#messiahgriffin

Clarke wants to hug and kiss her oh god

moodboard meme     status: accepting             for messiahgriffin

maybe lexa let her use it since clarke brought her the braid

i hate you

send me five times kissed and i’ll write about five kisses our muses shared

status: accepting, highly selective

       ɪ.

         this is nothing but an answer for everything you had been asking         yourself since you learned what he felt for her; a way for you to         sate the curiosity that had you wondering if her lips were sweeter,         if her touch was softer until you could see nothing but your own         rough edges. you don’t hate her for something that is not her fault,         but you have to know for yourself, and so you wait until the fire          grows dim to find her. she seems confused when your hands          find the sides of her face and your lips crash together, even if         your eagerness makes up for her hesitance, and it’s nothing         like you would have imagined, but you don’t try to process this         right away. what you don’t say when you pull away with bruised         lips and ragged breath is that you can understand why someone         would grow  a d d i c t e d  to this.

       ɪɪ.

         the terror of losing your center of gravity sticks to every inch of         your skin like the blood & dirt you are covered in, heart thrumming         in your chest at the perspective that there is nowhere left to run.         your faith lies with her, as it has from the moment you saw how         she could carry the world on her shoulders as if it were no burden,          and you allow her to become your guidance, trust her enough to         place his (and, consequentially, your own) fate in her hands. no         one else would understand as well as she did, and even though         the thought used to be enough to make your heart feel like a sinking         anchor, it’s comfort now, because you need people who are willing         to fight, and fight is all she has under her skin. you value her, and         it’s the reason your throat dries when you see her in his arms,         unconscious & defenseless, a sharp reminder that she is human         too. you won’t be able to save him without her, but this is about         losing clarke too, and you’re not prepared for either outcome. if         he’s your center, she’s your north, and maybe it’s out of gratitude         that your lips find themselves pressing against her forehead once         she starts regaining consciousness, the rag you’d been pressing         to her wound ignored in favor of displaying how glad you were that         she was alive.

       ɪɪɪ.

         loss is both a tie that pulls you two together as it is a strain that         pushes you apart, grief clouding your every sense until there is         nothing left but blind hate surging through your veins. you blame         her, you have to blame her to cope, except this couldn’t be called         coping at all, and it’s not until blade sinks deep within your skin         and suffering is displayed in front of your eyes that you’re forced         to understand what she did. you wish that you could make the         blood staining her hands to be her crime rather than understand         clarke is another victim, knowing she was left with nothing but         impossible choices, and though you can’t quite forgive her, you         can’t forgive yourself for being powerless either. it changes her,         and how could it not? her every defense is raised, walls built up         to surround and protect her from this ever happening again even         if you know they do nothing but keep anyone else from seeing her         suffering. you know this from experience. it’s something between         respect & compassion that makes you unwilling to tear them down,         because you know there is no right way to cope, but you need to         leave an impression different than your knuckles on the side of her         face. tender isn’t something you’re that good at anymore, but you         try, more to prove to yourself that you’re not entirely lost than for         her, lips brushing against the fresh bruise you’d left earlier as a         display of the things you’ve learned. it’s not forgiveness, but you         can’t deny her your understanding.         

       ɪᴠ.

         war has made you both hardened, forced your skin to grow tougher         until nothing else could bury underneath it, and while you understand         no one goes through all that you went without having scars to show for         it, it scares you to think she might have shed her humanity in favor         of easing the weight of her crown. the princess had long been left         behind; she is a queen in her own right, and though it is what your         people have desperately needed, you wonder if she still feels lost.         you don’t want to make her grow vulnerable again, but what was it         that brought her here if not love? ‘growing pains’ unfairly undermine         the suffering you have all gone through to reach this point, but it         feels as if her growth had cruelly stolen something vital from her.         you often wonder if there is still softness under skin that has been         bruised and scarred until she could teach herself to become numb         to anything else. it scares you, and this time, your lips against hers         are a plea, soft and forgiving, a cry that says, come back home, it's         safe now. you never thought that you'd be this miserable when she         doesn't answer.

      ᴠ.

ask about raven's attraction to youstatus: accepting

clarke would probably have to dissolve gravol pills in her coffee to get her to sleep