#eosdawns

@leightoningstrike @eosdawns

The calm, pale moonlight, whose sad beauty, beaming

Sets the birds softly dreaming in the trees

And makes the marbled fountains, gushing, streaming

Slender jet-fountains, sob their ecstasies

Yes I am still accepting prompts! I’m hoping to do at least one ficlet a day for the whole week.

It had been threatening to rain all day.

Days like this made the students squirrelly, between the oppressive humidity and the low rumble of thunder in the distance.  Bellamy had to break up two almost-fights and three separate inappropriate-for-the-venue makeout sessions against the lockers, and all in all he was grateful when the day was over.

Of course, the end of the day had other perks.  Clarke liked to do her grading before she went home— she sort of had to with some projects, since carting home 60 different bowls would be quite the project— so shortly after debate practice wrapped up, she would be waiting outside his door so they could walk to their cars together.  It started accidentally, with the two of them discovering they were leaving at the same time each day, but now it was easily his favorite part of the day.

Bellamy shooed the last student out and thunder cracked ominously.  The storm was drawing nearer, and the light outside had dimmed considerably.  “Think we’ll make it home before the storm hits?” Clarke asked, leaning against his door.

“Does it matter? Are you going home in a horse and buggy?” he asked without looking up from his bag.  

She rolled her eyes at him.  “Just making conversation.”

“Since when are we weather people? We have more interesting things to talk about.”

Clarke waited while he locked his room door.  “Like how you’re kind of a jackass?” she teased.

“Yes, like that.”  Bellamy took her duffle bag from her hand and like always, she protested.

“I can carry my own damn bags, Bellamy.”

“I know,” he shrugged.  “But as long as I refuse to join the staff volleyball team, this is how I’ll make up for it.”

“You should—”

“Volleyball is a terrible sport and I’ll never play it so stop asking,” he said, heading off a familiar argument.

Clarke sighed and nudged him with her elbow, but when they opened the door to the parking lot, they both drew up short.  In the time it had taken them to walk from the social studies department to the staff parking lot the clouds had opened up. It was pouring, torrential wave after torrential wave turning the parking lot into a minor lake.  Rivulets ran off the small overhang, creating mini-waterfalls between them and their cars.  “Well, shit,” Clarke deadpanned.  Bellamy groaned and grabbed the door behind them before it closed, but Clarke rested her hand on his arm.  “What are you doing?”

“Going..inside?” he replied.

“It’s rain, Bellamy, not lava,” she chided.  And then before he realized what she was doing, she’d tossed her bag against the brick wall and darted out into the downpour.  She stopped and tipped her face up to the rain, arms spread wide, grinning.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled over the din of the rain.  Thunder rumbled, but no lightning followed.

“Something I’ve always wanted to do!” she yelled back, spinning around.  The water beat down on her shoulders, turning her dark blue shirt just transparent enough that he could make out the outline of her black bra.  He darted his eyes away, wishing he didn’t notice things like that about her.  Life would be much easier if she was just Clarke Griffin: Coworker instead of Clarke Griffin: Object of His Affection.  Clarke sauntered over to him, grinning mischievously.  “Come on, Bellamy. It’s just rain.  What are you, chicken?”  She stomped her foot into a puddle and sent a wave of water up his leg.  He squawked in protest and jumped back, making her giggle.

Bellamy hesitated for half a second and then tossed both his bag and her duffle down, running out after her.  Rain splattered his face and flattened his curls to his forehead.  She had a small headstart on him but he caught her quickly, banding his arm around her waist.  They spun with their combined momentum, Clarke’s peals of laughter echoing off the windowless walls behind them.

Bellamy set her down, both of them breathless.  Her chest heaved with laughter and her eyes sparkled, and for once in his life he threw caution to the wind.  

She inhaled sharply when he took her face in his hands, but the moment their lips met she tangled her hands in his hair and opened her mouth to him.  It was stupid and reckless and probably against district policy but Bellamy didn’t give a damn, because kissing Clarke in the pouring rain was the best thing he’d ever done.

When they finally let go, Clarke’s eyes had gone hazy.  “What— what was that?” she asked in a low, hoarse voice he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life.

He tucked a wet lock of hair behind her ear and pressed their foreheads together.  “Something I’ve always wanted to do.”

4. What are some of examples of storytelling that inspire you outside of books?

Hmm, I don’t entirely know what this question means but since it says ‘outside of books’ I guess like what forms of media inspire me other than other people’s writing?

Everything in its own way. I’m kind of jealous of the intricate, multi-part but still self-contained style of serialized story-telling in tv, especially when done well, and I wish I could write multi-part works like that, with all those moving parts. And then often I will listen to a song, or look at a painting or photograph, and think ‘I want to create something that makes others feel like this makes me feel.’ Though that speaks more to the inspiration than the storytelling part of the question. Am I supposed to be, like, naming names?

Also sometimes I feel bad about continuously using the same phrases over and over and then I remember how people were able to memorize long epic poetry because all they were really memorizing was the general plot and certain standard phrases and then putting it all together as they went along and I think !! I am part of a great tradition of re-using phrases!! and feel better.

8. Have you identified any recurring elements or themes across your writing?

Oh yeah, and I feel guilty about it sometimes, like, ‘have I really only been writing the same story over and over for like 15 years???’

I love describing the weather. My characters are always holding hands in a Meaningful Way. I constantly describe where people are looking. Characters tend to have lots of quiet but important moments where they just sit together and silently Contemplate Things. Bed sharing is a Constant. (I mean honestly my default scene when I don’t know what to do is like “what if they were in bed together rn?”) Realizing feelings tends to be more important than actually getting together, which sometimes reads as an afterthought. Cuddling happens more and means more than kissing or sex.

Within T100 specifically, I constantly return to the hiatus-period between S2 and S3, and sometimes mix it up with references to an AU post-S4 but with pretty much the same emphasis: slow recovery, rebuilding relationships, building a home. There is lots of Earth worship, generally.

I’m sure there’s more but this is all I can think atm.

Thank you for the questions!

28: First book that comes to mind, tell us about it. Rant

How about a spies!Au? 

Clarke blinked rapidly, blood and sweat stinging her eye.  She’d taken a cut to the forehead when McCreary’s men ambushed them, but aside from that and a few bruised ribs, she’d been in worse shape.  She rotated her wrists against her restraints, doing her best to keep her movements hidden from the guy watching her.  Still, the situation wasn’t good.  One of their worst, actually.

In the center of the dimly lit room, Bellamy sat in a chair, arms tied painfully behind his back.  He had taken the brunt of the beating thanks to his habit of always throwing himself between her and her opponents and she desperately catalogued his injuries, trying to think of a way to talk them out of this.

But McCreary was unlike their usual marks.  He wasn’t just an arms dealer, because those were greedy and could always be baited with the promise of a big pile of money.  He was a terrorist, bound and determined to hurt as many people as he could— and with disturbingly deep pockets. 

And also why he was able to get the drop on her and Bellamy.  The man himself emerged from the shadows, twirling a syringe between his long fingers.  “The CIA will be disappointed in you two,” he chided, circling Bellamy like a bird of prey.”

“Fuck you,” Bellamy said tightly.

McCreary laughed, and a chill went down Clarke’s spine.  “Fortunately, you have something I want.  There’s an AI the US is developing.  Agree to get me in to the lab where they’re testing it, and I might only maim you.”

Clarke laughed, trying to draw McCreary’s attention away from Bellamy.  “We’re too low level to have access to something like that.  They don’t give us clearance for that,” she said.

“Not to you, no,” he said, still eyeing Bellamy.  “But your mother would.”

“Then let us go and I’ll ask her,” Clarke bluffed.

McCreary was again fingering the syringe.  “No, I don’t think we’ll go that route.”  Without warning he plunged the needle into Bellamy’s neck, wrenching a strangled scream from her throat.  “Oh don’t worry, it’s nothing fatal.  Just a little truth serum.”  Clarke slowly exhaled.  Bellamy would be able to fight it, and since they didn’t know much about the AI anyway, he just had to hold out long enough for their backup team to come get them.

If a backup team was coming, of course.  But right now, that was their only hope.

“She already told you; we don’t have access to that lab,” Bellamy gritted out.

“Oh, I know.  I’m looking for something more useful than just an access code.”  He sat down on a chair in front of Bellamy, elbows on his knees.  “Tell me, Blake— how do I make you talk?”

“Sing me a lullaby,” Bellamy said defiantly.

McCreary laughed.  “All you’d have to do is get access to the lab, take some pictures.  One job and I let you keep all your limbs. You’ve got that sister— if we tracked her down, would you get us what we need?”

“Octavia would eat you alive,” Bellamy said, and Clarke stifled a snort despite everything.  She might not be a CIA operative, but Octavia Blake was plenty deadly on her own.  McCreary was definitely on the wrong track there.

Bellamy kept his eyes on McCreary, careful not to look at Clarke. Too careful. He hadn’t so much as glanced at her since the truth serum went into his neck.

She realized it a second before McCreary did.  “Any reason you’re ignoring your partner?”

“What do you care?” Bellamy replied.

McCreary grinned.  “That wasn’t an answer, which means it was.  Don’t think you can fool me, Blake.”  He nodded to the guard at Clarke’s side, and she was jerked forward into Bellamy’s eyeline.  “What would you do if we hurt her?”

Bellamy’s face was a mask of agony.  “I’d destroy you,” he said, locking eyes with her.

Suddenly, she understood.  Every time he’d touched her during a mission, every hand on her back, every curl of his fingers around her elbow; every time he laughed at her jokes or stood up for her with command or offered to take the more dangerous part of an assignment— he’d been trying to tell her.

He was in love with her.  He was in love with her and she was in love with him.  It was against just about every agency rule and protocol and they might be about to die anyway, but it was as real as the heart in her chest and the look in his eyes.

Oh, I definitely ship them romantically. The chemistry between them, and the obvious way that Raven was smitten with her, are the most memorable parts of Gina’s short-lived arc (more memorable, tbh, than B/ina, a relationship I interpreted as being purposefully lacking in chemistry). Early S3 is the origin of my lesbian!Raven headcanon and Bartender Mechanic is my favorite Raven ship.

That said, I would have accepted Raven & Gina friendship in the canon, too. I just wanted to see more of them together!