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100yearsofclexa · 5 days ago

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tw: eating disorders, low self-steem, beauty standards, etc

*breathes in*

Recently I saw a instagram reel where a very beautiful woman says something like: "Oh you're shy what about a roll? about showing body fat? SO WHAT? NOM-NOM, BITCH!"

It's way easier saying that when the body fat it's not on your own body, ikr. Us women (cis, trans and everyone affected by the impossible beauty standards) finds so hard to be satisfied with our own body. There was I time that I was too skinny, looked me at photos and said "my god i'm too thin my body is horrendous" and now that I've gained some weight I look at this same photos and feel just as bad about my body now.

However, when I am with a lover, this woman that I liked her very much, I see her struggling with her body features and I automatically go just like that reel "so what? om nom nom, bitch! you're DELICIOUS", and she is indeed delicious. My god, she is a fucking goddess. I want to fucking worship her whenever we are together. I want her to choke me to death with those thighs.

But I still see her struggling. I can read between the lines the way she is not satisfied with her body and she's been struggling with diets and calories. Weeks ago, I've invited her over to cook her some dinner - a lasagna - and she said "oh thank you but I'm on a diet" and instantly I've felt bad for offering and also felt bad for her denial, because I know she loves lasagna. I've started to look for some fit/low carb/high protein recipes to cook when she comes over to my apartment again, but idk... I wish I could show her how beautiful she is just the way she is, that she doesn't need to control her calories every time she hangs out, that her body is beautiful just like the way she is now.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to control her diet or body shame her! I really feel bad about my body weight too and I want to change a lot things and etc - the thing is: it's sad how I am so much kinder to her body than to my own, and it also happens all the way around. Most women I know is so much kinder to other than to themselves. It's a paradox, I know, but it's true.

Meanwhile, I see a bunch of men vomiting rules about a woman's body weight, about her features and what she should or shouldn't eat. There's women playing that part also. I hate it. It's very violent, it makes me feeling twice as bad.

I have a friend that suffers with a fucked up body shaming from her whole family - she's completely okay with her body (at least she tries to appears to being ok on the outside), but her mom and her older sister is always infodumping her about crazy diets and what overweight can cause in longtime perspective. I hate it, I want to fucking yell at them to fuck themselves. But still, they are my friend's family and I can't overstep on her own issues.

As a friend, as a lover, all that I can do to them and to myself is try my best to be kind and respect their limits, their choices, and triggers, and limitations.

Idk why I'm even writing this. I hate beauty standards. I love women, they are beautiful. And should be a crime to make a woman feel bad about her own body.

#the secret life of a ficwriter

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100yearsofclexa · 5 days ago

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Caravaggio Chapter 3 - Hit it from the Back (just so you don’t get attached)

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“Before we begin,” Lexa says lowly, her eyes focused on Clarke’s mouth, “I require your verbal consent.”

Clarke nods absently. There’s a small strip of skin between Lexa’s sweats waistband and her plain cotton T-shirt. It’s tantalizing, but that’s nothing compared to the fact that Lexa’s nipples can be seen through the shirt. She’s not wearing a bra. Clarke’s throat works around a swallow, her mouth dry, pulse kicking up so fast it’s hard to even breathe.

“You did mark your acknowledgement in the contract,” Lexa continues; the way she speaks is practiced and automatic, like a script she’s rehearsed a million times, and Clarke’s sure it is. But the way Lexa’s voice seems to shake around the words…that’s not rehearsed. Nor is the way Lexa’s hand lifts, long fingers shifting over the door handle, grazing over Clarke’s and drawing a shiver from her; the touch is electric. “But verbal approbation is required as well. Do I have your consent?”

“Fuck yes,” Clarke breathes without missing a beat.

She barely notices the way Lexa’s drags her eyes down her body, too focused on watching those full lips curl up on one corner, tipping into the ghost of a smirk that has Clarke’s stomach clenching as she distinctly recalls the press of that smirk between her legs.

She’s never been more certain spontaneous combustion is a thing. Also never more certain it’s a real possibility for her.

Especially when Lexa steps closer. Clarke takes a sharp intake of breath. Lexa’s eyes flit to her parted lips before shifting, glancing somewhere over Clarke’s shoulder in the direction of her darkened hallway. “No boyfriend?”

Clarke narrows her eyes, because she’s pretty confident Lexa is fully aware they’re alone here. She’d told her last time that she and Finn were done, plus she’d made no mention of another person when she booked the appointment.

Lexa’s lips curve higher, a challenge in the quirk of her eyebrow, like she just wants to hear Clarke say it.

Clarke tips her head up, eyes deliberately locked on Lexa’s mouth with a challenge of her own. “Just me.”

“And you live alone?” Lexa asks the question nonchalantly, at complete odds with the way she drops her car keys to the floor, and shifts her body so she can close the door behind her. It casts them both in shadow, the only light leaking in from the living room a little ways down the hallway.

Clarke hasn’t had a roommate since she was in her twenties, and only one person has her spare key. Raven's working tonight, so there’s zero chance of any interruptions.

Clarke shakes her head, unable to speak, too busy staring at Lexa’s lips. There’s a palpable tension hanging in the air, thick and heavy. It has Clarke’s hands trembling, has her clenching them into fists at her side just to still them.

Lexa notices the movement, glancing down. She tilts her head as her gaze flicks back up to study Clarke’s face.

Clarke takes a deep, steadying breath that doesn’t quite fill her lungs. “Lexa,” she begins slowly, the warning in her tone not quite landing the way she wanted, considering her voice is strained.

The twinkle in Lexa’s eyes shifts to hunger, and that maddeningly calm curve of her mouth fades, lips parting as her gaze drifts down to linger on Clarke’s mouth. Clarke’s pulse spikes as Lexa leans in, and she barely registers that she has Lexa’s shirt in her fist, tugging her forward. She exhales roughly as warm hands cup her face, thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. Her lashes flutter, eyes crossing in order to watch until the last second as Lexa draws near, the tip of her nose grazing across Clarke’s own. Her lips tingle expectantly, but when a second passes and there’s still no pressure, she blinks dazedly and finds Lexa watching her, eyes dark jade in the low light.

Clarke’s breath hitches as their eye contact holds for a beat, the humid air between them volatile and sparking.

Lexa’s lips brush against her own as she murmurs, “May I kiss you?”

Clarke's hands clutch at Lexa’s waist with a desperation she can’t hide. “You know you don’t need to ask.”

It’s hot, that Lexa still takes the time to make sure she has consent, despite the fact that Clarke is weak-kneed and trembling before her.

Really hot, and really unnecessary.

Clarke doesn't wait for a follow-up. On another day she might have a line in her back-pocket, something to make Lexa’s brows rise. Today, all she knows is this magnetic pull between them, the way her breath falters as their lips brush together once, twice, before pressing firm.

Continue on ao3

#Caravaggio #I don't have enough vocabulary to express the effect that this fanfiction has on me

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100yearsofclexa · 6 days ago

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Caravaggio Chapter 2 - Red Wine Supernova

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"Wait wait, stop," Clarke groans, a hand on the top of Lexa's head to nudge her back. "I can't."

"You can," Lexa encourages, the same way she had the last two times. "One more."

One more orgasm might just kill Clarke, though she thought the same thing two orgasms ago. She shakes her head, pushing Lexa back and snapping her thighs together in front of her face. "Caravaggio."

"Or you can't," Lexa says lightly, immediately backing away. She aims that crooked smile at Clarke. Clarke makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, because she recognizes that smirk now, the challenge in it.

"I really can't. Not until a break, anyway. Which is fine, because…" With more effort than Clarke thinks she's ever given in her entire life, she drags herself upright. Lexa turns glassy-eyed as Clarke's breasts sway with the movement. "You are still overdressed."

Lexa is still wearing pants and a bra, while Clarke has been completely naked for who knows how long now.

Lexa's brow lifts and again, Clarke recognizes the challenge. "So?"

"So I'm going to do something about that."

Before Lexa can say another word, Clarke rolls them over. Lexa gasps, not at the movement but at being flopped into a massive puddle on the bed. Clarke huffs, both in amusement and exertion. Her body is both wonderfully relaxed and sore, but energy returns with every new inch of skin exposed as she pulls pants down long legs. Lexa's underwear seems to be a matching set, the same strappy lines as the bra that look fantastic criss-crossing over her surprisingly curvy hips, but Clarke is in this too deep to get distracted by lingerie. She needs Lexa naked and she needs it now. Needs to return the favor until Lexa's limp and exhausted and that smirk is softened with satiation.

"You know you don't have to," Lexa begins, even as she helps Clarke tug the pants down her ankles. "This can just be about you. This is a service, after all. You paid for this."

"I didn't pay for this," Clarke says, and stills when Lexa does. "I mean, Finn did." Oh! Finn. Clarke's eyes widen as she remembers his existence, but when she glances at the chair he'd been in, she finds it empty. She hadn't even noticed his departure.

"Your boyfriend left," Lexa says, watching Clarke closely.

"He's not my boyfriend anymore." When Lexa raises an eyebrow, Clarke shrugs. "I was going to break up with him today anyway."

Lexa's eyes narrow. "You did know. That he hired me. Yes?"

She gets the feeling Lexa won't like the answer, but she also can't lie, especially when they're locked in eye contact.

"Well…no, but—"

"Wait, what?" Alarmed, Lexa pushes up onto her elbows and makes to get up entirely, but she freezes when Clarke protests and puts her hands on her shoulders to stop her.

"No, no, it's okay—"

"It is not okay. You—"

"No, it is, it's fine. More than fine. You know—you could feel how much I wanted this. Wanted you."

Lexa still looks uncertain and ready to argue. Clarke huffs in frustration again; in one move, she straddles Lexa, rendering her entirely silent and still. Lexa shifts her weight onto her left arm when Clarke takes her right hand and brings it between her legs. Her breath hitches as fingers sift through her, one dipping into her momentarily; Lexa's lashes flutter as her eyes slip to half-mast, her lips parting to allow shallow breaths.

"I wanted this the minute I saw you," Clarke admits.

Lexa just breathes unevenly for a moment, focused on feeling Clarke, on the sounds of her fingers exploring. "I did too," she says after a moment, voice pitched low, and God, it takes all of Clarke's dwindling self-restraint not to roll her hips and ride Lexa's fingers to another orgasm. She needs to touch her, and by the way Lexa's breathing, by her flushed skin and bruised lips and the pupils eating away the thinnest sliver of grey, Lexa needs it too.

read on ao3

Note:

I've decided, since I'm about to publish chapter 3 and officially turn this two-shot into a WIP, that I want to post each update with one of the songs I listened to while writing it.

Next update coming (pun intended) tomorrow!

#caravaggio #FUCKING CARAVAGGIO AAAAAAAAAA #I'm so excited to read it #every now and the. I check my bookmarks looking for any release of a new chapter and Caravaggio was on this watchlist since the announcement #of the third chapter and the little sneakpeaks #I'm craving for what is about to come can't wait to read the moment they meet again my god

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100yearsofclexa · 7 days ago

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SKY GIRL

An old draft where Clarke is a stripper and Lexa is a mysterious client. Yup. Again. However, this draft is totally apart from "Sexy Music & Dollar Bills" universe. Enjoy!

Yo soy tu tóxica (y tú eres mi cosita) I am your toxic babe (And you are my hookup) Yo soy tu loquita (y tú no me lo quitas) I am your crazy babe (and you won’t leave me) De mí tú no te quitas, yo soy tu blanquita You won’t leave me, I am your white girl Yo soy-yo soy la droga que el sueño te quita I am the drug that keeps you awake Smartphone, by Soto Asa feat. La Zowi.

The first time Sky saw her from the aisle, all that she could feel was indifference. Okay, just one more lady trying to understand why the hell her husband lies about working late only to come to this filthy abyss of unclothed whores. But it took only a couple more of seconds ‘till she notices something different: not only the clothes were odd - at minimum - to a supposed jealous wife (she was wearing a suit, that obviously has no similarity with a dress or any girly outfit), also in her posture weren’t a single hint of hunting down an unfaithful husband. She was looking for something indeed, but certainly not a man. However… Not one of the girls also?

Deep in thought, but still very much attuned to her surroundings, Sky checked her matching garment of deep-blue thong and bikini, walking confidently from the aisle near the staff area, towards the pole in the middle of the dance hall. It’s showtime, kids. The clacking of her high heels gave enough warning to her customers and colleagues that she was on the game. The night game. She climbs the stairs to access the stage and subtly the DJ turns down the volume of the background music. The lights around the bar also go dim, besides where Sky is. She waits patiently to the other girls to conclude their smaller performances, hovering the audience with a confident, but discreet, smile. It doesn’t take too long for some men to move from the bar to be nearer. She eyes them.

Her performance is about to begin, she already starts the counting ‘till eight of the music intro, while she takes one more look at the mysterious woman at the bar.

She doesn’t waver, stiff as a board. But she is looking at her.

Okay…

She touches the cold metal slightly, as she could feel some kind of energy in it. She hovers the audience below her again and she doesn’t smile anymore, but in her face there’s a hint of a cocky question: are you ready? The suited men, old ones, bald ones, not so bald and not so old ones too, they seem to be expecting her, but she doesn’t mind them. No, not tonight.

She does a half spin, and stops when her bare back is aligned with the pole, her glutes and thighs slightly separated with the metal bar in between. She goes down bending her knees, slowly, swaying, without facing the audience, her fancy blonde locks cascading and it glows under the warm light. She opens her thighs slowly, following the languid rhythm of the latin song’s intro, as the spotlights focus on her center. She glows warmly as a bonfire in the middle of a darkroom, some men howling, mesmerized by the simple movement. She’s just starting.

- You’re beautiful, Sky! - She hears a male voice calling her from afar. Oh, hello, Clive. She thinks when she finds the flatter at the right border below her, winking at him. He holds some money bills.

Sky stands up and hooks the front of her right foot and shin on the pole to gather the impulse to climb it, closing the lock with the inner part of her left leg to keep her fixed to the metal bar as she hops up.

The music follows towards its chorus and only then something seems to catch her attention. The woman starts looking. But, still then, her gaze gives nothing to work with. No lust, no greener nervousness, nothing beside deep observation.

Hmm… Cocky.

The bar is loose and starts spinning on its own. Fixed to the pole with her legs holding her firmly, Sky dislocates the lock point of her legs to her thighs, closing the hook around the pole near her crotch, and stretches her body, so the gravity can work to pull the upper part of her body down. Then, the stripper releases her hands and arches her back all the way to the ground, her head and golden locks near the floor. Still upside down, she snakes her own hands through her body and milky skin, teasing the audience as she hovers her fingers around her chest and cleavage.

Meanwhile the small crowd seems hypnotized by her movements, she looks for the mysterious woman. At this point, Sky already chose her as her personal challenge of the night.

The woman remains just the same. Severe, stoic, flirting with the limits of arrogance and coldness.

Oh, come on, Clarke, obviously she’s a dyke. She thinks to herself, while her body moves (she knows this show by heart for quite long). She flexes her abdomen to reach out the pole and change positions, climbing out the pole to do some dancing. Between spins on her own heels, she moves her body languidly and makes sure that everyone is watching her glorious ass. More whistles and compliments flew through her performance. Meanwhile, Sky observes.

If she is not with someone, even less looking for any kind of husband (or wife)… Why such a look of despise, then? She is near the bar counter, holding a shot of… Tequila, maybe? Which didn’t fit that well with her outfit. Sky is used to suited dykes sipping bourbon on rocks while craving her body with hungry, but lovely eyes. Yeah, she liked those women the most, not only because they were way harder to find here, but she could suppress a little that internal annoyance of being touched by a creepy guy. She would even give them a couple more minutes of a lap dance (only to have a little fun thinking about the possibility of being the muse of an unknown woman for the rest of the weekend). They hardly ever come back, though. Well, it’s primarily a man’s world. Patriarchy, taboo, blah, blah, blah.

When the song reaches the second chorus, Sky chooses a bold move.

She releases completely her grip on the metal bar and catwalks closer to the border of the stage - the audience seems to hold a breath collectively as she gets near them. Her eyes lay for a few seconds in every masculine gaze and she can already feel the hunger in every single one of them - some of them must be hard right now, if you know what I mean. So predictable.

She puts her hands on her thighs and kneels in one, languid movement. She whips her hair to the side and opens her legs even more, as she would be ready to ride the floor itself. Her hands snakes up towards her stomach and the swells of her breasts, caressing them suggestively. The dollar bills start flying.

Once she reaches the clasp of her bikini, and takes the piece off slowly, some of the crowd starts to fucking howl at her.

Her breasts are amazing and she knows it. All full and firm, a single piercing at her left nipple and an intricate tattoo between that beautiful valley of hers.

She discards the piece of clothing discreetly near the bodyguard. (She doesn’t want any creeper stealing again one of her work clothes again, those bikinis are fucking expensive!)

As the next song begins, Sky puts her hands on the floor and distributes her weight in all fours, swaying lazily as a tidal wave. When she arches her chest frontward, displaying one more time her boobs to her audience, more money bills come flying towards her and she thinks that Clive’s newest friend is about to have a stroke.

But she doesn’t mind.

She diverts her gaze to those men and goes right towards the bar. And the mysterious, beautiful, enigmatic brunette is there. Uneventful, holding her shot of tequila near her plump lips as it was her second nature.

Although, she fucking holds her gaze. Her eyes seem to be trained on a target. She remains severe and serious, not in lust, not with nervousness. Just focused.

Sky doesn’t know any longer if the woman despises her or is just watching her performance to pay some respect to the stripper’s work.

Even worse, Sky reads that posture as if the woman fucking owned the place. As if she knew every single one of the strippers and workers and can’t be affected by any of them.

It’s not a newbie gaze, however, she never saw the brunette around that club. She would never forget those eyes.

Who is she?, wonders the blonde, as she walks with extra sway towards the pole.

Besides the fixed gaze, she doesn’t seem affected by any of Sky’s movements.

And more than Clarke is willing to admit, it infuriates her.

(And god, that woman is so fucking hot in that suit.)

When she is just side by side with the pole, she changes her mind - she’s not climbing the metal bar again. Not yet. She wants to play dirty tonight.

(All of that for a sassy, mysterious woman, Clarke? Really?)

(Maybe It’s the hormones, Clarke reasons with herself. Am I ovulating?, oh fuck it, put yourself together, Clarke, please.)

She holds the pole for balance, only, and starts moving her hips again. Suggestively, while spinning on her heels around the bar. She alternates between some twerking and wave movements. Her ass cheeks slaps each other and the audience is by this time in a deep trance with her sways.Her milky skin seems to glow as the moon with the blue light that hovers around the stage. And her breasts, my god. Nipples hard - she says that it’s because of the air conditioning -, she sighs heavily as if the audience could hear her breathe. As if the whole club itself were a lover at this moment.

She enjoys performing, after all.

It’s the best part of her job: being the center of attention, being wooed by rich men and lovely women. And the money of course.

And here and there, the challenge of trying to break some cold-heart pricks that appears.

Tonight, the brunette is the target.

Her performance is almost ending - and she has the best part to reach, the highest point of it.

After some spins around the pole, she walks again towards the board of the stage and stays there, with one single piece of clothing covering her intimacy - actually, can you consider that she’s still dressed minding the fact that she’s wearing only a blue thong and the rest of her body is all showing?

There’s enough dollar bills on the stage floor to be swiped out using a freaking broom. And it doesn’t stop the audience to throw even more at her.

She feels gigantic. The hottest woman of the world, just there, standing, facing the crowd as she owns it.

During the last piece of the last song, Sky strips out from her thong with her ass facing the crowd, tilting up her hips as the last piece of garment slides through her things and legs. The audience cheers. She stays with her behind towards the howling men, holding her thong with her left hand by the tip of her fingers. She eyes back the woman from her left shoulder.

The brunette is still watching, but now her glass shot is empty. And her bee-stung lips are slightly open.

When Sky turns to the crowd, finally revealing her cunt to her audience now in an uproar, she lifts slowly the hand that holds the blue thong at the woman’s direction and let it fall purposely on the floor, staring directly at her with a feral gaze.

That’s it.

Sky notices that this move seems to affect, finally, the woman. She closes her mouth and tightens her jaw, shifting it in a short left-right movement.

She sees her swallowing a dry lump.

Meanwhile the crowd keeps clapping and screaming, Sky gives a beautiful, confident smile. Some of the men might think that she is smiling at them.

But little they know that she is smiling at her own personal challenge.

She calls it a victory.

When the lights go out, Sky collects her clothing from the floor and her bodyguard is agile enough to help her to get the dollar bills and follows her to the dressing room.

Before leaving the stage for once, from the blackout of the stage, she looks at the woman - the bar still has its lights on.

She catches her making a sign with her hand to the bartender for two more shots.

She stands up from the stool and seems to whisper something to the bartender while sliding a money bill towards him on the counter.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

#clexa #clexa au #clexa fanfic #100 years of clexa #stripper clarke #stripper au #mysterious client lexa #you honor I have a thing for strippers and there's an specific reason for it besides a kink only #we all know that lexa is playing the cold heart bitch but she IS thirsty right?#is this somehow a smut study?#smut study #i did some pole dancing classes one year ago but I remember very few movements I'm sorry if the description is poor #it's too late now that i'm addicted to write clexa stuff inspired by latin music #based on the reception of this draft MAYBE and only MAYBE i'll give it a part two #the vibe of this draft is completely different from my other stripper au because this time not only lexa is a client but also clarke #has a different stripper name and persona and its focused on a more mysterious atmosphere #i wanted to explore the stage performance itself and the effect of the dance more than the background relations of a stripclub

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100yearsofclexa · 7 days ago

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PSA: AO3 HAS BEEN INFECTED WITH AI BOT COMMENTS.

Have you seen one of these dipshits? If you post regularly on ao3, chances are YES, but more likely you didn't notice nor suspect it was a bot. Sometimes they start off nice, or even praise you before getting nasty out of nowhere, like so:

But much like Grok, their newest obsession is nazism.

I don't know where they come from, or what purpose this could possibly serve other than suicidebaiting random people in the internet, I guess; but apparently they've started parroting names from real users to send these comments and shifting their general length to go by undetected. Maybe those are scrappers trying to train 'reviewbots' to be sold as part of some scam service promising to give feedback for newbie writers, who the fuck knows.

Here are more examples of the tone and backhanded compliments you can find in these:

If you regularly post on AO3 or interact with writers in it, please pass this along so they don't feel insane receiving bombs in their inbox. This is ridiculous.

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100yearsofclexa · 8 days ago

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My older sister is paying me to stay with our mom at the hospital. Since I've quit my job and came back to my hometown without any kind of financial support and barely any savings, we agreed of me taking most of the shifts at the hospital so I can have some money to pay my debts (shout out to my credit card which is about to explode), instead of having even more expenses with professional caregiver.

So, I give my best to stay here most of the time.

The funny thing is: whenever I want to buy a little something at the hospital's cafeteria, I ask her "hey sis, can you gimme some bucks to buy a croissant and a coffee?" she never denies it and whenever I finish my shift I bring one of those for her.

This afternoon, I texted her as usual, asking for a croissant and a (bad) coffee.

She answers whit the following image:

For those who don't know, our dear Marx sent a bunch of letters to Engels asking for money. The guy couldn't find any job (guess why) and Engels literally provided him money and resources to Marx's studies and also his entire family.

I can't stop laughing, for fuck's sake.

My sister is the Engels of my Marx. 😭😭😭

#Btw the cafeteria is closed for maintenance till 5pm and I'm STARVING for a croissant I still have to wait a little AAAAA #the food from the hospital where my mom is staying is surprisingly delicious #me and my sister have a dream that soon enough she will have enough money to sustain her broke-academic pseudoDJ little sister (me)#I'm praying every day for it #the secret life of a ficwriter

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100yearsofclexa · 8 days ago

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Clarke's drunk letters

{trigger warning for alcohol abuse, mentions of anxiety crisis}

Arkadia, 1971.

Comrade Lexa,

Commander Lexa,

My commander Lexa,

[◼️◼️◼️◼️]

My love,

I miss you.

I want so badly to

[unreadable scribbles]

There's a famous poem from E. E. Cummings called "I Carry Your Heart with Me (I carry it in". I rewrote it in a piece of paper and kept fixed on my fridge with that magnet you gave me from your trip to Spain. I wonder where you are now. [____]

I don't think if this letter will ever reach you and [unreadable scribbles]

Clarke gulps heavenly some cheap wine from an ordinary glass - she doesn't have time to be fancy and pour it on a proper wine glass. She did not want to appreciate the liquid, instead, she wanted to be drunk enough to feel something, anything. There are at least three bottles of wine and other qualities of liquors over the table, along with books, pencils, brushes, oil paints, other discarded letters, old splotches from previous drinking nights.

Whenever I have to get something from the fridge, I read it all over again - or just few verses, whatever. I can feel it everywhere in my body and my soul. You absence make my bones ache and I hate it because I wish I could block this feeling and

And I've never felt this emptiness, not since you vanished. I thought I would carry your memories with me to keep my shit together - in some kind of attempt of having at least a glimpse of your beautiful heart that once was mine, but, in fact, you are carrying mine. Pounding soundly in your hands. Thick and warm blood sliding between your long fingers.

Once I thought I've felt this emptiness in reason of not having my heart in place. I was wrong.

This emptiness dues to the fact that I have a hole in my chest that does not fit my heart any longer - it will forever and ever remains being yours; this... Fuck it Lexa it's impossible to me to talk with people properly about how much I miss you [unreadable scribbles] I'm so tired of writing those stupid letters, since doesn't matter what I do, I can't get you out of my system for once and all and

I miss your arrogance, comrade Lexa.

I miss kissing you in the dark.

I miss the way your eyes shine with excitement when you talk about your recent readings on Das Kapital.

I want to paint a canvas of you again.

[unreadable scribbles]

[splotches of ink]

[◼️◼️◼️◼️]

This disruption inside of me... Saint Augustine once said somewhere we all had a god shaped-hole inside ourselves, but, as an atheist that I am, I cannot agree with that first assumption - however, I must re-appropriate that to my reality.

I have a hole in me, in my chest, shaped with your features and curves.

And I even carved it deeper using my bare hands - torturing myself while thinking of you - with the shape of your own heart.

Which is not here anymore.

Clarke drops the pen and covers her face with her palms trembling. She is nervous and in the verge of an anxiety crisis. She sighs heavenly and blinks once, twice. The whole room is spinning now. After a few minutes breathing deeply, she manages to gather some consciousness about her surroundings. Everything seems to be in the right place. Except that she's not. Clarke grabs the pen again, at the far side of the table, and returns to her writing process.

I wish we'd met in a different way, a different time.

Where we would owe nothing to our people - I wish I'd met you during a class or during an exhibition at an art gallery... Maybe in a filthy bar. We could be just two women hanging around, without the fear of them catching us.

I would give up on you if that meant that you would be back, I swear.

I wish we did not loved each other so much.

[Unreadable scribbles]

I hope they did not catch you.

I hope your lack of response is just that asshole you call husband trying to forbid you of reaching me.

I'm still waiting for your orders, comrade. You better have an awesome-political-strategy to escape this shit hole you put us into.

I'm still waiting for you to come back to me.

I love you.

I miss you.

[Unreadable scribbles]

[splotches of ink mixed with wine and tears]

Clarke crumples the letter in one abrupt movement, holding it inside her hands with a vice grip that makes her knuckles white. She brings her clenched fists to rest at her forehead and breathes again. In and out. In and out. In and out. She releases the hold of one hand, and reaches out the lighter that she kept inside her pocket. She puts the letter, now shaped into a paper ball, on the table. In a mechanic, cold movement, she uses the lighter to set the thing on fire. It doesn't take long for the paper burn completely into ashes, meanwhile another flames starts to form as the fire spreads through the other inflammable objects around it. The letter, the pencil, even the corner of a book. It all burns and slowly turns into a bunch of ashes in front of Clarke's blue, teary eyes. The basement where she is hidden for all these weeks remains cold and silent as ever.

#clexa au #100 years of lexa #I don't even have a title for this wip yet but lets call it the universe of 70's revolutionary clexa #anarch clarke #commie lexa #70's clexa #in my mind Clarke thought Lexa was kidnapped and she is trying to write as a coping mechanism since our beloved comrade is out of reach #she is afraid that Lexa is being tortured and they can try to track Clarke through her correspondence that's why she burns it #but fear not we all know that this pure ball of anarchist rage will burn the whole TonDC too just to find her lover if necessary

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