( may open post ) this that hot girl bummer anthem

[skaikru]

Who: clarke griffin + you!
What: dissociative hot girl summer is go! (she's fine, y'all.)
Where: everywhere!
When: post labyrinth through june
Warnings: really bad coping techniques, weed use in bobby b's prompt, needles mentioned in infirmary prompt (for tattooing). will add more as needed

i. i swear she had a man but shit hits different when it's thursday night ( meta )

( the dreamers wake, and the nightare never ends. instead clarke gets to go from preemptively mourning all their deaths to just mourning one, and does a terrible job of it. she snaps at her friends in the crew cabins, then finds herself too distracted to speak up and help anyone when they gather beneath the bridge for the culmination of the world's most unsatisfactory witch hunt. after fio and the captain wake, and sparkles cries like an infant who's run out of the energy required to stay mad, people just begin peeling off and filtering back to their comfort spots like everything's been so neat and tidily wrapped up just because their tormentor's proven to have more emotional range than simple cruelty.

the sand from the hour glasses feels like it sticks in hair and under fingernails for days afterwards. the vision of natsuno yuuki beheaded and well past dead flashes every other time she closes her eyes. the cut from putting her arm through glass doesn't require stitches, but is slow to heal. it's amazing that, even after having been locked in a room with the haunting trophies of dead loved ones heads, that doesn't even feel like the main blow to her heart anymore. all in all, the first week back from the maze, the serena eterna feels like a proper ghost ship. not just a ship staffed by ghosts, or built off the backs of thousands of dead passengers — but a ship full of people who just sort of drift around the halls, taking the time to put themselves back together and nurse the most recent wounds. some bounce back immediately, some take a few days. some pretend, some lash out, others just ignore it. and as for clarke, she'd... really like to cry. had woken up with tear tracks staining down her face in the glass tube, but just couldn't get her tear ducts to cooperate since. the swell of emotion is her chest is so big it hurts, it suffocates, and yet there's no cathartic outlet.

one night, when everything's quiet and she's laying in her couch bed, it feels like it's time. clarke can't sleep, and catches herself wishing, begging, practically praying for palamedes sextus to just magically manifest at her side. to tell her off, to try bossing her around, to read to her until her eyelids actually got heavy and the tension melted from her limbs; or to just awkwardly scramble onto the cushions and hold her, like he'd always done — every other hard moment on the ship had at least been bookended by pal speaking soft, rational truths until all her hackles went down. i just want him, she thinks. i need him, i miss him, i never told him — and, ah, there's that familiar burning behind her eyes, a lump in her throat. and yet when she pushes her face into a pillow to spare her roommate from waking, it's not heartfelt sobs that make their way past her teeth. it's a deep, wet sort of laughter. it's wrong. it feels wrong.

and yet she laughs and laughs — chortles, giggles, wheezes, hiccups — until her ribs hurt. because it's a little funny, right? this was always how it was going to end. it's how it always did. and, hey, a lucky break. at least this time she'd had an opportunity to say goodbye.

—

the next morning, she starts bringing ruby coffee in bed. one cream, five sugars. and it becomes a regular occurance, right alongside her new willingness to smile at everyone and everything. )

ii. this that hot girl bummer two-step

( the usual war boots and gun belt are no where to be found. and in sharp contrast, clarke can be found a little bit of everywhere. so find her —

( a. ) basking pool side is a bit of a new thing. previously she'd gone swimming maybe one whole time, but was no stranger to pulling up a deck chair to join natsuno on movie nights. only now she's seemingly a regular during peak daytime hours, posted up in an orchid and leaf patterned bikini top, and garish pink sunglasses. there's a book next to her, but it goes absolutely untouched as she lays int he fully reclined deck chair and seemingly stares at the sun. the beginnings of a sunburn works its way across her nose and shoulders, and — maybe she just fell asleep? it's been an awful long time since she'd moved. (also, is that natsuno in the pool, floating by on an awful inflatable swan? probably.)

( b. ) meanwhile, in the arcade, even if no one ever sees her, her presence is noted. slowly but surely, the initials CKS start to creep up the leaderboards on all the first person shooter games. actually, the first four entries on the jurassic park game belong to her, but she falls humbly to seventh place on the racing games. meanwhile air hockey is a two person sport, and if the fabricated stars of this reality ever align for another person to be around next time she eyes up the game table, clarke will smile and wave the white striker in their general direction.

beam and beckon. ) Wanna play?

( ( c. ) things have changed on the ship, but the old haunts are still familiar enough it takes her two weeks to realize the signage has updated. bobby b's is a stupid name, and she's always going to call this place tauva. there are... fond memories to be found in the leather chairs and general low ambiance. and while she assumes the cigarette vending machine won't sell to her — never tries it, honestly hates the smell —it's still her preferred smoking section on the ship. before he'd disappeared, steve harrington had gifted her leftovers from the weed party. and so, on a very inconsequential and quiet night on board the serena eterna, clarke can be found here.

drowning in a too-big skeleton onesie. laying on her back across the bar, feet planted and knees up. staring inquisitively up at the ceiling, as if the lines in the wood are the makings of a map yet to be deciphered. and about a fourth of the way through a very, very stale joint.

and ( d. ) all the places she hasn't ever really dedicated the time to exploring? the new ones that just cropped up? yeah, it's time to indulge. one can catch clarke exiting the cheese shop one day, with her shirt gathered up like an impromptu bindle and absolutely weighed down with individually wrapped baybel cheeses. apocalyptic hoarding tendancies might be generally muted after more than a year on board, with endless food, drinking water, showers, and medicine. but one can't ignore their surroundings so completely to have not noticed the dining inconsistencies of late.

the bowling alley catches her attention, too. all the lights, the smell of pepperoni and cheese grease, the noisy clatter of hard polyester balls against hardwood pins. the first time clarke tries to bowl, she absolutely eats shit and falls squarely on her ass, because she'd negelected to stop by the shoe rental and ran up too far on the track. that sure smarts, but give her a minute to nurse her wounds and then you can witness her crawling on hands and knees down the lane. just a little curious about the mechanics behind the pin resetting, it's nothing to be alarmed about, shhh.

and as for the kitchen... well. hope no one left anything to simmer on the stove. because she sure did acquire a wooden mixing spoon, and is staring at the pots and bowls like costco patrons stare at the free sample tables. absolutely nothing is sacred, and nothing is safe if it smells good. )

iii. one more line i'm superhuman ( infirmary )

( dissociation can only carry on with the highs for so long before it dips into some very, very familiar lows. one day, near the end of may, clarke more or less takes over the infirmary like she owns the place. it's never a very busy place, and she assumes most people are like her and have already squirreled away any basic wound care necessities in their rooms. she sets up at one of the counters; a small field notebook open, several full size pages of intricate loops and whorls splayed out alongside it. there's a whole pack of sharpies ripped open, two of them uncapped and discarded on the floor. there's a lighter, several different types of needles ranging from archaic to modern; a box of latex gloves, a travel sized tub of vaseline. two beakers of what look like black ink, but only one of them is (iykyk). clarke's got both sleeves rolled up, and is diligently completing the outline of filigrie on her arm, constantly referencing her notes.

(palamedes' old blood samples are still somewhere in the corner fridge, and she's dutifully not looking that way.)

and if or when anyone dares enter this very public space, she whips her head around with a look of absolute vitriol, and a sharp edge in her voice to match when snapping: )

Unless you're actively dying right now - get. out.

iv. and you want me to change? fuck you.

( wildcard option! throw whatever you want at me, tweak original prompts, or hit me up on plurk or discord to plot! ♥ )