#it's giving CI Lexa at a meeting

[butmakeitgayblog]

Christmas Angel 🪽

[butmakeitgayblog]

Can I flip the anon question? What are those moments where CI Lexa finds Clarke adorable? :3

Honestly when Clarke is just being entirely too much Clarke for anyone's own good lol

Because see, on the flip side, Clarke is an extremely tactile partner. Clarke is the wife who kisses and holds hands everywhere they go. Who will curl herself up into Lexa's side like a little mangy cat desperate for love. Who will just open herself up whenever Lexa feels like silently crawling into her lap and draping herself all over Clarke for no reason other than to feel close. Clarke's loving side with her is kind of their baseline, so it's when she does things that surpise Lexa that really grab her attention.

Something as stupid as Lexa being gone for a business trip and aching for that familiar touch that usually fills her days, so in a moment of weakness she texts "I'm in a meeting that's so boring I want to kill myself. Entertain me, my darling? Send a video of you pleasuring yourself. I want to watch."

It's her favorite thing to do in these stuffy meetings. The baited breath and anticipation making her antsy, crossing and uncrossing her legs because Lexa truly hates being patient when it comes to watching Clarke get off.

Only to click open the goddamn video... and find her wife sensually eating a slice of fucking pizza, making those obscene moans and biting her lips and licking her fingers like its the most erotic experience of her life.

And it's so stupid. It is so fucking stupid, and yet such a perfectly asshole-Clarke thing to do it has Lexa hiding a smile behind her fingers so that the very boring businessmen peppered around the conference table don't realize that she's not, in fact, just the emotionless cutthroat head of the Woods' Empire. That she's actually just a woman hopelessly in love with the same fucking idiot who has kept her on her toes every day since the first second they met.

That's what does it for Lexa. Because Clarke is a lot of things: ruthless, cruel, unyielding and filled the most delicious kind of ill-intent. She loves more fully and wonderfully than she gives herself credit for, and is forgiving even when Lexa's not sure if she deserves it. But what keeps Lexa falling in love over and over again, what makes Lexa's heart pound, is the brightness in her. The silliness, the funniness, how clever she truly is. It's the playfulness that she keeps hidden behind the darkest pieces of her heart that only Lexa is ever allowed to see

[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?

/////////////////////

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.

[butmakeitgayblog]

I feel like Cruel Intentions Lexa often sits down and then remembers her wife is both an ass woman and a biter. And it is both annoying and endearingly arousing. CI!Clarke just has to bite what's hers and that's that 💁‍♀️🍑💞

It's actually quite a problem when they first started dating. Especially at work.

Because every time she goes to sit in her chic but not overly comfortable office chair she has to swallow a hiss at the burn. At the tantalizing ache that snaps through her from the more tender spots where Clarke had gotten a little overzealous, a little possessive and greedy in their lovemaking.

Because when they're not fucking like sweaty depraved animals, that little rascally vagabond she calls a girlfriend can actually be deceptively sensual. She likes coaxing Lexa on to her stomach so she can kiss swirling lines up and down and her spine. Likes running her lips her over the dimples that sit at the base of Lexa's back, sweeping her palms over the cleft of Lexa's ass, nibbling bites along her hips as she strokes lazy circles around Lexa's clit from behind.

It's not that Clarke can't be ruthless because she can and she does, but the times that Lexa finds herself the most marked up, the most unable to sit still, shifting from one side to the next in her mid morning meeting, are the times when she's at Clarke's mercy in an entirely different way. When soft lips give way to the faint scrape of teeth. When Clarke takes lovebites just a little too far. When she bites down and holds on just to feel the muscles beneath her teeth clench, just hear Lexa moan at the thought that she'll feel it tomorrow. Just to watch her writhe against the fingers working between her thighs as she ruts helplessly against their sweat soaked mattress

[butmakeitgayblog]

What’s the dogs name?! So so cute. Also, I’ve been rereading CI on AO3- what’s the age difference between lexa and Clarke? did Clarke always have a crush in lexa or vice versa? Or did feelings just develop? I hope you’re feeling better!

Edit, this was supposed to be about CI I'm just illiterate apparently, so now it's about CoA. Humiliating.

----

Thank you lovely💕

Uh weeeeelll 😬 technically the age difference is about, oh.... couple thousand years? Give or take a half a few centuries? 🥴 That's always the "eh fuck it" reality of the situation between them: to the outside world Clarke looks a good decade older than Lexa, real cradle robber material, but in reality Lexa is the older being in the relationship. Yes, she's new to humanity and thus, there is a learning curve to be had there. She doesn't have the same foundations as a normal human would so she spends a good portion of her first decade on earth playing catch up of sorts. But when it comes more grand-scheme things, things like forgiveness and tolerance and so on that the majority of humanity struggles to become, she has that down pretty solid by nature lol.

And I mean, the other stuff that's pretty much the entire first chapter 😅 Lexa was in love with Clarke from a distance for a long while before letting herself be seen by Clarke. And then when they do officially meet, Clarke feels an instantaneous attraction and connection to her that she couldn't quite explain. It was just that feeling of relief. Like, "Oh... There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Despite Lexa being rather strange 🥴

[butmakeitgayblog]

I'm thirsty for anything CI I've been waiting for morally grey clexa all my life. for how long has Clarke been pining there before the whole bet debacle thing?

They've both been thirsting since day one 😂

///////

She moves in on a Thursday.

An extremely boring Thursday where the summer heat has already had you rolling up your sleeves and discarding your stifling embroidered sweater.

You walk in to the penthouse amid the chaos, staring blankly at the trunks and movers jostling about the length of the first floor of your apartment.

You'd forgotten the little rugrat and mommy dearest were arriving today.

Books and Italian leather bag get tossed on the kitchen countertop because if any one of these fucking mouthbreathers touch them, the next breakfast you'll be enjoying is their head.

You hear your shiny new stepmother giving commands somewhere off in the distance to your left and your feet instinctually have you pivoting in the opposite direction. Blissful silence meets you as you cross through to the sitting room and shut the doors behind you with a snap.

A sigh escapes your chest as you slump into one of the couches, legs flung out at odd angles and an arm draped over your eyes.

It's a shame no one's there to appreciate the drama of it all.

You consider going to find your father and recreate the scene to make your unhappiness more known, but you're just as quick to dismiss it. Not when you might run into the hell bitch again.

God knows if your father's even home.

Just as you start working out the finer details of a future tantrum, the soft click of footsteps catch your attention toward the stairs.

You sit up with a frown as the sound grows louder because you're just spoiling for a fight with whatever lucky customer is about to cross your path.

But then a shiny black pair of mary janes crests the wind of the stairs and you pull up straight because oh.

Those mary janes are connected to some of the longest goddamn legs you've ever seen and you're about to choke on your tongue when you catch a flash of loose plaid. And hips sway with each step as a literal fucking goddess steps down from the last step into the room.

She's still wrapped in the trappings of her prep school uniform, save for the first few buttons being undone on a white collared shirt and a skirt rolled so high you know it can't be regulation. She looks more than good in the foreign black and red of her school skirt compared to the drabness of your school's blue. And her shirt manages to hug just tight enough to her body it's a wonder how her fellow classmates get any work done at all.

She's fucking delicious as she pushes a kempt mane of brunette curls from her neck, cheekbones high and a jaw you're fairly certain could cut marble. And she regards you with cool grey-green eyes. Eyes that you notice trail over you in a slow sweep.

"I presume you're Clarke?" the goddess asks as she glides over in elegant steps.

You curse the way you awkwardly stumble to your feet.

"You're Alexandria?"

It's an extremely attractive mystery as to why her face darkens.

"Lexa will do fine," she says and lets her eyes roam the room, spies the sealed doors behind you before looking back. "So you're the one who actually lives here?"

"You're the one's who's squatting in my guestroom now?" you bite back just as quickly because the way she said it felt like an insult in some way you can't name.

But rather than recoil, her eyes sharpen. Turn interested and alert as she stares you down. Her head ticks to the side and it's unnerving how you feel so much under her scrutiny when she's barely moved a muscle.

She smells expensive and dangerous when she steps into you. You relish the pleased lift of her brow and the wicked bend of her lips when you don't give up an inch.

"Tell me, how old are you, Clarke?"

The click of your name on her tongue damn near has you wobbling at the knees.

"Sixteen in a couple months."

Her face falls in disgust. "You're fifteen?" she asks as though it's a personal offense to her being.

Back puffed like a pissed off house cat and claws aching to come out, you take a step further into her space. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No," she says with a boredom. Though you don't miss the way the dark of her eyes drift down to where you've unbuttoned your shirt too. "I just wouldn't have guessed."

And oh you can't help the smug look on your face.

Puberty has been kind to you.

"And how old are you exactly?"

She gives you wry smile and taps a finger to your nose.

"Entirely too old for you."

She's gone before you can even close your mouth with how indignantly you're fuming and okay maybe you actually fucking hate that bitch now.