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kinetic-elaboration · 5 months

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November 24: Bellarke, Strong/Weak

I break my block (at least partially) by writing a little ficlet at 3am. LOL RIP me.

Written for a prompt off my July Break Bingo card: strong, and its antonyms (weak, frail, powerless, small)

This is in the same universe as my Time Loop fic Make a Lot of Money and Feel Dead Inside. It's semi-spoilery for some stuff that's not yet published but not overly so. More like, it will make more sense later but nothing in here should be too surprising if you've read Ch1. And if you've read none of it, also fine, this is a prequel type thing.

Bellarke, Modern AU, ~1000 words, written in about 35 minutes

*

Sometimes Clarke asks him to tell her stories, too, and the stories are always about strength. Strength, and perseverance, and fortitude through adversity. He lays the details on thick: the hero’s prominent muscles, the heroine's steadfast and impregnable heart, the ease with which a man picks up a woman and holds her in his arms—every little crevice and thin, twining vein of detail he can find so they can wallow in it, live in it, the idea of a power so profound and so natural that it can never waver, never succumb to doubt.

As he winds out these threads, she stares up at him, lets her fingers play blindly against his arms, his own muscles, taut beneath his skin, and his own words sound like a distant rush in his ears as he looks down into her unblinking, crystalline blue eyes.

He's leaning too much into this habit lately: waiting for Octavia to fall asleep and then creeping out of his own house like a burglar, rolling his bike down the street by its handlebars until he gets to the corner, as if he were being quieter or less suspicious that way. Then he pedals his way to Clarke's house, feeling the night all around him soft and warm, and the rush of air he's created against his face and blowing back his hair. Most nights, the bugs are humming, buzzing loud and the night feels riotous by the time he gets to her place. Strands of hair are sticking to his face with sweat and he's breathing hard, like all this way he was running from something and his life depended on it. He lets the bike fall down in the yard by the big tree with the tire swing, its wheels still spinning, winces at the indecorous metallic sound it makes, and breathes in deep of growing spring humidity and wet and warmth as he tilts his head back and stares up at the dark windows of the house. There's no car in the driveway: Abby on the night shift again.

Clarke's window looks out over the back. When he sneaks around to the backyard, he sees her light still burning.

He never tells her when he's coming over because it would be admitting too much, and fuck he's sneaking out so often now she probably expects him every night—but she never tells him she's waiting up. After the first couple times, she stopped showing any surprise. And she never, not even the first time, has said anything about not wanting him to stay. The route up to her window is precarious and awkward, and she still has to pull him, torso first, through the narrow opening, sweaty and overgrown and with all his limbs stretching out in the wrong places, his muddy boots threatening her bedroom carpet, every time.

Being in Clarke Griffin's bedroom in the middle of the night always feels forbidden and profane and yet predetermined all at once, like he's breaking all the rules to be exactly where he needs to be. A contradiction that slots neatly into his ideas of himself. He's the unflagging strength that does the impossible, the rage-fueled need that just protects and protects and protects, and that's so deep-ingrained he's not sure how he would live without it, but he's the groveling, frail, powerless little boy, too, out of breath and ragged after running all night. This second deep-down part of him needs those stories like breathing, and he needs the sanctuary of Clarke's neat, rectangular bedroom, with the blue-painted walls, her twin four-poster bed in the corner of the room.

She's running her fingers through his hair and kissing his face like she's not seen him in years instead of hours, kisses that linger on his cheeks and his nose, little breaths that he hears against the shell of his ear. The kisses on his mouth linger longest. He wants to pick her up and press her against the wall.

Throw her on the bed. Prove he can.

He still hasn't learned to touch her in a way that doesn't feel like pawing.

He only hears the clock ticking again after, when he's squashed up against the wall trying not to roll over and onto her, crush her, catching his breath again. His whole body is buzzing like he can feel every single atom in him vibrating, reminding him he's big and strong now and it's too late to learn gentleness. Beyond Clarke's shoulder, he can see her bedside table: her alarm clock, a small notebook that might be her diary, a box of tissues that almost fell to the floor while they were fucking. Past that, the slatted door of her closet, the photograph of the Eiffel Tower like she's taunting him with all the places she'll someday go.

"Bellamy," she murmurs, his own name almost a question, maybe a sigh. He repositions himself so that his arm's around her and her head is on his chest. This is a position he could stay in too long if he's not careful, a warmth and comfort to it, to her weight on him, that's tempting as sin.

This is the worst time to be thinking about it. But he's thinking about it. Her window's still open and the high, rising buzz of the insects seeps in, and he can't stop turning over and over in his mind what else he's brought in with him, can't stop wondering if she sees him this way too.

Can't stop wondering what she's thinking, as he glances down, entranced by the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

"Tell me a story or something," she says.

He tries to laugh, only a huff. "Don't get too comfortable listening. I need to leave soon."

"Yeah, but not yet." She pokes him in the side, and he squirms away on instinct, then smiles because he really feels warm in this moment. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "Come on. A story where the good guys kick some ass. Defeat some monsters for me, Bellamy."

Defeat those monsters.

He takes a deep breath in, gathering up his thoughts, letting the story come to him.

Kill those monsters dead, he thinks, or die trying.

#the year 2023 #2023: free write #mine #my writing #july break bingo #make a lot of money #the 100 #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #i think you can tell how rusty I am from the first couple paras but i do find a groove later

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dualredundancy · 4 months

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youtube

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seasidesapphix · 4 months

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it's the last day you can rb this

#🎏#2023 #new year #the firemen snes

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sessa23 · 6 months

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It's almost time for Zack and Cody's reservation at the Italian restaurant

The internet on 16/11/2023:

#disney memes #disney channel #zack and cody #suite life of zack and cody #15 years ago #November 16th 2023 #disney

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kwekstra · 4 months

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Highlights from the conference room where they nominated contenders for Word of the Year 2023:

• They put Skibidi Toilet on the projector to explain what “skibidi” means.

• Baby Gronk was mentioned.

• We discussed the Rizzler.

• “Cunty” was nominated.

• “Enshittification” was suggested for EVERY category.

• “Blue Check” (like from Twitter) was briefly defined as “Someone who will not Shut The Fuck Up”

• The person writing notes briefly defined babygirl as “referencing [The Speaker]”. He is now being called babygirl in the linguist groupchats.

• MULTIPLE people raised their hand to say “I cannot stress this enough: ‘Babygirl’ refers to a GROWN MAN”

#linguistics #my posts #lsa #lsa 2024 #word of the year #woty #woty 2023

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sadclowncentral · 1 year

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2023

1. COMMIT TO THE BIT

2. PARTAKE IN THE DIVINE ACT OF CREATION

3. LET THE SOFT ANIMAL THAT IS YOUR BODY LOVE WHAT IT LOVES

#I ALSO WANT TO BE PART OF THE POSTS #2023 #2023 NEW YEAR

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tapiocats · 4 months

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Decay exists as an extant form of life

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mystericmoon · 1 year

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#2023 #new year #happy new year

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nighthawkes · 5 months

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your daily walks wrapped

you soaked up 10,985 minutes of sunshine, rain, and other weather

you walked past 4,073 individuals you would describe as the most beautiful person in the world

you bore witness to 23% more of your local area than last year—good job!

you saw 3 of the weirdest dogs you will ever see in your life

you noticed 18 people visibly, tenderly in love with each other

you smelled 243 flowering plants & shrubs

you drank 267 delicious beverages

you were kissed invisibly and imperceptibly by 117 bumble bees and butterflies

you were witness to 87,441,289 gorgeous leaves

#inspired by real events today and every day this year #2023 #couple who was pushing a stroller at the curb divider in the middle of the avenue caught leaning in to kiss each other so lovingly that #i could have cried 💗#lovecore

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nedlittle · 1 year

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it drives me bonkers the way people don't know how to read classic books in context anymore. i just read a review of the picture of dorian gray that said "it pains me that the homosexual subtext is just that, a subtext, rather than a fully explored part of the narrative." and now i fully want to put my head through a table. first of all, we are so lucky in the 21st century to have an entire category of books that are able to loudly and lovingly declare their queerness that we've become blind to the idea that queerness can exist in a different language than our contemporary mode of communication. second it IS a fully explored part of the narrative! dorian gray IS a textually queer story, even removed from the context of its writing. it's the story of toxic queer relationships and attraction and dangerous scandals and the intertwining of late 19th century "uranianism" and misogyny. second of all, i'm sorry that oscar wilde didn't include 15k words of graphic gay sex with ao3-style tags in his 1890 novel that was literally used to convict him of indecent behaviour. get well soon, i guess...

#the picture of dorian gray #lit #this is a pointless text post #guess what i read for the first time in the year of our lord 2023 #and yes this is a real review on storygraph that i took a screenshot of. you people are so stupid god bless #girl he literally censored it himself did your edition have 0 introduction or background at all #greatest (s)hits #book discourse

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kinetic-elaboration · 4 months

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December 26: Murphy, Raven, Octavia, Only One Bed

Hmmm, wrote a little thing. I may or may not continue later.

For the prompt 'snowed in + only one bed'

Murphy, Raven, Octavia (Murphy & Raven, Raven/Octavia, possible future poly situation?), 650 words, ~18 minutes

*

If his life were another genre, perhaps one defined by three Xs, this would be an excellent situation: snowed out of the airport and put up in some mid-range hotel, in a single room with only one bed, and two beautiful women as roommates.

But Murphy's life is just his life, and the girls are as grumpy, exhausted, and gross as he is. So when they all crowd through the doorway at once and drop their bags on the floor, and catch sight of the bed situation, it's pathetic groans all around.

Sadly, this is the farthest from horny that he has ever been.

Murphy kicks his duffel bag toward the TV. "I guess I'll be sleeping on the floor," he says, and damn that part of him that almost makes it sound like a question.

Octavia doesn't answer. She's parked her rolling suitcase next to the window and is heading straight toward the bathroom. The door slams shut behind her, and immediately after, he hears the whine of a faucet and then the rush of water filling a tub. Raven is setting her backpack down on the dully upholstered beige chair, and as she unzips it and starts rifling through it, she shoots back over her shoulder, "Don't be dumb."

Murphy's already forgotten what they were talking about. He sinks down onto the end of the mattress and stares at his reflection in the shiny black screen of the TV. He looks like someone has just beaten him up: not bruised or bloody but just hang-dog world-weary. Two hours stuck in traffic at the bridge, thought they'd missed their flight, found it three hours delayed, then delayed again, then abruptly canceled—then they spent another hour calling their respective family members and several different airline help desks, trying to secure alternate transport. Nothing. So they gathered up their bags and ended up here.

Outside, the view is nothing but a whitewash of snow, flurries over flurries against a colorless sky, and the threat of an early sunset bringing on a new shade of deepening gray.

"What am I being dumb about?" he asks.

"The bed," Raven answers.

The sound from behind the bathroom door is that of a shower, now. So at least he has some hope that Little Blake isn't planning on monopolizing the bathroom for the entire rest of the night.

"I mean it's a king," Raven's saying. "You sleep on one side, Octavia and I will take the other."

She unzips her jacket, slips out of it and drapes it across the chair instead. Snowflakes are melting on the shoulders of it, are melting in her hair, too, so that when she takes down her ponytail, the dark waves fall across her shoulders with a slight dampness about them, as if she'd just stepped out of a shower herself. Her cheeks are flushed, too. His own skin feels uncomfortably warm.

"You know I roll around a lot in my sleep," he warns.

Raven considers. She crosses her arms against her chest, and he catches sight of her playing with her hair tie, stretching it between her fingers idly. "Then I'll sleep in the middle," she says. "You roll, Octavia kicks—"

"And you snore, I bet."

Raven snorts. But she doesn't seem to take offense. "I was going to say I'll be the buffer."

Murphy takes another look around the room: the inoffensive painting of flowers, the dark beige carpet at his feet, the little table by the window, with the hotel stationary on it, and the stiff red curtains framing the winter storm outside. All planes grounded. Nothing in or out all night.

"I guess this isn't exactly the romantic night you were expecting," he says, and he sounds a little sorry about it, even to his own ears.

Raven shrugs. "Actually I was expecting to sleep on the plane. So I guess this is technically a step up."

#the 100 #raven reyes #john murphy #octavia blake #very minimally though #raven x octavia #murphy x raven #mine #my writing #the year 2023 #2023: free write #trying so hard to avoid talking about myself #which i guess is good motivation for writing practice!#i wrote a bit earlier today and finished ch4 of the time loop so progress *is* being made

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roboe1 · 4 months

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News and Headlines:12/29/2023

In The News: 2023: The Year in Review 2023 could be thought of as a sort of Rorschach test. For example, when you think of the year, what first comes to mind? A. Barbie, Beyoncé, and Taylor B. Trump, Musk, and the Titan submersible C. Maui wildfires, Turkey-Syria earthquakes, and Libya flooding D. NATO expansion, India’s population growth, and the Israel-Hamas War E. One or more from rows…