you, all blue and lovely. There’s whiteness, too, the sparkling prettiness of the snow all around you. Some of the cold has seeped underneath your coat and scarf, burning your ears. But you don’t mind.

Of course, you’re eventually forced to acknowledge him, and you finally let your gaze focus on Illumi. He’s leaning down, his hair almost becoming a black curtain.

“Why did you fall?” He looks–almost concerned, you think. “Are you having a heart attack?” It’s funny, really, the way he phrases his so calmly. If you weren’t becoming somewhat decent at reading him, you might think he was joking. 

He’s not. So–

You blink up at him.

Then you move your arms and legs up and down, up and down, making a snow angel underneath you.

Illumi blinks back.

“Perhaps you’ve had a stroke.”

You grin, then, and clutch a handful of snow underneath your gloves. 

“I didn’t, to both. Haven’t you ever made a snow angel?” You ask, curling the snow together, beginning to form a ball and idly wondering if you’re brave enough to do it.

Illumi straightens his back, and looks at the impressions of snow you’ve left behind your arms and legs. He doesn’t seem impressed.

“No. I haven’t.”

Something pangs inside you, and a question floats up: what kind of childhood did Illumi have, anyway? Maybe he never played in the snow. Never made a snow angel, never spent hours digging out a snow cave with friends. Never slid down a hill and bashed into a tree and it hurt but it was fun all the same.

It must have been hard. 

Your fingers curl around your newly made snowball and instead of chucking it as his face, you sit up, and start pulling in more snow to make it bigger.

“What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. Instead you keep going, scooping, gathering, and rolling until you’ve got the makings of a fantastic snowman butt.

“Are you going to answer me?” There’s enough of a sharp pin in his tone and you hoist yourself up, using the round snowman butt as leverage.

“I’m making a snowman,” you answer. “But all I’ve got is the butt.” You gesture to your creation, stalling for the time needed to create the words, to ask the question. Surprising, how hard it is to ask Illumi to do something like this.

“If you want, you could… get some gloves and join me?” 

Illumi looks around you, at the disheveled mess you’ve made of the pristine fallen snow, at the clumps of snow clinging to your snow pants, your gloves, your hat. At the large round ball you’re proclaiming is a snowman butt.

At your face, beaming, carefree, in a way he’s never seen you look since before he took you.

“I don’t mind the cold,” is all he says, before he leans down and begins to mimic the way you scooped snow together. 

It doesn’t hold. He’s awful at it. And you do something you’ve never done before, at least, not on your own initiative–you place your gloved hands over his and curl your fingers in the right way, so that the snow gets packed together properly.

Illumi goes still, and you pretend not to notice, because you think he’d rather you didn’t. 

Instead, you keep on making your snowman, as Illumi slowly but surely gets the hang of it.

“I’m glad it snowed so much,” you say, quietly, cheerily, wondering if a butler could run inside to get carrots and something for the snowman to wear.

Illumi, in response, hums.

It’s as close as you’ll get to agreement. 

[gothamxwattpad]

January 2nd 2025.

Today’s writing goal was met and I have a very rough start to an outline for GothamX. No, I’m not done with Weavers, it’s on the shelf because GothamX is more important to me. Blank 30 day card below if you would like to join me in challenging yourself to write! 200 words a day; whether it be the building blocks of a new project or writing for fun!

January 1st 2025.

I’m walking into this year with 2 writing goals: 1) write 200 words a day- whether it be for my big project or just little shit writing to entertain me & 2) to create a character that is so hated that readers don’t want to seem them killed off.

I have met my word count goal today! If you would like to join me, I will add a blank page below!

[fake-mouthstatic]

intimacy

@bucktommyfluffebruary, day 1. rated G.

💕

Tommy drags himself from the car to his front door, legs heavy as lead after a 24 that had the 217 grounded and fighting a fire that just would not give up.

Evan is already waiting in the doorway wearing a smile that's both sympathetic and pleased to see him.

"Hey, babe," he says and even that makes Tommy feel ten times better already.

Even so, "Mm," is all the response he can muster, mumbling into Evan's shoulder as he collapses into him, more exhausted then he's felt in a long time.

"You want to eat first or shower?"

read the rest under the cut or on ao3

What he actually wants to do is sleep for a week but he's not had a proper meal since yesterday and he's covered in soot and sweat so Evan's suggestions are probably more sensible.

"Shower," he mutters, and Evan gently leads him towards the bathroom.

Once there he starts carefully stripping Tommy out of his clothes, fingers drawing goosebumps as they brush against his skin.

Tommy lets him, too tired to even think; as much as he wants to scrub himself clean, now that he's here it seems like a level of effort he's not sure he's got in him.

"Evan-"

As if reading his mind, Evan says, "I got you, don't worry."

He turns the shower on and nudges a now naked Tommy gently under the warm spray; a low moan falls from Tommy's lips as the steaming hot water hits his skin.

"Just let me-"

Evan trails off as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, throwing it to the floor before pulling his sweatpants down.

Tommy's so exhausted that he barely bats an eyelid at the fact that Evan's not wearing any underwear.

"There," Evan says, smiling as he steps into the shower with him and closes the door against the cool of the bathroom; not for the first time, Tommy's glad he went for the super sized shower cubicle.

Evan presses a soft kiss to the damp skin of Tommy's temple before reaching for the shampoo.

Tommy closes his eyes and sinks into the feeling of Evan's fingers massaging his scalp, washing the soot and sweat from his hair with a care that Tommy's not sure he's ever been on the receiving end of; it feels almost like being worshipped and that's before Evan even gets to the rest of him, soaping him up with the good stuff he always spent too much money on.

Evan's soft touch is soothing in a way that Tommy can't even begin to describe; he could almost fall asleep standing up and there's a warm security in knowing that Evan would catch him if he did.

"Babe?" Evan says after Tommy doesn't know how long, pulling Tommy from his relaxed stupor.

"Mm?" Tommy manages, forcing open his eyes to see Evan smiling at him, holding out a towel.

Tommy steps into his arms and not for the first time, thanks his lucky stars for the hurricane that had brought them together.

[oifaaa]

People who can work on one project one piece of art one piece of writing for days on end amaze me if I do not finish my thing before I go to bed there is a 90% chance I will be disgusted by even the thought of it the next day and that only increases the more time passes

[seneon]

why does the fics that i put the most work in always flops and the lazy ones gets like all the notes??

[writingwife-83]

Coming in under the wire once again! Day 6 of 200 words a day in May…

Starting word count- 339

Final word count- 558 😅

[beggingwolf]

pens r bad someone help inspire me about a grimy dirty world I can use for my writing tonight

[finickyfelix]

First/Last Line Tag:

Thanks for the tag @cowboybrunch and @tragedycoded! This is much later than I normally do tag games, but due to the nature of this one I couldn't do it until I was done writing for the day.

Rules: Post the first line and last line you worked on that day.

Here's what I have for today:

First line:

You knew that if you opened that door, he would find out.

Last line:

When the cold wind hit your face, you felt both freer than you'd ever been and like you were chained to the room you'd come from, like you could both run away and couldn't take a single step past the door.

Tagging my beloved tag list, who are below the cut, as well as open tag for anyone else who wants to show me the first and last lines you wrote today!

Hello tag list <3 It's been a while. @the-letterbox-archives, @leahnardo-da-veggie, @the-scaredy-crow, @tragedycoded*, @drchenquill, @fifis-corner, @melpomene-grey, and @cedar-sunshine

(*: since you tagged me, you don't have to do it.)

Please let me know if you'd like to be added to or removed from my tag list.

[sunlitsorrows]

Editing Notes: look! The zombies have arrived! Or at least are finally being mentioned! Might need something about the footage being pulled? But its early days, no one’s taking it that seriously yet. maybe replace “Covid” with a la llorona joke.

aZylum #27

Previous Part #26 here

POV - Eugene

“Eugene?”

“Did you remember to take your meds this morning? Wait—did you talk to the doctor about your meds—about the baby?”

“No, dopus, the people who’d make the Virgin Mary pee in a cup before they’ll prescribe you a baby aspirin wouldn’t think to go over my prescriptions when I caught the preggo.”

“Ok but to be fair she ‘caught the preggo’ too, so…”

She makes a noise that’s either a cough or a laugh, the connection isn’t great. “S’a fair cop—and yea, it’s fine. She said what I’m on is the thing they typically switch the mamas over to anyway—my blood pressure might go up a little but we’re keeping an eye on it—breathe, Edge—“

“I am!” (He wasn’t—changes the subject.) “What are you spamming me about? Sorry I didn’t pick up, I was trying to unplug for the night.”

“Eh, you know, maybe it’s the end of the world, maybe it’s maybelline.”

Of course it is. Well, that would explain the run on the gas station. “Zombies or aliens?”

“Zombies, alas.”

“Alas, I had a twenty on aliens.” He deadpans.

The next crackle is recognizably a cackle. “Well let this be a lesson on diversifying your investments~ Seriously though—YouTube, BananaGrenade has been compiling the live footage as it airs.”

“Because someone named BananaGrenade is totally going to be a reliable news outlet.” But he puts her on speaker anyway, opening Youtube and searching for the username.

“He is actually; he’s a virologist from Paraguay—his English isn’t great but his numbers have been spot on—like creepy good—God’s mouth to whatever algorithm he’s using—I’ve been following him since Covid.”