Five little 100 word drabbles. These were created for various challenges over at the wonderful drabble site "Twilight100" on Livejournal. Go check it out!!! Write some for yourself! It's fun! All of these are Bella/Jake. Please let me know what you think. Can I pull off drabbles, or should I just stick to being long-winded? Hehe...

BIRTHRIGHT

"You were born for this," they'd stated when he was too scared to know better.

Four generations; each one's destiny to prepare him for his...

His birthright: The wolf.

But now it's impossible to believe, because his fingers are useless when they're not shuddering across her thigh, twisted in her hair, or adrift in the temperate waves below her waist; because somehow being inside of her actually warms him; because she gasps, tenses, chokes on his name, drags his hips down further into her and everything...

falls...

into...

place.

He knows better now.

THIS is what he was born for.

STATIC

Bella is wise to the flaws of perfection. She's come to know the myth of 4/4 time.

Edward had always shadowed his instrument, shadowed the lullaby fashioned by the sound amalgam of mahogany, ivory, and steel wire: beautiful, haunting, ancient, perfect.

Jacob leans forward, fiddles with the knob on the dashboard, finds only static. Reception doesn't exist here.

She flattens the knob beneath her palm, plucks all resonance from the still, starlit air.

Then the drums start, each beating their own rhythm.

Today they are the static, but maybe, if they're lucky, years from now they'll have written a symphony.

PROXY

She's too quick to upend the basket, fresh from the dryer, onto his bed.

"What are you doing?"

She leaps in, burrows down, pulls one of his oft-neglected t-shirts right up to her nose.

"I used to do this when I was little." The mouthless voice is coy, muffled.

"You're strange, you know that?" he chuckles.

"Mmm…" she moans thickly, "So warm… I don't think I need you anymore."

Her laughter meets fragrant grey cotton.

He suddenly looms over her, grinning. The side of his nose bumps the side of her nose.

"Yeah, but can my laundry do this?"

STORYTIME

"By this curious turn of disposition, I have gained the reputa--"

A voluble yawn halts Lockwood's musings. Jacob's eyes jolt open as paperback meets skull.

"Wha…?"

"You're falling asleep!"

"I'm sorry Bells, but…" he weighs words, sighs, "that thing's as dry as unbuttered toast…"

"It's the first chapter," she growls, dejected, "This was your idea, remember? Watch less TV? Alternate days?"

He nods, settles penitently back against the driftwood, cheek atop her thigh.

She continues, ultimately concludes, "…how sociable I feel myself compared with him."

Silence.

Then,

"I love you…" he breathes across her skin, "but tomorrow it's Motor Trend."

CAN YOU FEEL THAT?

Jacob is always first to feel the rain.

Sure, he's taller than her; that's just physics, just gravity.

Can you feel that?

Feel what? she says,and then, Oh…

But sometimes – most times – the rain isn't rain at all. It's photographs and songs and voices in her head, and while the drops on her face certainly aren't raindrops, they carve damp scars down her cheeks all the same.

He always feels it first, feels every sting milliseconds before she does, though she doesn't know this.

And yes, it hurts him.

But how else can he keep her warm and dry?

That's it. Short and sweet. Have any questions about Twilight100? Ask me! :D