a/n: inspired by this wonderful short film featuring Harry Shum Jr that simply left me breathless and empty, but also so full it felt like I could combust
this is for @nathenmiller, @youcamethrough, @kingbellamy, @prosciuttoe, @hooksandheroics, @kay-emm-gee, @goldenheadfreckledheart, @ariadneblake, @bispaceprincess, @clarke-griffin and @nephilimchloe because you all deserve to be loved and to be appreciated, because in all this time you grew up as people, as friends, as creators, because I don’t know all of you as well as I could, because maybe you’re my whos and whats and whens and wheres and whys, because you’re wonderful and I love you, and I always, always, wish you all the best; stay fab
who, what, when, where, why | ao3
The stars had no right to make him feel so small, so insignificant, just another speck of dust in the vast universe.
They had no right to make him question his soul, to make him tremble at the realization that he was just a little lost boy in a world that could survive without him.
The stars had no right to look so pretty. To yank the breath from him lungs and leave him reeling, knees weak and shaking, and yet delirious with happiness.
They had no right to make him feel powerful and helpless at once, they had no right-
But maybe they did.
Because they had seen his tears, his cries, his weaknesses and his mistakes, his smiles, his calloused hands and bruised heart – they saw everything and still they shone upon him brightly, unwavering in their faith that he deserved their light.
Bellamy leaned further back, letting his elbows support his weight as he stretched his legs out, the wild green grass filling his nostrils with the scent of moon flowers as the gentle breeze descended upon their meadow, playfully messing around with his curly hair.
Next to him, Clarke sat with her legs pressed to her chest, her head tipped back and her eyes closed, lips stretched into a grin, swaying with the gust of the wind.
His heart squeezed and expanded at once, pulse rushing to his ears and leaving him deaf for anything that wasn’t her voice. It was ridiculous – this itch under his ribs – the twitch of his fingers to push the hair away from her face, to take her mouth with his and lose himself between her lips, in the endless heath of her skin.
It was ridiculous because he could do it, because she would let him in with a brilliant smile and the soft bite of her teeth. He could touch and touch, get drunk on her moans and emerge reborn, remade from the lines she would drag down his back, from the way his name would fall like a confession lost between kisses.
It almost hurt, how much he loved her.