#a fic that is exactly 100 words

[minecraftbookshelf]

To Walk a Mile In Each Others Shoes: The Homewreckers

Summary: The soulbonds have consequences, and for some they are more welcome than others. BDubs & Impulse

Characters: BDoubleo100 & ImpulseSV

Word Count: 160

General Note: I'm posting these as separate one-shot style posts for each soulbond pair. They are all written but I have them queued up and spaced out. All posted will be on this blog under the tag "to walk a mile in each others shoes," linked at the bottom of the other posted ones, and also on my AO3, which is linked on my pinned post.

-

The horns itch, around the base where they're growing in, and it is driving BDubs crazy.

Impulse is not at all sympathetic. "Scratching will only make it worse."

"I'll make you worse," BDubs grumbles back, still scratching. Impulse laughs and throws a damp rag at him to wrap around the irritated areas. Not having potions sucks.

-

Impulse doesn't usually spend a lot of time with Nature. Its just not usually something he focuses on.

But now the moss is talking to him.

It turns out that plants (is moss a plant?) are horrible gossips.

He glances at BDubs, yeah that makes sense actually.

It definitely helps with the home-wrecking endeavors, he'll give it that. Even if its a bit unsettling waking up in the morning to find lichen crawling up the bedposts and not just on BDubs' side.

He builds the house quickly and tries to ignore the stirring unease every time the sun begins to sink behind the horizon.

-

Team Ranchers || Team Box || Dessert Duo || The Boat Boys || The Homewreckers || Bad Math || Tilly Death Do Us Part

[maxinemaxmayfield]

For the STWG daily drabble prompt: alarm ⏰ (gen, 100 words, implied steddie)

“Eddie! Eds – wake up!” 

Steve’s voice rouses him from a deep sleep. His eyelids are too heavy for this shit. It’s gotta be the middle of the night. He rolls over begrudgingly. 

“Wha’?” he mumbles, eyes still closed. 

“It’s almost noon.” 

His eyes fly open, heaviness be damned. “But the alarm–”

“–Didn’t go off,” Steve finishes for him.

“But we were supposed to pick the kids up–”

“–An hour ago.”

“We’re dead.”

“So dead.” 

Then he hears it, getting louder, more than just the usual midday trailer park sounds he’s used to. Bicycles on gravel. Voices shouting. Bells ringing. 

Fuck.

[emlovessid]

november 29, together, 100 words unofficial jegulus microfics with @onehundredflamingos

“Regulus and I…” James says, fumbling over his words. “We’re…”

Together?

Together doesn’t feel like enough to describe them. He’s the first thing James thinks about when he wakes up, the last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep, and every moment in between. He’s not sure that he believes soulmates are real, like in the books where they only see in black and white until they meet them. But if they did exist? Life with Regulus is technicolour.

He meets Sirius’ eyes then, knowing exactly how to explain what he’s been trying to say, “He’s my Remus.”

[dead-girl-tells-stories]

DP x DC Drabble

When I was younger, I used to make paper stars. I would make thousands of them. I can still remember the night my mother snuck into my room and showed me how to make them and the joy I felt when I realized I could finally touch the stars. 

Of course, Grandfather didn’t like them and burned them in front of me whenever he found them. But I didn’t stop. I made more and more. In the time between training, I was supposed to eat and sleep. I made them till my fingers were sore and it hurt to touch. I made them till I could make no more. 

I find it amazing how as a child, I longed to touch what I could not reach. But now, if I wanted to, I could hold all the stars in the universe in my grasp.

[babblingeccentric]

Kinktober 2: Threesome, Zoro x Reader x Law

Contains: threesome, exhibitionism, reader described as having a "cunt", fake reluctant law, fingering, exactly 100 words

“Well? Are you gonna?” Zoro hooks your knees over his thighs, showing off your dripping center as you moan.

Law stands still and silent on the other side of the mats. 

Zoro spreads your lower lips with his fat fingers, your slick glistening in the low emergency lighting of the submarine. You squirm and the tip of Zoro’s finger slips into you revealing a glimpse of the sweet pink inside of your cunt and Law can’t take it anymore. 

“If this has annoying consequences you’re dealing with it.” He grumbles as he kneels and slips two long tattooed fingers inside

Read about my kinktober prompts and rules for suggesting pairings here

[rmd-writes]

Word and a pairing:

Alex/Henry, public transit

I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get to this! Here's a tiny drabble AU for you:

There are plenty of things to dislike about the London public transit system, but Henry’s regular commute does have its benefits. Every day Henry sits on the bus and watches it fill up until the beautiful man gets on. Inevitably, the bus is full and Henry is greeted with the spectacular view of the man’s arse at eye level. A daily treat. It never occurs to Henry to do anything more than enjoy the view. Until one day, the driver brakes particularly forcefully and Henry finds himself with a lapful of the beautiful, curly-haired man. “Well, hello sweetheart,” he drawls.

[lupeloto]

galladrabbles “blur”

sooo here is another @galladrabbles with the prompt “blur” from @callivich ! ian wakes up from an episode and mickey is there to ease the anxiety a bit

— — — —

ian rolls over, his arm landing on the empty mattress beside him. he rubs his eyes, his mind a complete blur. what time is it? his body aches as he throws crawls out of bed and shuffles downstairs.

“hey sleepyhead,” mickey greets him with a warm grin in attempt to mask his concern.

“hey,” ian looks around, the last few days still foggy, “what-“

“don’t worry about it,” mickey cuts him off, handing him a mug with steam billowing from the top. “let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”

ian complies, sitting on the barstool as mickey shuttles about, filling him in on the mundane details of his life from the past few days.

[plusultraetc]

Fourteen Days of MHA | 1/14: Family, Home, House

Fuyumi is the only one of his siblings Shouto has ever hugged. She’s also the only person he can remember hugging, aside from their mother. She always does it the same way—arms around him, hands clasped, sway gently back and forth, big squeeze before she lets go. When he was younger, the swaying used to almost knock him off-balance, and he’d had to cling to his sister to stay upright. Nowadays he’s too tall for her to knock down, but he still hugs her back like he’s trying not to fall. Fuyumi seems to hold on longer every time.

[eksvaized]

@deadbranch's 100-Word Fic Challenge

This was so frustrating for me, but also very fun. :)

A cut rope hangs from your wrist, where fresh, harsh red marks mar your pale skin.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Simon pushes one single bullet into revolver’s cartridge before handing it to you.

He orders you to press the revolver to your temple. You obey.

You either die or walk away out of here. Either way — you will be free.

Click.

Your heads hits the ground.

Simon sighs, unwrapping your fingers from the revolver. He opens its cartridge — it's fully loaded, with only one single bullet missing.

If he can't have you, then no one can.

[quirkle2]

who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

[nostalgia-tblr]

but kids. kids. listen.

if you don't use 'drabble' to mean exactly 100 words then you can't call things half drabbles and double drabbles and triple drabbles and quadrodrabbles and pentadrabbles and hexadrabbles and whatever the fuck else you feel like inventing.

is that not worth it? IS IT NOT?

[adhd-merlin]

Masquerade

Fill for @merlinmicrofic prompt: 'Masquerade', Merlin/Gwaine, Gen, 100 words masquerade: a disguise, false show, or pretense.

Very little fazes Gwaine since Merlin’s become Court Sorcerer. Arcane tongues, foul potions, strange disguises – he’s taken it all in his stride.

The breasts, however, are new.

“The most stunning woman you’ve seen.”

Gwaine looks up – at Merlin's pretty face, framed by dark curls. “What?”

“It’s what you called that woman at the tavern.”

“Ah.” Gwaine’s memories of the previous night are hazy. “Jealous?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Fairly confident.”

“About?”

“That by the time I’m done with you, you won’t even remember what she looked like.”

Merlin steps closer and kisses him. Gwaine doesn’t tell him he’s already forgotten.

[michellemisfit]

Thank you @thepupperino for this week’s @galladrabbles prompt: Control

👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑

He grew up dreaming about being King of the South Side.

Now, wherever he turns, it just feels like he’s losing control.

.

[dipplinduo]

this poll will be cut off b4 the 24 hour mark LMAO

[welcometoteyvat]

“Did… did you know Shenhe before?” They are sitting near the edge of a small lake in Minlin, and Chongyun is diligently studying a blade of grass. He does not look at Xiao.

“I heard about her occasionally, from Cloud Retainer. We have met briefly.” He wonders what Chongyun wants to hear. If the boy assumes they’re close… well, then he has forgotten the most important rule governing Xiao’s life, the one that colors all his relationships. Involvement with mortals has never ended well. Despite all Shenhe’s unusual blessings and worse misfortunes, she is no different.

“Oh.” He must not have given the right answer, because Chongyun’s brow stays furrowed, and he fiddles with his black fingerless sleeves absentmindedly. “I just wondered— if you knew what she’s been up to, these past years?”

“Are you very worried about her?” Chongyun looks at him now, and maybe Xiao’s gaze is still too piercing, still not gentle enough, because his eyes flick away again, hesitant.  

“She… is studying under Cloud Retainer, and the last time we talked, her master was very proud of her accomplishments. As far as I am aware, she has done well for herself—you need not be concerned.”

“Really? That’s good, then.” Chongyun’s face melts into a small smile, a tender ray of sunshine. This response, and the thought that he has successfully lightened some of Chongyun’s apprehension, leaves Xiao oddly gratified. “The elders are very enthusiastic about having her rejoin the clan… but, perhaps it might be better to properly talk first. I barely know her, even after she helped me, and she still doesn’t know me. I just—don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.” So, this is the root of Chongyun’s troubles. He is still so kind.

“You need not worry.” Chongyun looks at him again, and his doubt is written across his face. Xiao cannot explain it—it is simply something he knows, in his bones. Despite his trouble finding spirits and seeing through pranks, Chongyun will not have any difficulty making his aunt feel welcomed.

“I am somewhat familiar with Shenhe’s story. She—” reminds Xiao of himself? “She is both reasonable and forthright, even though she does not dwell in your mortal society. You have—” you have the same tenacity, and a heart of clear water, and a warm soul, and those are surely enough—“I know you will get along.”

---

on ao3