#askbox drabble

She’s warm in his arms, all soft skin and frizzy blonde hair that tickles his nose as he slowly comes awake. She smells like oranges and summertime and a lazy smile pulls at his lips even as he stubbornly keeps his eyes shut. Clarke mewls something unintelligible, arching against him and he huffs out a hot breath, stirring the fine hair at the nape of her neck as his hand slips from her waist to her hip. He squeezes it, and she rolls back against him, laughing low when a soft whine slips pass his lips.

“Good morning,” she says, covering his hand with hers, letting their fingers lace together. Her voice runs over him like honey, warm and sweet in the early morning sunshine.

“Morning,” he mumbles, lips brushing against the over sensitive skin of her neck.

He keeps his eyes shut still, but can feel her shifting in his arms, turning to face him, and the thin linen blankets slip and slide against his bare skin.

“Sleep alright?” she asks, shivering a little when his lips find that spot where her neck meets her shoulder.

“Better now that you’re here,” he says, and she laughs. Like that, a lightbulb goes off in his head and he finds himself gently caressing the length of her body. She’s soft, almost too soft, skin unblemished and unmarked, and there’s a deep, sinking feeling in his gut.

“Clarke,” he murmurs, feeling the ghost of her lips against his cheek. He blindly finds her hand and holds on to it tight. “Clarke. You’re here.”

“I’m here, Bellamy,” she says, and he feels her fingers cool on his cheek. “I’m here. Look at me.”

“I can’t-”

“Look at me, Bellamy. Please.”

It’s the please that gets him, the sheer desperation that drips from it, and he finds himself doing just what she asks, slowly cracking his eyes open.

The room is bright, sunlight leaking in through the window and the small crack in the roof, and the bed is soft and comfortable.

And then there’s Clarke, smiling up at him and looking so heartbreakingly perfect that all the air rushes out of his lungs. 

She’s here, alive, skin unmarked by radiation and glowing, eyes bright and clear.

“Clarke,” he whispers again, reaching up to brush the hair from her face. It’s soft to the touch, softer than it ever was back on earth. “Clarke.”

She bites her lip, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, and she swipes her thumb over his cheekbone, drawing his face down to hers. Their foreheads rest against each others and he takes a shuddering breath.

“Hi Bellamy,” she smiles, soft, and a little sad. “It’s been a while.” Her hand slips around to the back of his neck, drawing him even closer so that their lips brush.

He closes his eyes in preparation for the kiss, but it never comes, and when he opens them again he’s alone on the ark.

No soft, comfortable bed or warm sheets. No sunlight dripping in through the cracks or lazy mornings.

No Clarke lying in his arms and smiling up at him.

NOT KNOWING

if he doesn’t know and just spontaneously runs into her the reunion would be 10x more emotional than if he did know. imagine it okay, 6+ years has passed and of course he misses her still but it’s quietened from that raw pain that devoured him for that first year up in space now it’s just a dull ache that he carries with him, sometimes his heart would clench when he sees something that reminds him of her- charcoal, the smell of antiseptic- but he’s doing pretty okay by now.

and then they’re back on earth for maybe like a few days now and they’re heading back to the bunker when she just tumbles out of the foliage, gun in hand.

they just stare at each other for one heavy, silent moment that clarke breaks with a loud sob as she all but throws herself at bellamy, arms tight around his neck as she strains up on her tiptoes.

he’s frozen solid of course, like that first time he hugged her, and it takes him a while to process that this is clarke shaking and shuddering in his arms, that she’s alive and it’s her tears he can feel on his neck, that it’s his clarke back with him once more.

and then he starts to cry too.

they fall to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and she’s perched precariously in his lap but neither of them care because he’s brushing his hands across her face with the softest touch imaginable, fingers shaking, because he thinks that this is a dream, that if he pushes the line too much she might disappear. she’s doing the same thing, trailing her hands across the planes of his face, letting his stubble bite into her palms while whispering ‘i’m here i’m here i’m here’ over and over again.

He never regrets staring at her, especially now that she’s long gone. In fact he regrets not staring at her even more when she starts to flitter away from his memory, like leaves from trees in the autumn. He remembers the big things of course: golden hair that was more snarled than curled most times but still soft to the touch, deep blue eyes that he could get lost in, an angel’s kiss right above her upper lip that was always so distracting. But he forgets the details. Things like the slope of her nose, the way one side of her mouth always quirked higher when she grin, the dimple that needs to be gently coaxed out and only appears when her smile is more radiant than the fucking sun.

He confesses his fears to Monty one night a couple months in after he finished off the bottle of the good stuff they found that first day back. He was having trouble remembering the curve of her mouth, the way her tongue used to curl oh so carefully on the letters of his name and send his heart skittering in his chest.

The next morning Monty wordlessly hands him the tablet and he almost drops it when he sees her mugshot staring back up at him.

She looks younger, more youthful and less tired, like an actual kid for once, and his heart heart pangs. It’s still not his Clarke- there’s almost no tension in her frame whatsoever and his mouth thins when he realises that that’s all he know her to be- but the little things are still there. The challenging quirk of her eyebrow, the sheer stubbornness and determination shown on her face, the barest lift of her chin as she stared down the camera like the princess he first thought her to be. ‘Fucking fight me’ she seems to scream from the screen and it’s almost enough to make him laugh.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, only when the screen starts to go dark and he touches it with a shaky finger to bring it back to life.

“Took some time to fix up but we’ve got nothing but time here,” Monty says, just as soft, bumping his shoulder with his. “Thought you might like it. I knew that you- I knew what she meant to you.”

“I never told her,” he says, mostly to himself as her lets his pinkie trail across the curve of her jaw. He remembers all the times he used to look at her, staring at her across the fire, watching her sidelong as she rode shotgun with him in the rover. Those three little words were always in the back of his mind and yet-

Bellamy doesn’t regret looking at her, but he does regret the silence, the unsaid words that always lingered between them, and the weight of it hits him so hard in his chest that it almost feels like his ribs are fractured.

“I never told her,” he mutters to himself again, and just stares at Clarke like always except this time, when he’s finally alone in his quarters for the night, he says it.

why would you cut his hair to cool him down THAT’S NOT GONNA HELP

These were the kind of days he enjoyed. A day to just exist, be by himself, hang out in abandoned amusement park he'd found a few years back.

Very little of it was standing, of course. Broken and ruined rides, remnants of games, a few burned up buildings. Skeletons, ghosts of what the park had once been.

But it was one ot his favorite places. Something about the remains resonated within him. Some days he liked to climb up one of the taller rides- what remained of one, anyway- and imagine what this place had been like before the bombs were dropped. The coasters roaring by, the smell of unhealthy but tasty food, the lights, music, people enjoying their day... It must have been wonderful.

Right now he was perched on top of a support from one of the coasters, legs hanging off the edge, swinging freely. Everything was silent except for the wind blowing between the structures.

It’s one of the few nights they’re alone.  There’s always a snoring man in the same roomin another bed, there’s the sound of the thud of a glass on a table, of thebottle neck on a glass, of the flipping of pages.  There’s a constant knowledge of JohnWinchester and his very feeling in the motel, one that leaves nights like thisas a salvation.  The stars seeming togrant their permission, Dean’s warmth and slow breathing under his head, theheartbeat echoing in his ear.

It means his brother is alive.

It means Sam isn’t alone.

[[I really couldn’t answer this for like, a week since it would make me all full of feels and angst. And then just overflow. Partially due to what’s been going on in the personal life but man, I could have sworn it was an ill omen. But turns out it wasn’t, thank goodness.Now normally I would jump on the chance at some good angst or feels but this made me hit the wall. So yeah, long ass reply time.]]

The words resonated in her mind as she sat staring at the wall. In her grief a few of the spirits of the Fade moved to calm her mind. It was a strange sensation but there was one that felt familiar to her. One that had stayed alongside throughout all the years.

It was talking to her. A comfort. But my friends. They’re hurting because of it. Hawke especially. I… it’s so hard to stay strong for them.

Stay strong for me then.