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The 100 fic: Fall to Pieces

falltopieces.jpg
The 100 | 1454 words | [PG]
Canon divergent. After a year on the ground, Bellamy and Clarke are finally ready to confront their feelings. As long as Bellamy doesn’t break his neck first. Written for April Camp NaNo.


By Clarke’s calculations, they’ve been on the ground for around 380 days. It’s the end of September. Or maybe it’s early October. It’s hard to tell. The chill of autumn has chased away the sweltering heat of July and August, but summer is making a last stand. The sun that filters through the treetops tickles her skin, leaving little goosebumps down her arms. She glances to her side—those might be from another reason, though.

Next to her, Bellamy’s hair flutters around his head in the warm breeze. He repeatedly shoves it out of his eyes with a huff, but it does no good. Watching him try makes her grin.

“You need a haircut.”

He snorts. “Thinking of making a career change to hair stylist, princess?” he asks without any of his usual derision. He shoots her a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and releases a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

Clarke looks away before he can see her blush. She’d never hear the end of it. If there was one thing Bellamy was good at it was teasing her. He knew how to push all of her buttons. Which, she has to admit, isn’t always a bad thing. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him still smiling. It looks good on him. She wishes he would do it more often. “Why are you in such a good mood?

“What do you mean?”

She doesn’t believe his innocent act for a second. And she’s not going to fall for his charm. Not much anyway. She narrows her eyes at him, hoping she looks more stern and less like he has her insides doing gymnastics. “You’re acting weird. What are you up to?”

“Are you always this suspicious?”

“When it comes to you—yes.”

They stare at each other a moment before they both crack a smile. Bellamy shrugs. “It’s a nice day. I don’t have to deal with the whining back at camp. What’s not to be happy about?”

He has a point. It does feel nice to get a break from the monotony of camp where everyone constantly needs her attention. Bellamy, though, seemed especially eager to get away when she mentioned she needed an escort to the river. Usually, he pawned babysitting off on one of his gunners—Harper or Monroe went with her a lot. This time, he jumped at the opportunity then looked embarrassed by his enthusiasm. It was kind of cute.

Bellamy hops onto the crumbling remains of a wall. She watches him balance along it like a tightrope walker, arms out, as he climbs higher.

“You’re going to fall,” Clarke says, blocking the sun with her hand as she watches him cross the wall ten feet in the air.

“I’m not going to fall. Will you relax, Clarke.”

She rolls her eyes. Why did he have to be such a pain? “One of us has to be responsible.”

He ducks under the branch of an overhanging tree and looks down at her. “You think I’m not responsible?”

She squints up at him again. She can’t really see his face with the sun blinding her, but she imagines his annoyed look. “Not with your own life. Not really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounds genuinely offended.

Clarke shrugs. “When it comes to your own safety, you don’t seem to care much.”

“I’m just trying to keep everyone alive.”

“I know, but you don’t have to risk your own life to do it.”

He cocks his head. “So who’s life should I risk? Monty’s? Jasper’s? Yours?”

“I know you know what I’m talking about so quit acting like a jerk and get down here.” She bites her lip when he wobbles a little, but he recovers effortlessly. She’s pretty sure he did it intentionally just to give her a heart attack.

“Now I’m a jerk?” At least the devilish grin is back on his face.

Her heart flips. She’s not sure if it’s from that look he gives her or the fact that he’s one wrong step away from breaking his neck. He eyes a tree a good five feet from the wall.

“Bellamy-” Clarke warns, but as usual, he doesn’t listen.

He jumps, snagging the branch easily. His smirk lasts about three seconds. Then the branch gives with a loud crack. Bellamy lands with a thud on his back, the air rushing out of him in a groan.

Clarke runs over, sliding to her knees next to him. “Are you okay?”

His eyes roll back as he fights for breath, but eventually, he gasps. Clarke lets out her own relieved breath then smacks his chest. “I told you to be careful.”

“No, you didn’t.” He pries a rock out from under him, tossing it into the woods. “You just said I would fall.”

“And you did.”

Bellamy gives her a crooked grin. “Still didn’t tell me to be careful.”

She smacks him again. Sometimes she thinks he argues just to annoy her. “You didn’t give me a chance. Besides, it’s implied, smartass. Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

Clarke helps him sit up, watching him carefully for signs of injury. He seems okay. “You know, there are easier ways to impress me.”

His face flushes scarlet. “Why do you think I’m trying to impress you?” he sputters, voice sounding a little strangled. She has to bite back a smile because his awkwardness is adorable.

Neither of them says anything for a long time. They’ve been dancing around their feelings for over a year. It’s exhausting. She’s about to tell him she’s tired of playing games, but he cuts her off.

“I wanted to spend time with you. Is that such a bad thing?” Bellamy says softly. He picks up a twig and nervously breaks it apart. “We’re both always so busy.”

Clarke sucks in a sharp breath. She didn’t expect him to come right out with it, but now that they’re actually talking about this, she’s a little terrified. She swallows hard but the lump is still stuck in her throat. “If you wanted to spend time with me you could have just asked. You didn’t have to fall out of a tree to get my attention.”

Bellamy ducks his head. “It’s not like I did it on purpose.”

“Uh-huh.”

His cheeks are still rosy, but Clarke sees the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “For reference in the future, what do I have to do to impress you?”

Her heart does another backflip. “For starters, just tell me when you want to hang out instead of elaborate plots to get me alone.”

He blushes again—it’s charming how insecure he is right now. “What if I want to do more than hang out?”

His eyes widen. She’s not sure who’s more surprised by his confession. Before he can take it back, she leans closer. “Then quit being a baby and make a move.”

She can see the moment he realizes she’s serious. He cups her face slowly—giving her a chance to change her mind. It makes her love him even more. The second their lips brush, an explosion of desire chases the butterflies away. Clarke’s entire body vibrates. The heat between them burns her skin, but she can’t get enough of it. She tangles her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck causing Bellamy to growl. The sound makes her head spin. She’s lost and doesn’t care if she’s ever found. How does he even have this effect on her?

When they finally pull apart, Bellamy’s pupils are shot, giving him a dazed look. “Wow,” he murmurs, breathless. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Clarke’s heart threatens to beat right out of her chest. The way he’s looking at her right now might be the most beautiful thing on Earth. And it took way too long for her to find it. She pulls him closer—she’s tired of waiting. “I think I do.”

This kiss is sweeter. Tender. It’s a side of Bellamy she wouldn’t have believed existed a year ago. She’s glad he’s finally showing it.

“Am I impressing you yet?” he says against her lips.

Clarke laughs. “Bellamy, you’ve been impressing me since the day we met.”

He leans back, eyebrow cocked. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

She pretends to think. “I’m not sure. You might have to kiss me a few more times-” He doesn’t give her a chance to finish. Which is fine. Clarke can’t remember what she was talking about anyway. It may have taken 380 days, but it was worth every argument and smartass comment it took to get here. Well worth it.

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The 100 fic: A Hero Without a Sunset to Ride Into

aheroThe war may be over, but the battles never end. Bellamy contemplates the consequences of war. Post-season 2 finale.
608 words | [PG-13]


The history books never tell you that the end of the war is just the beginning. It’s the start of cleaning up. Of healing wounds. Of returning to life. Or starting a new one.

Now that the war is over, Bellamy’s finding this part to be the hardest. As far as he can tell, they won, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. He’s exhausted—physically and emotionally. He feels like he’s been torn apart and stitched back together, but the seams don’t quite match up. His world has tilted into something unrecognizable. The color drained, sounds muffled. He wades through pain and swims in a fog so thick he can’t breathe without drowning.

He’s killed more people than he cares to count. His hands aren’t just covered in blood, he’s bathed in it. He hates the things he’s done. Hates the things he’s seen. He hates himself and the world and God if there is one. The war may be over, but the echoed screams of a murdered generation haunt his dreams. They wrench him from restless sleep—sweat-soaked and tear-stained. Only there’s no escape this time because he’s the monster in this nightmare.

Bellamy settles at a table in the mess hall but has neither strength nor motivation to eat. He stares blindly at the food, pushing it around on his plate. He thinks it might be pot roast. The mess is filled with people just like him—adrift in a stupor of heartache and misery. Personal hells of their own making. He’s never been more alone than in this crowded room.

He forces a smile on his face as his friends sit down, ignoring the empty spaces between them. They don’t talk about the missing. They don’t talk about anything really. Like Bellamy, they fake their smiles and chit-chat about the weather. And when they’re done, they’ll all go back to their quarters and weep for the people they once were.

This is the part they forget to tell you—that you don’t just mourn the dead. You mourn what used to be and what could have been. You mourn the spark of life that has fizzled out inside of you. You mourn the innocence you can never get back.

War is a one-way street—no U-turns allowed. Or maybe it’s like a raging river, tossing you in rapids until you are bruised and battered against the rocks only to throw you over the precipice of a waterfall that has no end yet you drown in it all the same.

The panic wells up out of nowhere. Bellamy’s world tilts a little more. He grips the table to ground himself and manages to breathe through the terror without anyone noticing. They’re all far too consumed by their own nightmares to notice his screams anyway.

Peace comes with a price. Surprise!—you fought for a future you no longer deserve. The blood on the fields will dry. The dead can be buried. Wounds heal and the sun rises, but a shattered soul can never be made whole. In his head and in his heart, Bellamy knows he’s broken—a fractured reflection of himself. His sins require absolution he cannot give.

So he eats with his friends and laughs at their jokes. He breathes in and out. In the mornings, he goes to work, and every night the Devil returns to chase him to the brink of his sanity. He’s afraid one day he might jump. It would be a lot easier.

Because the books don’t tell you how to make peace with your demons.

They don’t tell you how to start over again.

They don’t tell you it’s the beginning of the end.

The 100 fic: Us Against Everything

usagainsteverything.jpg

[Bellamy/Clarke]
Canon divergent. With a brutal winter ahead, Bellamy realizes there might be more than friendship growing between him and Clarke. Written for April Camp NaNoWriMo: breathe.
1539 words | [PG]


Bellamy gets back to camp late. It’s hard to tell the exact time with it getting dark so early, but he figures it must be after nine. The sun went down long ago, and it’s abysmally cold. He blows into his hands, trying to warm his numb fingers. Two fires are burning, but the space around them is empty of their usual laughing kids.

Sterling and two of the other guys he’s with make a beeline for the fire, practically holding their hands in the flames. The other three high-tail it into the dropship. Raven and Monty are still working to get the heat going, but eighty-something bodies crammed into a tin can keeps them warm enough for now. It’s better than being outside anyway.

It’d taken all day, but they’d finally buried the three they lost last night–Edith, Jerome, and Bennett. Edith was only fourteen and down here for talking back to a teacher. He shakes his head. He still can’t believe what they did to these kids. Sure, some of them were hardened criminals. There were killers and rapists among them, but most of the kids were arrested for petty stuff—shoplifting, fist fights, hoarding. It’s almost as if they knew they needed the bodies to fill the dropship so they arrested the kids for anything. Bastards.

His body aches, but he still goes down the line, checking the tents to make sure everyone has moved inside. As he nears the dropship, he hears something in the darkness. His hand drops instinctively to the hatchet at his waist. He approaches slowly. Someone gasps then goes quiet. Crying. He finds Clarke leaning against the dropship, wiping away the tears with her fingertips as if trying to erase the evidence. He’s not sure what he thinks about that.

Bellamy looks around, wishing one of her friends would suddenly appear. Monty or Raven or Octavia. Someone that isn’t him. They’ve been getting along okay the last few weeks, but that doesn’t mean he wants to listen to her blubber about whatever girl thing is bothering her. Of course, there’s no one in sight. He wants to leave her, but an instinctive force compels him forward.

He’ll probably regret this. “You okay, princess?” His voice sounds rougher than expected. Must be the cold.

“I’m fine,” she mumbles, not looking at him.

Of course she is. He steps closer. “Then come inside; it’s cold out here.”

Clarke laughs flatly, her breath hanging in the air for a few seconds. “It’s cold in there, too. It’s cold everywhere.” She sniffles, covering her face with her hands.

Bellamy taps his finger against the hatchet. Definitely going to regret this. Joining her against the dropship, it’s obvious why Clarke picked this spot. He can’t even see camp from here. Their world is suddenly nothing more than trees and brush. And darkness. It’s comforting and intimidating. Vast yet intimate. He listens to Clarke cry softly. He thinks he understands. He’s just as frustrated. Just as scared. He worries about everyone constantly.

It used to be just Octavia. He came down to protect her—his sister, his responsibility—but instead, he gained ninety-eight other brothers and sisters. They’re down to eighty-two at last count, and every death weighs on his mind. Every grave dug takes a bit of his soul. The deaths seem nearly daily now which is why he ordered everyone inside tonight. Too little, too late. They’ll be lucky to make it through winter. They’ll be lucky to make it through the month. If the cold doesn’t kill them, they’ll starve to death soon enough. He leans his head back with a sigh. He doesn’t know what else he can do.

“I can’t save them,” Clarke whispers, mirroring his thoughts.

Bellamy looks over at her. Her arms are wrapped tight around her as she stares into the darkness. He doesn’t know what to tell to her because the weight of those eighty-two lives crushes him, too. “We’ll figure it out,” he finally murmurs. Because what else can he say?

“We’re going to die.” She sniffles again.

He hates seeing her cry almost as much as Octavia. He reaches for her without thinking but stops, hand hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. She looks up at him with desperate, watery eyes. Something cracks in his chest, letting a warmth rush in. He slips his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

He’s surprised when Clarke wraps her arms around his waist and settles her head on his shoulder. “We’re going to figure this out,” he whispers.

“How?”

He has no answer. “I don’t know, but the two of us together can do this.”

“But they keep dying. And I can’t save them.” She sucks in a breath and lets it out in a sob. Bellamy tucks her head under his chin, rubbing little circles on her back like he used to do for Octavia

“You’re not a doctor, Clarke. You’re doing the best you can. I should have made everyone move into the dropship days ago.” He swallows hard. “You warned me, and I didn’t listen. So if anything, it’s my fault.” He keeps making one mistake after another. He just buried three of them.

“It’s not going to be enough. There’s still no heat. Food and water are low which is making everyone edgy. The bullies are preying on the other kids-”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And even then our chances are slim. All it will take is someone coming down with a virus. Everyone packed in close quarters is a recipe for disaster. Everyone will get sick and they’ll die.” The words tumble out.

He cups her face in his hands. “Clarke, breathe.”

She grabs his wrists, gasping for air as she fights to regain control. Bellamy finds it more than a little unsettling to see her like this. He’s come to rely on Clarke to be strong. He looks to her for guidance. If he sees that almost imperceptible nod of approval or the little twitch of her lips when she’s trying not to smile, he knows he’s on the right track. He needs Clarke. The thought blindsides him, but the moment he thinks it, he knows it’s true. A sudden lump in his throat threatens to choke him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead against hers. “We’re going to get through this,” he tells her firmly, trying to convince himself as much as her. “You and me.” He’s not really sure what he means. His words are filled with more meaning than he’d intended.

“Do you really believe that?” she asks.

“I do. We can do anything together.”

When he opens his eyes, her penetrating gaze meets his, sending his heart racing. Damn, when did this happen? When did Clarke start having this effect on him? He’s not sure he likes it, but he can’t look away. She slowly licks her lips—his eyes tracking her tongue. Why is he thinking about kissing her now? This is not the time. No, there is never a time because it’s never going to happen.

Then why does she seem closer than she was a second ago? Did she just look at his mouth? He’s suddenly not very cold anymore. In fact, he feels sweat trickle down the back of his neck. Crap. He doesn’t want this. His life is complicated enough without falling for Clarke. They can barely stand to be around each other half the time.

Before he can do anything stupid like kiss her, he tugs her into another hug. Her arms wrap around his neck this time. He wishes he knew what she was thinking because his thoughts are bouncing all over the place. They keep landing back on how good it feels with her in his arms. How he never wants to let her go. How much he wants to kiss her. He shivers at the thought.

Clarke steps back with a sigh—almost reluctantly. She wipes her eyes and laughs. “I’m a mess.”

Bellamy bites back a smile. “We’re all a mess, Clarke,” he says, wiping his grimy hands on his even grimier shirt.

“I meant on the inside.”

“I know.” Her eyeroll settles his nerves. They’re going to be okay. They have to be because he’s not sure he can do this without her. He doesn’t tell her that, though. He bottles up all of the emotions—all the urges— raging through him then clears his throat. “We should get inside before we freeze to death.”

Clarke grabs his wrist. “Promise me, Bellamy,” she says, voice cracking. “Promise we’re going to make it.”

The lump is back, making it hard to breathe. Her hand slides down until their fingers tangle together. He can’t make that promise, and she knows it. But he nods anyway. “I promise.”

She gives him a weak smile then squeezes his hand once before letting it go. She squares her shoulders then marches out of the shadows and into the light of the fires glowing in front of the dropship. Bellamy follows her because he has no other choice. They’re in this together, and they will make it. Together.

The 100 fic: End of the Line

endoftheline

[Bellamy/Clarke]
An alternate scene in episode 1.07. Clarke and Bellamy disagree on how to handle the captured Lincoln. Because there’s no coming back once you cross that line.
690 words | rating: PG-13


“There are things you do, and things you don’t do,” Clarke said, voice full of righteous indignation. “And this crosses the line.”

Bellamy stepped into her space. She stumbled back—uncertainty replacing the disapproval on her face. “And who decides where that line is? You?”

Her eyes darted to the grounder tied up behind him. “This is wrong, and you know it.”

Bellamy lowered his voice so only she could hear. “All I know is that I have to protect this camp. That’s what everyone wants, right?”

“This isn’t the way to do it.”

“Then tell me what is the right way. What am I supposed to do here?”

Her mouth opened then closed wordlessly. That shut her up. The problem was he knew she was right. It made him angry and resentful, but he was stuck. What was he supposed to do? Let Finn die?

“Torture isn’t the answer,” she finally whispered.

“Clarke.” Bellamy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time to argue or wait for him to get chatty.”

“There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t. Finn is going to die.”

She crossed her arms in an obvious challenge. “You were willing to let Jasper die. You helped them hang Murphy. You took the radio to save your own ass. You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself. Now suddenly you care if Finn lives or dies?”

What the hell? Was that really what she thought of him? She stared him down until he looked away, ashamed. Of course she thought that. Why wouldn’t she after all the things he did? But this was different. Things were different. Frustrated, Bellamy scrubbed a hand over his face. “Clarke-”

She cut him off. “You don’t even like Finn.”

“But you do,” he said, eyes on his boots. He swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “And Raven cares,” he added, but he knew the damage was done.

Bellamy ran a hand through his hair. “Look, it doesn’t matter what I think about Finn. All that matters is he’s going to die if we don’t get some information. Is that what you want? Because it’s starting to sound that way. He did break your heart so why not let him die?” That was low. She looked away, biting her lip. “The lines sure get fuzzy when it’s someone you care about, huh?” he said softly.

When she looked up, her eyes were glossy with unshed tears. “Please don’t do this, Bellamy.

“Then give me another option,” he pleaded. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do, Clarke, because I’m making this up as I go along. Finn’s going to die if I don’t do something. And we’re out of time.”

Behind him, Miller stopped pacing. “Yo, Bellamy, we going to do this or what?”

Clarke shot Miller a disgusted look. When she turned back, she looked drained. “This isn’t you.”

“Maybe not, but it’s who I need to be if we’re going to survive.” His fingers brushed her arm. “Someone has to make the hard decisions. Better me than you.”

Bellamy held his breath, hoping the conversation was over because he couldn’t handle her looking at him with that mixture of pity and disappointment. He sighed, dropping his hand. “You should go. Check on Finn.” He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her seeing him like this. “Please, Clarke.”

She looked ready to argue, but the desperation in his voice must have changed her mind because she let out a tired breath. “This is a line you can’t uncross, Bellamy.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know.”

She gave him one last grim look before disappearing down the ladder. Bellamy closed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to wake up in the morning with one more reason to hate himself. Why couldn’t she understand that?

“Let’s do this,” Miller said way too enthusiastically.

Bellamy picked up one of the straps laying on the ground. He rubbed his thumb over the buckle. “It’s just who I have to be,” he mumbled before turning towards the grounder, jaw clenched with determination.

Fun with Writing

For the longest time, my fanfic stuck pretty close to canon. Of course, I smoosh my favorite ship together, but I tried to keep it believable and as close to canon as I could get (so no Jack and Sam riding off into the sunset together).

But lately, I’ve been having a lot of fun writing AUs and pre-canon stuff. I especially like to go back in time and write stories about Bellamy and Octavia when they were kids.

Or in the case of what I was working on last night, alternative canon where they never went to the ground.

This is part of my Camp NaNo April group of stories. From day two (redo). The main plot is Bellamy goes back in time and gets to do over all of his mistakes. Starting with not getting Octavia arrested. At this point, it’s been a week since he changed history.


As soon as he walked in the door, Octavia was all over him.

“Where have you been?”

“I was out. What’s your problem?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You were gone all day.”

“So? Where’s mom?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He tossed his jacket onto the table.

“She left a few hours ago. Didn’t say where she was going. I was worried, Bell.” She hugged herself tighter and looked near tears.

He pulled her into a hug. “I didn’t mean to worry you,” he whispered into her hair. “I just needed to blow off steam before I said something I’d really regret.”

She scoffed. “More than before.”

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he slid her hair behind her ears and cupped her face. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She blinked away unshed tears and cocked her head. “Liar.”

Bellamy snorted and she swatted his hands away. He reached into his pocket and tossed her a ration bar. “Here. Don’t say I never get you anything.”

She rolled her eyes but ripped it open. He looked down at the other one in his hand. He was starving, but he didn’t think he deserved it after the last couple days–blowing up at people, taking off, worrying Octavia, making his mom mad. He left it on the table and laid down. Octavia came over a moment later and sat at the foot of the bed, drawing her legs up.

“So where were you?” she asked around a bite of food.

He closed his eyes and threw his arm over his face. “Nowhere special,” he said with a yawn.

“Yeah, well you smell like a still.”

He glanced at her from under his arm. “How would you know?”

She shrugged. Bellamy shook his head and went back to covering his eyes. “I was at a party.”

“Really?” This seemed to interest Octavia. He was constantly amazed that she could put aside her loneliness and isolation and be excited when he talked about freedom she would never have.

“It wasn’t that great. Just a bunch of people getting drunk and dancing inappropriately.”

Octavia laughed. “Sounds like a fairytale. Who did you go with?”

He licked his lips, realizing a beat too late that he’d waited too long before saying, “no one.” He could almost hear Octavia’s raised eyebrow.

“I hope No One was worth it. Is she pretty?”

He reached back and grabbed his pillow, tossing it in her direction. She batted it away then spread out next to him on her stomach, forcing him to move over. She continued to nibble on the ration bar. His stomach growled. She ignored him for a bit then gave him a look, still waiting for an answer to her question.

He sighed and covered his eyes again so he didn’t have to look at her. “Pretty, yes. Worth it–not really.”

“Wow. She sounds amazing. When do I get to meet her?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a sardonic sense of humor.”

“Just my brother, but he’s an ass so I don’t listen to him.”

He didn’t have another pillow so he jabbed a finger into her ribs. “Yeah, well my sister’s a brat.”

She squealed and tried to scramble off the bed, but he caught her around the waist. She struggled against him but he outweighed her by at least eighty pounds.

“Get off,” she said through giggles as he continued to tickle her. “Stop.”

He dropped his hand but didn’t let her go.

“You suck,” she said.

“No, I win,” he told her, snatching the rest of the ration bar out of her hand.

She spun on him as he leaned back, letting her go. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“Really? Cause it’s in my hand and possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Bellamy-”

He gave her a crooked smile then popped it into his mouth. She glared then suddenly jumped on him. He was caught off guard by a knee to his stomach and nearly choked on the dry bar. Octavia grabbed the pillow and started smacking him with it. He tried to snatch it from her, but she was moving to quick which ground her knee into his ribs. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop laughing and was still half-choking on the food.


This story is full of so many of these scenes. Of course, things took a turn for the worse after this because I can never let them be happy for too long.

And this is what we call
procrastination

The 100 fic: Unstoppable

unstoppable

[Octavia]
Octavia doesn’t need anyone to tell her who she is–she already knows.
523 words | rating: PG-13


I am a warrior. I am powerful. I am unstoppable. They see a scared little girl. Hah! They aren’t going to live long enough to understand their mistake.

Octavia dives into the battle, sword swinging. She takes out the first grounder with a foot to the knee. He collapses in a heap, eyes wide with shock before she slits his throat with the knife in her other hand. Hot blood sprays her face, but she does nothing to wipe it away.

I am a warrior.

She spins at the sound of someone approaching, catching the next grounder off guard with a sword to his gut. She makes sure to keep eye contact as he goes down.

Let him know my power.

She takes out two more with slashes to their chests and abdomens. Her arms are growing weary already, but the battle rages on. She will not falter. She drops to her knees as another grounder charges her. She slams her shoulder into him and flips him. She misses with her knife, allowing the much larger man to roll to his feet. He laughs.

They think I’m weak because I’m small. Because I’m a girl. Because I’m Skaikru.

She fakes a little jab with the knife to test his reflexes. He smacks her sword away with his own, a smug look on his face. When he lunges, she’s ready. She does a spin move as she drops, taking his leg out from under him. He stumbles, landing awkwardly on one knee but doesn’t go down completely. Not a problem for Octavia. She easily hops to her feet and kicks him in the backside. He falls face first onto the ground.

What they don’t know is that I’m not Skaikru. And I’m not a grounder. I’m Octavia-fucking-Blake. And they are the ones who should be afraid.

The grounder turns with a growl and runs at her full speed. Octavia takes a lancing blow to her side but manages to dart away. Before the grounder can recover, she drives her sword deep into his back. She’s done playing games. She kicks the dead man free of her sword, swinging it to dislodge his blood then looks for her next target.

She’s not alone in this battle. The staccato pops of gunfire mix with clanking swords. The grunts and screams echo in the valley. Indra isn’t far away, her blade moving so fast, it’s hard to track. Clarke is holding her own with a knife—Miller covering her. And somewhere, Bellamy is picking off anyone he can that gets too close to them.

She ignores all of that as the next grounder moves in. He stops in front of her, head cocked. Octavia swings her sword again then stands in the ready position. “Bring it, asshole.”

I am powerful.

The grounder charges at the same time Octavia runs at him. At the last second, she drops into a slide. Right between his legs. He looks around in surprise and spins just in time to get a knife to his chest.

She turns her face to the sky and howls. “I am a warrior!”

And I am unstoppable.

The 100 fic: Wash Away the Pain

blood

Clarke has too much blood on her hands, but Bellamy is there to help wash it away.
1272 words | rating: PG-13


Clarke staggers through the trees towards the rush of water she hears in the distance. Her right hand presses against a growing pain in her side. Her left hangs limply, knife dangling from her fingertips. The noise of the river drowns out the echoing screams of death in her head.

She falls to her knees on the bank, retching until the bile erases the bitter taste of copper that stings the back of her throat.

So much blood.

It’s everywhere—staining her clothes, caking her hair, dripping from her eyelashes. She stares at her hands—sticky with red—until they blur behind a curtain of tears. She thrusts her hands into the freezing water, scrubbing her skin raw, but the red isn’t going away.
Her chest seizes up as another sob wracks her.

It’s not my blood.

“Clarke?”

She’s not sure if she’s relieved or terrified that it’s Bellamy that followed her. She goes back to scrubbing the blood from her hands. Bellamy squats next to her, pulling her hands from the water to hold between his. He gently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and wipes a line of blood trickling from her temple.

“What do I do?” she whispers. “I can’t get it off.”

He looks down at her hands. “They’re clean, Clarke.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she’s afraid to look again. He watches her a moment longer then stands up, pulling her up with him. “Come on.”

He unties his boots, kicking them to the side. He tosses his jacket to the side and peels out of his t-shirt. Clarke swallows, squeezing her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to think about how perfect he looks without a shirt on or how he does have a smattering of freckles across his shoulders. It’s both adorable and sexy. And completely inappropriate.

Bellamy leans over and dips his shirt in the water then starts wiping her face. He’s gentle, starting at the top and working his way down. Despite the cold, she feels the heat rolling off of his bare skin.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

With my life, she wants to tell him, but the words catch in her throat. Instead she nods. Without saying another word, he carefully pulls off her shoes and socks. The rocks dig into her blistered feet, but she doesn’t complain.

He bites his lip—his eyes catching hers. He holds her gaze as he carefully removes her jacket. His fingers trail down her arms, sending a shiver up her spine.

He grips the hem of her shirt. “Still with me?”

She nods again, closing her eyes as he lifts the shirt off of her. She’s not sure she can look at him now. He casually undoes her pants, and she steps out of them, shivering. But he’s not done. She hears the zipper of his pants—the fabric pooling at his feet. He grips her hand tightly and guides her into the river.

The water is like a thousand tiny daggers hitting her all at once. She gasps and nearly sucks in a lungful of water. Bellamy wraps his arms around her waist—their chests pressed together—to keep her from sinking.

Bellamy carefully leans her head back and washes her hair, threading his fingers through the knots. Then he wipes her cheeks with his thumbs. His hands glide down her arms, pulling her hands between them. He rubs at her finger nails until the dark stains are gone.

When she looks up at him, his face is blurred behind tears. She blinks them away. He gives her that shy, sad smile he reserves just for her. She knows the emotions behind it. The way she keeps breaking his heart. The way he just accepts it. Because that’s who he is. She loves him for that.

She swallows down the lump. She might be in love with him.

Before she can think better of it, she reaches up and wipes a smudge of dirt from his temple. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her as she returns his favor—cleaning his face and hair. Even when she’s done, she can’t stop running her fingers through his curls. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer until their bodies are completely flush. His nose brushes hers, and she lets out a little sigh.

“Clarke,” he says, voice rough. He pushes her hair from her face, letting his fingers skim her chilled cheeks. Everywhere he touches heats up. He leans in closer until their lips are barely touching. But something stops him. He pulls back ever so slightly, and she thinks she might die from the anticipation. He clears his throat. “Clarke, we-”

“Please,” she whispers. “Can we just forget about everything else. Just this once. Can it be just you and me. No Ark, no Earth, no grounders, no war.”

“No Lexa?”

She shakes her head. “Lexa’s gone.”

“Clarke, I don’t want you to forget her.”

“I’m not. But-” She runs her fingers over his lips. They’re chapped but soft. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose my chance.”

He chuckles softly. “With me?” He waits for her to look up. “Never, Clarke. I’ll be here when you’re ready. Whenever that is.” He slips his fingers into her hair and pulls her face closer, planting soft kisses on her forehead. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I love you, Clarke.”

Every molecule in her body hums alive at his words. She wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He doesn’t question her breakdown; he just holds her tighter. When she finally gets control, she pulls back just far enough to see his face. The sun is setting behind him, casting him in shadows, but his eyes are wide, tracking her movements. She places a hand on either side of his face. The blood is finally gone—her skin shining white in the waning sun.

Slowly she leans forward, letting their lips touch softly. He doesn’t react at first, but she presses, knowing he just needs a sure confirmation. And then he groans. His arms tighten in a bear hug as he deepens the kiss. It’s like he can’t get enough. And damn, Clarke doesn’t want this to end. Some small part of her mind starts to compare this with her first kiss with Lexa, but she shoves it away—surprised at how easily she boxes up the memories. It’s been over a year; she has to move on eventually. And Bellamy’s been waiting this whole time.

When she pulls away again, his eyes are slightly unfocused but with a hint of fear like he thinks maybe she changed her mind. “Bellamy.”

He tenses, obviously waiting for it all to fall apart. Her heart aches for him. She did this to him. She left him over and over. Chose someone else at every turn. And he’s still here. At her side every day without question. Her lip trembles. And not from the cold. “I love you,” she whispers. And to erase any questions he might have, she adds, “I’m in love with you, Bellamy, and I have been for a long time.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, his body completely still. She meets his gaze as tears gather in the corners of his eyes. She tilts his face closer, kissing each tear away before returning to his lips.

“God, Clarke,” he moans into her mouth. “I love you so much.”

“I know. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out what I wanted.”

He kisses her softly. “You’re worth the wait.”

She smiles against his lips. “So are you.”

The 100 fic: Forty Days to Gone

40days

Bellamy contemplates the first forty days on the ground with Clarke.
462 words | rating: PG


Forty days. That’s all it’s been. It seems longer. A lifetime.

Only forty days?

Bellamy watches Clarke from the corner of his eye as they march back to Tondc for what feels like the hundredth time this week. She’s been quiet. Withdrawn since Finn’s death. Bellamy gets that. They were friends. She cared about Finn. Loved him, maybe. And she had to kill him. That takes a toll on anyone. And Clarke’s emotions run pretty near the surface.

Bellamy’s learning to hide his better. There’s too much to lose. His heart is one of those things. So he keeps a lid on his feelings. Keeps them close and himself distant. Or he tries. Sometimes Clarke makes it so damn hard. She brings out an overprotective instinct in him. He hates seeing her so withdrawn. Hates seeing her hurting.

He doesn’t know what to say, though. Nothing will make it better.

Forty days. At least he thinks it’s been forty days. He’s lost track. It could be thirty or sixty or a hundred. Who knows. It seems like forever. But forty days is a short while. He shouldn’t feel this way for her so soon. Shouldn’t want to be at her side always. Shouldn’t need her. His world doesn’t make sense without Clarke next to him.

It took forty days for him to fall for her.

No, that’s not true. He fell for her a long time ago. He’s not exactly sure when. Sometime between landing and killing Dax. He wouldn’t have fought back if Clarke hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t let her get hurt.

It took forty days for him to realize he fell for her.

That’s not true, either. He realized it right around the time they all almost died of the plague. He expected to worry about Octavia. He hadn’t expected the terror at the thought of Clarke getting sick. Of losing her.

It took forty days for him to admit to himself he fell for her.

Also not true. He admitted it a while ago. That day she threw herself into his arms. That day he realized she’d survived the battle at the dropship. He knew it the moment he held her tight and never wanted to let go.

No, it took forty days for him to accept that he was in love with Clarke.

And there is no changing that. They’ve been through so much, and he’d follow her to Hell and back if she asked. This fight with Mt. Weather is looking pretty close to being Hell. God help him—he’s already gone.

Forty days is all it took for him to lose his mind. And walking next to her along the dusty road, contemplating their next war, he knows he wouldn’t change a thing.

Red Vs. Blue fic: Rockets Red Glare

If you have a cracked sense of humor and you’ve never watched the webshow, Red Vs. Blue, you are missing out on some ridiculous laughs. Their episodes are on YouTube, but the six-minute episodes are combined into two-hour seasons on Netflix–thirteen of them. It starts out slow, but later seasons actually work around some major story arcs. For something that started so silly, this show actually made me cry. The animation–created from the Halo games–improves drastically over the course of the series, so don’t let that turn you off. Just be aware that the language and many of the jokes are crude. The show is hilarious, though. I’ve watched through it two or three times already.


 

The one where the DVD collection is a mess and Caboose thinks it’s the 4th of July.
WARNING: language
639 words | rating: R


“No, no. Those go there and these go here,” shouted Church.

“But I thought we were going to put these there,” said Tucker.

Church growled. “Now why the hell would we do that?”

“I don’t know it just makes sense.”

“In what world does putting these over there make sense?”

Tucker shrugged, stepping out of the way as Caboose ran through the room. “Because they’re all red. And those are blue. And these are green.”

“WHAT? You organized them by color?”

“Yeah, of course.” Tucker looked up at Church. “Why? How do you organize them?”

Church fought the urge to throttle Tucker. “Oh, I don’t know—how about in alphabetical order!”

“Geesh, calm down, man. It’s just a stupid DVD collection for Christ’s sake.”

Tucker started sorting the DVDs again as Caboose ran past in the other direction. Church watched over his shoulder to make sure he did it right this time.

“F comes before G, dipshit.”

“Whatever,” Tucker muttered, and when Church turned to watch Caboose skip through the room, he tossed the copy of Four Weddings and a Funeral into the trash. “There,” he said a minute later.

Church checked the shelves. “Do you even know what alphabetical means?”

“Hey, fuck you. You know how hard it is to do anything with you breathing down my neck.”

“Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” yelled Caboose as he bounded back through the room with a sparkler in each hand.

“And what the fuck is with Caboose?”

Church started rearranging the DVDs. “I don’t know. I find it easier to just ignore him.”

“Yeah, but that’s when he gets in the most trouble.”

Church glanced at Tucker for a moment. “Good point.”

The two followed the sound of Caboose’s laugher to the roof of the base. Caboose had sparklers taped to every surface while he wrote his name in the air with the ones in his hands.

“Caboose,” Church shouted. “What are you doing?”

“It’s the Fourth of July!”

“No, it’s not,” said Tucker. “Actually, I think it’s November.”

Caboose danced around them as the sparklers petered out. “Oh, yeah. If it’s not the Fourth of July, then how come the Reds are having a fireworks display? Huh?”

“What?” Church and Tucker said at the same time.

As if on cue, there was a bang from the Red base across the canyon. Sparks flew into the sky.

“See, fireworks. That means it’s the Fourth of July.”

“All that means,” said Tucker, “is that you’re an idiot. They could be shooting fireworks off for any reason.”

“Uh-” said Church.

“It could be someone’s birthday. It could be someone’s anniversary. It could be they had extra gunpowder lying around-”

“Guys-”

“It could be they just like pretty, sparkly things like you, dumbass. Hell, it could mean the Cubs finally won the World Series after five hundred years. Who the fuck knows.”

Church backed away. “I don’t think those are fireworks.”

“What?” Tucker turned to look where Church was staring. “Oh shit, man. Run.”

Caboose squealed. “Look they’re shooting them our way so we can join in the fun. Happy Fourth of July to you too, Reds.”

“Caboose,” Church yelled, “those aren’t fireworks. They’re rockets.”

“And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,” sang Caboose, hand against his forehead in a salute.

“Caboose!”

Tucker leaped from the base, running for cover. Church dove at Caboose, tackling him over the side just as the rocket hit the roof. Chunks of concrete and red sparks rained down on them.

“So pretty,” cooed Caboose.

Church rolled onto his back, gasping for air. The sky was lit by the fire now consuming their base. It made the air waver, distorting the stars above. He let his head fall back with a long sigh. “You’re right, Caboose. It is pretty.”

Stargate SG-1 fic: Home Improvement

[Sam & Jack friendship]
Sam gets a surprise visit from the colonel and his tools.
341 words | rating: G


Sam woke on a Saturday to a loud crash that rattled the walls of her house. She shot out of bed, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. It took her a few seconds to relax and remember she was at home, not off-world. There was another smaller crash then a lot of banging. What the hell?

She padded down the hall into the kitchen. More noise came from the backyard. She really considered finding that gun when a large shadow passed the door. Wait a minute. Sam cocked her head—that was a shadow she recognized. In her barefeet and pajamas, she opened the back door, finding her porch in pieces

“Sir?” Sam said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the door frame. “What are you doing?”

The colonel started, dropping a hammer. He looked up at her, three nails hanging from his lips. He mumbled something around the nails then pulled them from his mouth. “Hey, Carter. I just-” He looked around at the mess. “Did I wake you?”

“It’s oh-seven-thirty, sir.”

“So I woke you.”

She glared at him. Then at the mess.

He cleared his throat. “I just noticed that your deck was looking a little worn. I mean, the last time we were here for team night. It’s a little battered. But the frame is still good. I just thought I’d spruce it up-”

His rambling was kind of adorable. She forced her mind away from those dangerous thoughts and put a hand up to stop him. “I appreciate the thought, sir, but this is a rental. I’m not sure what my landlady will think of your home improvements.”

“Oh.” He ducked his head, a blush creeping up his neck. Very adorable.

Bad Sam.

Sam bit her lips to keep from smiling while the colonel stood there looking awkward as hell. When she thought he’d suffered enough, she shook her head. “Well, since you’re here—you want some coffee? There might be donuts, too.” She went back in the house, knowing without a doubt that he’d follow.

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