#victorystands

                             ‘ i can’t do this, lexa. ’ 

        maybe i am weak. ( but lexa doesn’t know what real weakness is. it’s not staring in the face of love and recoiling because it leaves you vulnerable. i don’t believe that. )

                              i’m not like you. and she’s not sure what that means. she’s not sure if that’s good, and she’s not sure if it’s bad. ( i just want it to be over i want my friends back i want to get them out of mt. weather. ) an alliance would serve them well. an alliance has. but when it comes to drumming up the courage to pluck slim fingers from the bloodied gash which slips itself down the back of lexa’s calf -- accidental, only a reminder of the dangers of the ground -- it all comes to a standstill. and a standstill gives her a moment to think. to breathe. it doesn’t sit well with her.

                               ONE HAND SKATES over bared flesh. tips of fingers are flush against skin, and a thrum of contentedness simmers beneath her ribs. ( for once, she is clarke. for once, she doesn’t lie beside a commander, decked with warpaint and malice, and for a very brief moment, the burden of peace, safety, people, decision, doesn’t hang so heavily on her shoulders. it’s there — hazy and dark in the background of her mind, but it’s nowhere near as overwhelming as it’s grown to be. )

     lexa’s skin is soft. she may strike as battered leather, or lead as the chill of steel in winter that’s had fingers pressed against it to release smudged, whorled prints against it, or she may sound like a glint of brass, iron, fractured carbon, but she is soft. in one swift movement, she draws in, draws close — feels warmth emanating from the body at her side — and presses parted lips against the curve of lexa’s shoulder. tender. calm.

commander sugarbutt: i don’t want to kiss an egg??? commander hearteyes: ok