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historians say they were friendly neighbors 👀

Nightblood

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Her eyes scan the room and take in the luxury of beauty before her. Their faces are all different, and yet unnervingly the same in just gorgeous they are. Striking. Chiseled jawlines sculpted around attractively pinked lips and eyes that glow like moonlight. A sea of finely coiffed hair and skin as smooth as silk, the air rich with expensive smelling colognes and perfume.

Nothing of the sallow look of death or red-tinted stares that Hollywood and her imagination had insisted upon in the days leading up to this night.

Clarke finds herself watching them, her focus sliding between those already paired up among the room. How they speak, how they lick their lips, smiles polite and closed around the edge of their teeth. How they laugh from their chests and lean closer. Always closer. How they brush her lips against ears and whisper things Clarke can only imagine, seeming to revel in the bursts of pink across such fragile human cheeks. How their fingers trace skin with a kind of intimacy that looks intoxicating; as if their whole world is centered on their companion.

It's in her scrutiny of the nuances of all these interactions that Clarke sees her. An angelic face with ghostly greenish-grey eyes already watching her from across the room.

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