prompt: The 100 start calling Bellamy and Clarke “mom” and “dad” at the dropship camp, and the tradition continues even after the Ark comes down, causing confusion for @a-duck-with-herpes
word count: 8504
It started with Miller, which is the hardest part to explain later, after it’s spiraled out of control. But at the time it was really no more than a joke. A throwaway joke.
Bellamy had been distributing guns and handing out guard assignments, looking over his misfit crew of teenage criminals like they were the real deal, because they had to be, because the enemy was out there, somewhere, beyond the gate. The atmosphere was understandably tense. Some of the new guard squared their shoulders and gritted their teeth, and tried to seem bigger than they were. Others just stared at their weapons like they hardly believed the guns were real. And some, like Miller, pretended this whole thing was a joke. Pretended they were in control and not afraid. So when Bellamy told him he was on the night shift, and then dismissed him with the others, he just smirked and said, “You got it, Dad,” as he slung his gun over his shoulder.
It was a little weird. But at least it broke the tense atmosphere, the looming threat of war and death that had tied up everyone else’s tongue, so a few of them laughed anyway, uncertain and with obvious unease, before they scattered to their various posts.
“Why dad though?” Bellamy asked, as he finished his second circuit around the dropship ground floor.
His tone said rhetorical but his face, when Clarke looked up from organizing their medical supplies, said explain this right now. So she thought for a moment and suggested, “Nervous joke about authority figures?”
“I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!”
Came across a scene straight out of Monty Python when examining manuscripts today at @uofglibrary ! 😂 This mid-to-late 15th century French translation of Boccacio’s “Fall of Princes” is packed with stunning (but largely somewhat morbid) illuminations of the exploits of great men and women from history. This particular scene depicts the siege and capture of Jerusalem by Titus, an event that resulted in the destruction of the Second Temple in 70AD.
(Glasgow MS Hunter 208, from the University of Glasgow library special collections )
know that we don’t look like
much (but no one fucks it up like us)
do you mean you got married?” Abby
holds the phone away from her ear until she’s no longer in danger of
permanent noise-induced hearing loss. “Sorry, Mom, I know it’s a
bit sudden, but it would have happened eventually, and—” And
there is no way
is telling her mother that a drunken argument over whether Vegas
weddings were legal anywhere else had quickly devolved into, “Oh,
why don’t we find out—”
The ceremony had been quite
sweet, actually. Raven, Octavia, Monty, and Miller were the
witnesses, everyone crying and reeking of tequila shots.
“Let me speak to Bellamy,”
Abby says, firmly.
glances toward the hotel bathroom, where her boyfriend of five years—
twelve hours— is puking his guts out while clutching his aching
head. “No, that’s okay,” she says. Smooth.
“Clarke.” Abby sighs.
“You’re not even living together yet.”
“I mean—” Clarke
shrugs, forgetting that the other woman can’t see it over the phone.
“How hard can it be?”
A slightly silly one-shot that takes place a few months after the rescue of the delinquents from Mount Weather.
With sore fingers, Clarke set the stone she was using as a pestle down on the table in front of her. She flexed her cramped hand, looking down at the mush of nuts and leaves smeared around the makeshift bowl. While she was glad Monty had remembered the recipe for making the pain reliever paste, it was a difficult procedure, requiring lots of elbow grease. If she didn’t grind the ingredients finely enough, they wouldn’t do a thing. She hated making it, to be honest, which is why their stocks were running abysmally low. Now, though, she had no other choice but to make more, working her arm until it tingled with exhaustion.
“More water,” she muttered under her breath, looking down at the mush. Sprinkling a few more drops into the bowl, she took up the stone again, grinding away.
Here is my contribution for this week’s flash fiction prompt by smoakandarrow. As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
Sleep and Oliver hated each other.
Or rather, Oliver hated to sleep.
It wasn’t always this way. Before the ocean swallowed his soul and spat him up on purgatory, Oliver slept like an ignorant child who expected to wake the next day.
He didn’t dread the blackness.
Did not know demons and ghosts hovered around in the shadows of his mind, just waiting to devour his sanity between the few hours a night exhaustion would force his eyes to drooped and his mind would override his own desire to stay awake.
Then the moment his eyes would close and his consciousness became dormant, his subconscious ran rampant. Monstrous nightmares, blended into one another, each shredding his heart, until he woke panting and looking to kill anything in front of him.