#I'd say it's a solid 70/30 in the right direction

[butmakeitgayblog]

Your ask box is always full of bullshit, so I’m going to share my bullshit with you.

Love is:

Having a huge fight with your partner about the fact that you had a terrible day at work and they came home equally as pissed.

You spent a couple hours apart, even trying to sleep in separate rooms.

Then they come to you and tearfully apologize for being a tit while asking you to come to bed.

It’s not the fights that matter… it’s the way you can so easily make up.

🥹

This gives me such intense CI Clexa vibes I'm breathless

Mini snippet?

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You're coming home from a very long day. Been up since 5am and haven't stopped once since your feet hit the very expensive little rug you keep next to your side of the bed to cushion your knees whenever you push Clarke down and bow to her, if you will...

Except you'd had no time for anything that fun that morning, much less any second of the day after because it'd been one meeting after the next. Putting out one corporate fire after the next. Kissing so much concerned stakeholder ass that it was no wonder you'd completely forgotten to even eat lunch. You're pissed and you're exhausted and you're in no mood for anything other than inhaling whatever the cook made for dinner and then draping yourself dramatically across your bed.

Except

Here comes Clarke.

Your beautiful, sensual, exquisite wife.

Hurling a thousand questions at you in rapid fire succession.

Demanding why you aren't also responding to each color swatch as though these are the most important decisions of your life.

Like you should have known to activate some magical energy reserve for when you got home because Clarke was on a deadline for the gallery fundraiser. Like somehow, because you could not give less of a shit in this exact moment if that certain shade of teal looks tacky with the gallery's signature royal purple, that means you do not respect your wife's work.

It— She— You—.... It does not go well.

A decent sized yelling match and a few slammed doors later, you find yourself alone in the bedroom, staring at your tear-brimmed eyes in the vanity mirror right where she had left you with a very thoughtful goodnight wish for you to "go fuck yourself, Lexa" before she'd dismissed herself to the guest suite for the night.

The following hour and.... seven minutes, you count as the number flips from where you lay watching your clock from the dark and loneliness of your too-big bed, are miserable. You regret every word, even if you did kind of mean them at the time. You know you could've been gentler.... maybe. You are just tired and so frazzled with everything going on at work. But you should've done better. Wasn't that what you'd both promised. Should've just pushed through and looked things over with Clarke. Taken the time to explain that of course you care, darling, and that no of course none of it was stupid. It was flattering to know your wife valued your opinion to begin with, right? You should've made that clear. Made plans to go over it over breakfast.

It's a restless hour and... eight minutes now that have you sitting up in bed, dragging your tired bones over to grab your robe with a mental note to set an alarm to call in late to work in the morning, at the exact same time your bedroom door creaks open and that wonderful head of blonde pops in. Red and puffy eyes searching for you in the darkness, frowning at the empty bed, before finding you frozen and halfway toward the door. A sniffle is her only announcement as Clarke walks over and just wraps her arms around your waist. Buries her head in your neck.

"I hate that guest suite."

Skin raising in goosebumps from where she soothingly scratches her nails down your back, you hum an acknowledgment and hold her right back. "Well... You did design it to make people not want to stay too terribly long," you reasons with a stroke of fingers through Clarke's hair. They're sopping wet and ice cold. Which means she'd been crying in the shower for the last hour until all the hot water ran out. "I'm sorry, darling."

Clarke shakes her head. Probably half wipes her nose on your sleep shirt, because she is a barbarian. Yo can't really bring yourself to care. "I was a dick," she says in a muffle of lips against your neck. "I saw how tired you were, and I kept pushing, because I'm nervous about this... But, I don't want anyone to know I'm nervous about it. And if you hated everything, then I knew—"

You know how incredibly hard that is for Clarke to admit. Because it's just as equally hard for you at times. Not the part about valuing each other's input, but about needing or wanting it at all to begin with. It's about doubting herself and her decisions when so much of her life is spent acting and believing that she doesn't need anything from anyone because she's entirely in control of it all.

She's Clarke Goddamn Griffin. Fuck everyone and their opinion.

Except you...

You've always been able to intimately relate to that feeling.

So her bristling reaction to your indifference, her sandpapered words and immediate serrated retorts, it all makes perfect sense now. Neither of you are entirely innocent here, and neither of you are entirely at fault.

Kissing her always makes Clarke feel better.

Taking a few minutes to blow dry her hair makes her feel pampered and cared for, even if she does hate any insinuation of being a princess.

Letting her undress you and tuck you under the sheets just to mold herself to your body with a whisper for you to go to sleep makes her feel in control of her life once again. Because despite all her hard edges, and her brashness, and her passionate anger, your wife likes feeling like she takes care of you.

Like you need her there just to fall asleep after a hard day battling the world.

And she's right, you very much do.