\o\ Drabbletimes!
NEED TO GET INTO THE MOOD. \o\ So hit me up with drabble requests - make them as unusual as you want? Pictures, scribbles, bits of handwriting, advertisements, the sound of something, someone's voice, a brand name, a discussion of linguistic philosophy, porn, what have you. *BEAMS*

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Metaphysical cognition or the contemplation of past cause, future effect: these are not, never will be Balthier's thing. Rufus knew that from a long, long time ago, but when seated behind a boardroom table Balthier proves to have an enviable skill that is undeniably, painfully, irritatingly congruent with Rufus' one, prominent memory of Those Years he spent sharing this table with his father:
Insult Is The Sound of Both Hands Clapping.
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i'm gonna live alone -
i'm not saying that our love is the greatest
but i'm in love with you
wanna stay in love with you -
so i'm gonna live alone.
sjfkajsf the number of spelling errors i just made is incredible. q
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i don't know why i'm writing stories when you asked for prompts...
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'...did I just see you get out of a black limousine?'
Tseng smiles. 'The virtuous walk.'
Balthier steps back, right to the edge of the stiff grey carpet that's been rolled out for better men than they, ignoring the flash of cameras in favour of glancing down into the limo to catch sight of emptiness, and an empty champagne glass, before the door is swung shut. He turns, Tseng with him, howsoever unexpectedly present when Balthier thought Rufus meant him to do this alone. At the sight of a Shinra-suited executive standing shoulder to shoulder with a Bunansa, well; cameras go wild.
Balthier learned long ago how not to be blinded by brilliance.
'I hope Rufus prepped you better than he prepped me.'
Tseng shrugs. 'You live prepped for this sort of thing, Balthier.'
Balthier heaves a sigh. 'Come on then, let's go take over the world.'
'The phrase,' Tseng tastes, 'is "let's go take on the world", Balthier.'
Balthier shakes his head, almost smiling. 'I know what Rufus told me.'
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Re: i don't know why i'm writing stories when you asked for prompts...
Re: i don't know why i'm writing stories when you asked for prompts...
acdojrbf;lku-hulivgerefukbvbiuilbhyvljikhbnobfrnui.ryhlejyhvn gi gsuoj,b hgyrol ylotsnhi]ytuyfvdtyun giolryghbleibfv ukev gyelveslsfvd!!!!!!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ &hearts
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Or vice-versa.
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&hearts
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I also don't know why I'm writing you stories while you're asking for prompts
“Pretty much,” came the slightly strained and unhappy reply.
“Uh huh. And you think the source of the new wave of slappers hitting the streets is that club downtown?”
“Yup. Wayne agrees. Nightwing and I are scouting out the place tonight.”
Max folded her arms at her locked bathroom door and the noises within. The sulky noises within. “So what’s gotten into you? You’ll take any excuse to go clubbing.” She fidgeted crossly. What was taking so long? He had been in there over an hour. Nearly two. And she was starting to need to use the place herself.
The door clicked open and Max’s mouth dropped.
Black hair streaked with purple, layered and chopped shoulder length, and artfully teased in such a way to soften the jawline to the maximum extent. Smoky eyes and wet crimson lips. Heels. A dress that carefully flashed skin in the most tempting of places and just as carefully concealed anything that might give the masquerade away. Curves and… boobs.
“Oh.”
Terry smiled at her, twisted and self depreciating, and gestured to himself.
“So, do you think this makes me look fat?”
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Uhh... so Dick and Matt and impromptu babysitting/gymnastics?