#clarke

[foreverbaby25]

[hayaomiyazaki]

Like all of us in this world, I am two men: a self and a non-self. Only by being non-selves can we now survive in our own mortal shrouds we weave around us. And what shall this survival profit us in this day of the mask, in this day of corporation men? What shall the self do then, poor thing, but curl away in from the poisoning wind — and dream? Dream of some Second Coming man himself must bring about, through some vast disobedience and new resurrection?

Penda's Fen — 1974 dir. Alan Clarke BBC Play for Today | S04E16

[livvymd]

Watching Him on Inside (Part 2).

You should’ve put your phone down.

Really.

But instead, you were still scrolling, still reading through tweet after tweet, as if you were trying to torture yourself.

— "Their chemistry is so good, are we sure they’re not secretly dating??" — "George is so different when he’s with her. They have something. I just KNOW it." — "Not to be dramatic, but I would die for them."

You groaned, flopping back against the couch.

This was ridiculous.

George was your boyfriend. Not hers. Not the Internet’s. Yours.

And yet, somehow, Twitter had collectively decided that they were soulmates.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You weren’t jealous. You knew George. You trusted him. He’d even joked about this before leaving, telling you, "If I get a weird ‘ship name’ on Twitter, just remember: I only fancy one person, and she’s sitting right next to me eating half my chips."

And yet—

Your stomach twisted as you watched the screen.

Because there he was again—sitting with her, separate from the chaos, talking, laughing, nudging her with his knee.

You knew that laugh.

You knew that look.

And clearly, so did everyone else.

"Why am I doing this to myself?" you muttered, finally putting your phone down.

But just as you did—

A new confessional popped up on-screen.

George.

His stupid, cheeky smirk aimed right at the camera.

"So apparently people think I fancy her," he said, completely unbothered. "I’ve seen the tweets. Very flattering. Wrong, but flattering."

You froze.

"She’s great," he continued. "We get on really well. But yeah, nah—" He glanced off-camera, grinning. "There’s only one girl I fancy. And she’s probably watching this right now, getting very annoyed at the internet."

Your heart stopped.

Then—

A jump cut to him sitting on the couch, scrolling his phone.

"If you’re reading the tweets, babe, put the phone down," he said, smirking. "You’re not gonna like them."

Your mouth fell open.

The show knew.

They’d edited that in on purpose.

And suddenly, your timeline was exploding.

— "WAIT WAIT WAIT—GEORGE HAS A GF??" — "Not me thinking I had a chance and he’s been taken this whole time 💀" — "Imagine being his gf watching this LMAO she must be FUMING." — "WHO IS SHE. SHOW YOURSELF, QUEEN."

You stared at the screen.

Then at your phone.

Then back at the screen.

And finally—after a long moment—you burst out laughing.

Because of course George had done that.

Of course he knew you’d be fuming.

And of course, because he was him, he had to wind you up about it.

You were going to kill him when he got home.

But first—

You grabbed your phone and texted him.

[You’re the worst.]

A few minutes later, your phone buzzed.

[I know. Love you. ]

[thoughtwriter]

on air - g. clarke

summary -> [ part 2 ] you’re a guest on the useless hotline podcast hosted by your secret boyfriend | george clarke x fem!reader

wc -> 1.2k

WARNINGS -> secret/private relationship, george is smitten

masterlist | main masterlist | requests

george knew inviting you on the podcast was a bad idea.

not because you wouldn’t be great - quite the opposite, actually. you were quick, charming, dangerously funny. the kind of guest that made a podcast episode fly by and rack up views. but because george had a very hard time pretending you weren’t his girlfriend, and the useless hotline was filmed in 4K and recorded with high-grade microphones that picked up everything - including every slip-up, lingering stare, and voice crack.

and right now? he was seconds away from combusting on camera.

you were sitting across from him, legs crossed, mic in front of you, hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows, looking like you didn’t have a secret in the world.

meanwhile, george was sweating. literally and figuratively.

“right, welcome back to the useless hotline,” he said into the mic, trying to sound normal, casual, definitely not like a man who had been up until 2 a.m. last night with the very guest now smiling sweetly across from him. “the show where we help you with your problems, whether you want us to or not.”

“usually not,” max muttered next to him.

you laughed—a soft, familiar sound george had heard a thousand times before, but now it echoed in his headphones like a siren call.

max leaned forward, smirking. “and today we’ve got a very special guest... content creator, chaos gremlin, and george’s—what was it? longtime friend?”

george gave him a look. a subtle but deeply meaningful shut up look. you just smiled and said, “that’s what we’re calling it, yeah.”

you were good at this. at pretending. too good.

george could barely keep his eyes off you. the way your fingers tapped the mic stand absentmindedly, how your lips twitched whenever max made a joke, how you’d glance at george when you were holding back something private - something only the two of you knew. well not just you two but also not the rest of the world.

he was so screwed.

“so,” max said, reading the first listener submission. “this person says: ‘my situationship keeps liking my Instagram stories but never replies to my texts. what do I do?’ classic.”

you leaned in, “oof. see, that’s emotional terrorism.”

george barked a laugh - too loud, too sudden. you glanced at him, amused, and he felt his neck heat up. “sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “just - ‘emotional terrorism.’ that’s gold.”

“tell me I’m wrong, clarke,” you teased, tilting your head.

his full name. dangerous territory. it made his stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t while on camera. “nah, you’re spot on,” he said, but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

max turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “you good, george?”

“yep. yep. great.” you smirked. george wanted to crawl under the table.

the episode went on. more questions. more advice. more jokes. and the longer it went, the worse george got. because you were so effortlessly you. because every time you teased him, he had to stop himself from reaching across the table and grabbing your hand like he always did when you were off-camera. because every time you laughed, he remembered what it felt like to kiss you mid-laughter, tangled in sheets and sunlight.

you reached for your drink, eyes flicking to him mid-sip. that look. the look you gave him when you wanted to be alone. private. quiet. yours.

he nearly dropped his mic. max noticed—of course he did.

“george,” he said suddenly, interrupting whatever nonsense advice you were giving. “what’s going on with you today? you’re being weird.”

george flinched. “i’m not being weird.”

“you’re being super weird,” max insisted. “you’re staring at her like she’s about to float away.” you raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. “am i?”

george laughed nervously. “i’m just - she’s just funny. that’s why she’s here.” max narrowed his eyes. “uh-huh. not because you live together or anything.”

you coughed. george blinked, “we don’t live together.”

max smirked. “not technically. but didn’t you stay at her place last night?” george’s mouth opened. closed. you shot Max a look that could kill.

“wow, max,” you said slowly. “way to make it weird.”

george leaned back, palms up. “can we not do this on air?”

“oh my god,” Max gasped. “you two are actually—?”

“nope,” you cut in smoothly. “still besties. he just likes my cooking.”

“yeah,” George added, voice hoarse. “just... spaghetti and stuff.”

you knew he was remembering last night. the way you kissed him in the kitchen, salt still on your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned from laughing too hard during dinner. the way he picked you up and laid you across the counter, like-

“george,” max said again. “dude. you’re gone.”

“okay, next question!” george blurted, slapping the desk. “this one says: ‘is it a red flag if my boyfriend won’t post me?’”

max raised an eyebrow. “a very fitting question for the current vibe.”

you looked at George. your voice was low, almost teasing. “well, it depends, right? some people just like privacy.”

“yeah,” george said, throat dry. “privacy’s important.”

max squinted. “sure, but like… if you’re dating someone and you’re never in their stories, never on their grid, don’t even get a soft launch - what’s that about?”

you shrugged. “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time.”

“or maybe they’re secretly dating their podcast guest,” max said under his breath. george choked.

you snorted. “i think we’ve veered off-topic.”

george could barely look at you for the rest of the episode. he was red, flustered, and so obviously not okay. the fans were going to eat this up. the clips alone were going to break tiktok. you were cool as ever - effortlessly gliding through the chaos.

but as the outro music played and the red light on the camera clicked off, you finally looked at him properly. the kind of look that said, you’re in so much trouble, but i kind of love you for it.

george leaned toward you, voice low, private, almost pleading.

“i was trying so hard to keep it together.”

you leaned closer, “you did terribly.”

he laughed, soft and warm, “i know.”

you looked over at max, who was pretending to check his phone but was definitely eavesdropping. then you reached over and squeezed george’s hand under the table, a quiet promise between the chaos.

“next time,” you whispered, “maybe we don’t pretend.”

george blinked. “yeah?”

you grinned,“yeah.”

TWITTER

@/uselesshotlinepod - Y’all… there’s NO WAY George and y/n are just “friends.” This episode is wild and you can go watch it now.

i’m on a role rn slayy. feel free to request i get to them within a week of when they are requested

[nefertari-lilys]

We're in 2026 now and, in less than 2 months, it will be 10 years that Lexa is gone.

I was not there on march 3 2016. I only watched The 100 6 years later, in 2022, with my first girlfriend. I cried when they killed her and I was so angry and then i came in the fandom and i learned all that has happened after her death. And I was amazed. I wish I could have been there at the time, crying and fighting with everyone.

But I was not and Lexa was such an important character to me that I knew I had to do something about that. She was the starting point of me thesis work that I wrote about F/F fanfictions and how they represent special spaces of identity construction and expression for queer and sapphic people.

Now I'm watching The 100 again, with others friends and, once again, I'm hit by Lexa's influence in my life and in queer representations in cultural media. I was not part of the fandom back then and all the beautiful things you've done but I wanted to thank you all for that, all the persons who fought, boycotting the show, raising funds, creating the ClexaCon, fanart, videos, fanfictions.

It will be 10 years and we never forgot, we never will. Lexa lived through us and all the fans and fanworks and I think it's beautiful.

I'm glad this fandom exists even if it's not as strong as it was back then.

May we meet again.

[mudshadow]

halves of a whole

[kpforpresident]

Chapter 9: Marigold & Wine

“After Costia- I continued to try. I worked harder to form the Coalition, to merge my people into one. My strength becoming their strength. I thought if I could bring them together through the might of the Commander, we could have peace. Even in the shadow of the mountain, if we were one- things could change. I found myself hoping again when I finally brought Azgeda to heel. 

Another sip of wine as Lexa's fingers trace the pitted stone of the mantle.

"And then you came to Earth. And I lost Anya.”

Clarke flinches at Anya’s name, shame washing hot and fast over her. 

It’s silent for a long minute. Clarke cannot bring herself to speak and break the spell that has fallen over the bedroom. Cannot bring herself to snap Lexa from this trance and send her careening back into the shell that she has built around herself since all those children died. 

Lexa turns over the clay cup in her hand, thumb caressing the lip. A delicate, scarred pointer finger tracing the shiny etching on the side. Lexa swallows another mouthful of wine before setting it down with a click on the stone ledge above the fireplace. She paces away, into the back of her bedroom for a long moment. The fire pops and hisses in the grate as the moments drag on. 

After Clarke has counted to 100 seven times, she cranes her head over the back of the couch, searching for Lexa amongst the flickering black shadows that bunch in the far corners of the suite. Lexa’s voice spills from the far right corner as she emerges from the din, hair brushed from her braids into a mass of curls that cascade over the shoulders, her back. 

Clarke’s mouth dries out as she watches Lexa stalk towards her once again, a  panther cornering her prey. It feels significant that she’s still dressed in the trappings of her office, her pauldron and cape separating her from Clarke in her civilian clothes. Even now, Lexa is otherworldly, different. 

“And then you happened.” 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41552556/chapters/196416141