Hi, I don't know if you're taking prompts but I just read your scene about Andrew being there in Baltimore and it was amazing so I wanted to ask you to write something about Andreil + neck kisses, because I feel like this is a Very Important plot point that was not fully explored. Like maybe Andrew coming to terms with the fact that it's actually his favorite thing, and not knowing how to ask for it? Ugh I just finished rereading the series and I can't get enough of these stupid boys 🦊
(Thank you so muuuuch, and also I totally agree tbh)
He hates the way Neil always pauses to kiss at the hinge of his jaw on the way to his neck. It’s like a check point, the sweet press of a power button, and Neil doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. He kisses with his whole face too, dragging down over Andrew’s bottom lip and chin and throat with his eyes closed, like he’s too in love with the experience to even look.
It’s killing Andrew. It’s stoppering the air in his lungs and giving him stomach ache with how bad he wants it. You like it. I like that you like it.
Andrew hates that he likes it, the vulnerability of that bared neck. It feels like a mistake every time he does it, but it also kind of feels like he’s taken the first shots of the night and he can’t stop, like the more he drinks the thirstier he gets. Neil is such a mistake, but he’s so so easy to make.
Kissing — like this, with the covers pushed down and Andrew on his side with his hand up Neil’s shirt — feels inevitable. He can’t stop pushing up Neil’s springy cowlicks and Neil can’t stop fumbling down to Andrew’s neck and sucking. It’s so humid and nervy-tense between them, like it’s never been, like Neil is singlehandedly dangling Andrew off of a rooftop.
Neil passes his tongue over that root of Andrew’s jaw and Andrew makes a noise so low that it sounds wounded. He just barely keeps his hands from forcing Neil closer, chasing that moment where Neil can’t help himself, circulating between mouth and face and neck before Andrew directs his attention elsewhere. He just wants to stay in that circuit with his hands open and his head tilted back.
Andrew’s fist must go too tight in Neil’s hair because he pulls back frowning, lips red.
“Sorry,” Neil says. “Carried away.” He looks troubled by this, like he’s not used to being carried away by things that aren’t arguments.
“No,” Andrew starts, and then stalls out. His hand is still in Neil’s hair. He doesn’t know how to ask for this; doesn’t even know if he wants to.
“No?” Neil repeats. “Okay.” He leans back and off of Andrew, passing one hand through his own hair and undoing Andrew’s work messing it up.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” Andrew says, and the way he’s exposed is too much — shirt pushed up in the tousle to pull Neil on top, hard and marked up.
“In my experience, no means stop,” Neil says evenly.
It’s exactly what he wants to hear, he realizes suddenly. Neil finds this humiliating way of giving Andrew what he wants without looking like he’s considered it at all.
Ugh I am honestly so tired of people over analyzing every single ship. Like seriously?? What happened to platonic relationships and friendships? Why does everything have to be in a romantic context? Why can't two characters love and support one another without it being romantic? 'Omg they looked at each other true love!!!' My goodness. You're grasping for straws. Let two characters be friends.
Also me, looking at my OTP:
Why I Think Them Standing Next To Each Other in This Five Second Scene Is Foreshadowing Them Becoming Canon: a 4000 Word Analysis by Me
You're right, probably there are more people, but over time it's getting harder to find blogs dedicated to Clexa, and I know I shouldn't feel this way, but seeing everyone moving on it makes me feel like somehow they are betraying us (stupid, I know) and you're one of the few who stick with us. Ugh, but maybe I'm just angry 'cause I can't move on. I feel stuck. Sorry.
Hey don’t worry buddy. I know that there are many others who still blog at least 90% about Clexa. And yeah, I had to unfollow some other blogs cos I started to see too much unwanted content and that is totally fine. I will keep reblogging the same old gifset of Clexa in the forest and the same photoset of them in the bow scene because Clexa to me was like the OTP of OTP’s. I had many other OTP’s but Clexa hit me like a thunderstorm and branded me forever and I will always love them so fucking much. Maybe I’ll change my blog in the future, no matter how far or close that moment is (if that moment ever comes,) but my fealty belongs to Clexa, know this Anon. I am always going to be Clexa. And you don’t have to feel bad for not moving on as others are doing, because if that makes you happy no one can tell you otherwise, and if they do, they can fuck themselves. Don’t be sorry for that Anon, don’t be ashamed and shout loud and clear that you are a Clexakru!!!
This is so extra™ but is there any way you could write a smut fic as a continuation of the last scene with Alex and Maggie, where they're both incredibly turned on by each other and they can't help but get it on at the DEO
“So, arm candy, huh?”
“I mean have you looked in a mirror lately, Danvers?”
“Ugh, not lately, god Maggie, I probably look like hell.”
Maggie stops walking and Alex almost stumbles, but Maggie steadies her as she looks up at her gravely.
“You look perfect, Alex Danvers. Perfect. As always.”
Alex’s eyes flit down to Maggie’s lips, and Maggie is a detective.
So she detects.
And she bites her own lip and tries not to gulp.
Alex is a secret agent.
So Alex notices.
“Maggie,” Alex whispers, and her voice is ragged, and Maggie needs her.
“Tell me, Agent Danvers. Does being so newly reinstated mean you’re opposed to um… reminding your girlfriend what it’s like when you go rogue?”
Alex practically growls, and Maggie swoons.
“Say for example… right now? I mean this place has to have supply closets or something, ri – ”
Her sentence is lost as Alex tugs her forward, and if Maggie were anyone else, she wouldn’t notice Susan Vasquez subtly raising an index finger to point Alex in the direction of a room where the cameras were currently experiencing an inexplicable glitch.
But Maggie isn’t anyone else. She sees the gesture, and she mouths her thanks, and Susan just winks.
Alex doesn’t stop tugging on her arm until they’re reached supply room number 237, apparently, and they’re barely through the door before Alex has Maggie pinned against it, chest already heaving with need.
“Color?” she demands, and her voice is as rough as her eyes.
Because she was just almost flung across the galaxy.
She almost just lost this woman staring up at her with soft lips and eager eyes and desperate hands.
“Neon green, Al,” she rasps, and Alex practically lunges.
Her mouth, her teeth, her hands, are everywhere at once – Maggie’s lips, her throat, her chest (because Alex checks in with her eyes and when Maggie whines and nods desperately, Alex makes quick work of her shirt, of her bra), her stomach.
“Fuck me, Alex,” Maggie begs, and Alex growls as she picks her up effortlessly, and Maggie wraps her legs around Alex’s waist and her arms around Alex’s neck and Maggie screams, because Alex is holding her up with one arm and fucking her with the other hand and Alex is biting down onto her neck and Alex is crying and Maggie is crying but both of them keep reminding each other, green, green, green, please don’t stop, more, please, Alex, yes, fuck, more, harder, fuck, Alex, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, mine, mine, mine, mine, and Alex isn’t satisfied with Maggie only cumming once, twice, three times, drenching her fingers and staining her underwear and leaving scratches all across Alex’s upper back.
“Let me get you home,” she rasps, and Maggie nods, and Alex makes a show of licking her fingers clean and Maggie whines and writhes and tries to kiss her, but Alex shakes her head.
“Home,” she says, because she wants to go home, but also because she is home.
Maggie knows, and she steps forward and hugs her, just hugs her, hugs her long and solid and safe and loving.
They might hug longer than they’ve fucked – neither of them are quite sure – but eventually Alex helps her get dressed, lethal fingers suddenly tender again, burning eyes suddenly soft and shy and timid again.
Until, that is, they get home.
Because Maggie glances at the way Alex’s leather jacket is unzipped just low enough that she can start to see her cleavage, and Maggie gulps, and Alex notices.
Of course Alex notices.
And she sweeps everything unceremoniously off the kitchen island and bends Maggie over on top of it.
“All good, babe?” she asks, even though she’s already read the answer in Maggie’s wrecked eyes.
“Don’t stop,” Maggie prays, and Alex promises to oblige. But some business first.
“Be a good girl and strip for me, Maggie,” she orders, and Maggie gasps at the command in her tone, at the confidence in her voice, at the authority in her heady gaze.
The authority, the determination, the audacity, the brazenness, that had been turning her on all day.
And while Alex was in agony – while she herself was in agony – she’d kept it to herself as much as she could.
And they’re both still in agony, but Alex’s roughness is an escape and Maggie’s compliance is a balm, and their skin touching skin is heaven on earth, and they’re safe, safe, safe, safe.
So they use it for all it is, and Maggie strips for Alex slow, strips for her determined, strips for her deliberate. She never takes her eyes off of Alex’s hungry ones, and the nearly feral look on Alex’s face is reward enough.
Enough, that is, until Alex has her begging for more, because Alex has turned her around again, has bent her over again, is slipping inside her again, is whispering how beautiful she is, what a good girl she is, supporting Alex like that all day, is this a good enough reward, how wet she is, how tight she is, how perfect she is, into Maggie’s ear, and Maggie comes completely undone in Alex’s strong, solid arms, backing up wildly against Alex’s strong, solid body.
And when Alex carries her to bed and presses kisses against every hickey, against every birthmark, against every old scar and every new bruise, Maggie knows only one thing in the entire multiverse:
That she is in love with prodigal-DEO-agent-gone-rogue-loyal-daughter-perfect-sister-gorgeous-ruthless-determined-genius-unrelenting Alex Danvers.
And she’s pretty damn sure Alex Danvers is in love with her, too.
Which is why Alex lets her crawl on top of her.
Why Alex wants her to crawl on top of her.
Because after a day of being impenetrable, of being almost worryingly hard-headed, of being a coiled muscle, a veritable force of nature, Alex is in love.
Alex trusts her.
Trusts her enough to let her guard down.
Trusts her enough to believe that letting Maggie give her back what Alex just gave to her doesn’t make her weak and it doesn’t make her less.
It makes her loved.
“You want this, sweetie?” Maggie asks, and Alex just arches her hips up so Maggie can strip her naked.
“Oh, Ally,” she whispers as she catalogues every new bruise, every fresh cut, painted onto Alex’s torso, onto her arms, onto her legs.
And Maggie kisses each one of them, memorizes their locations, their severity, in a map in her mind, so she will know exactly how to move when she does what she does next, what Alex is starting to whine for, what Alex is starting to grind her hips up for.
“Alex, you – “
“Yes, Maggie. Please.”
And Maggie obliges.
She starts slow, but she doesn’t end slow.
She starts soft, but she doesn’t end soft.
Because Alex begs her for more and Alex begs her for harder and Alex begs her for faster, please, please, Maggie, god, fuck, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, fuck just like that, god, fuck, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, please don’t stop, please please please.
She shifts so her thigh is between Alex’s legs, and she groans as Alex grabs at her ass and bites at her shoulder as she pulls her down, harder and harder, closer, closer, struggling to find friction because Maggie’s thigh is so slick with how wet Alex is, and she kisses Alex’s hair and puts one hand behind her head and braces herself with the other and times her movements perfectly with Alex so that proximity, rhythm, outweighs friction and Alex is so wrecked underneath her that Maggie forgets what air is, that she can have this effect on a woman so powerful, so ruthless, that she single-handedly infiltrated and exploded Cadmus’s lair, and that woman cums screaming Maggie’s name and it’s almost more than Maggie can handle, because even without direct pressure, she cums again, too.
“I’ve got you, Ally,” she whispers, kissing her face as Alex shudders through the last waves of her orgasm. “I’ve got you.”
God bless Andy for being a method actor. I'm just now remembering back to the first kiss "couch scene" when Andy inserted a "fuck" when Rick took off the gun belt and "oh yeah"in between kissing Michonne. Of course, our dedicated Richonne sound techs were able to reveal this to us. I just can't with him! What is he doing to the Richonne fandom? Is he going to treat us to some grunts and such in 7.12? What about Danai as Michonne? Just her sighs in the couch scene had me dead.
Let me tell you something. The moans that came out of Andy on that couch killed me more than the actual kissing. I was not prepared for that. And Danai’s little exhales and giant inhales and all their lip-smacking. Ugh. Shout out to our sound techs, indeed, because those flourishes make those scenes that much more intimate. And that was without any sex involved! So when the police ask for my cause of death, just go ahead and play whatever audio comes out of 7x12. Because I guarantee it’ll be my undoing.