( for all the adjusting she's undergone in her life, you'd think clarke griffin would be an expert right about now. perhaps not on par with contractors, or even half of the people oh so lovingly selected by the nest. but from transitional generation to survival pioneer, from space kid to grounder, from peacekeeping princess to genocidal warlord; she's done her best with the respective scars in her psyche to show for it. and then here — battling the instinctual desire to lean into the comfort of broods and symbiotes, struggling with a newfound definition for mortality, simultaneously manipulating the direct pathway accessible into each others brains and stubbornly clinging to the outward desire of returning home despite that being slowly realized as less and less of a possibility...
she's not. not, and opening her mouth to lie about it; if not outright, then to at least shrug off the question and skirt the truth. but that plan is upset, quite literally, when her feet leave the ground. a strangled squeak of indignance lodges in her throat as clarke registers the switch in orientation, something halfway between what and put me down on the tip of her tongue before being oh so unceremoniously deposited in the pool.
whatever desperate clawing to keep ahold of november she attempts are short and fruitless (how to you dig your fingers into someone's clothes when they're not wearing any???) and with a splash, she's done for; completely submerged only to struggle upright and scrub damp hair out of her face so as to better pierce the downright evil man with her best scowl. clarke's mind is racing, jumping from expletive to revenge plot faster than her mouth can keep up until — bless you, symbiote, for supplying the appropriate amount of scorn in borrowed swear words — clarke eventually lands on vehemently spitting: )
What the fuck.
( though it's really hard to sound all that menacing when you're half-naked and look like a drowned puppy. )
no subject
she's not. not, and opening her mouth to lie about it; if not outright, then to at least shrug off the question and skirt the truth. but that plan is upset, quite literally, when her feet leave the ground. a strangled squeak of indignance lodges in her throat as clarke registers the switch in orientation, something halfway between what and put me down on the tip of her tongue before being oh so unceremoniously deposited in the pool.
whatever desperate clawing to keep ahold of november she attempts are short and fruitless (how to you dig your fingers into someone's clothes when they're not wearing any???) and with a splash, she's done for; completely submerged only to struggle upright and scrub damp hair out of her face so as to better pierce the downright evil man with her best scowl. clarke's mind is racing, jumping from expletive to revenge plot faster than her mouth can keep up until — bless you, symbiote, for supplying the appropriate amount of scorn in borrowed swear words — clarke eventually lands on vehemently spitting: )
What the fuck.
( though it's really hard to sound all that menacing when you're half-naked and look like a drowned puppy. )