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reallygroovyninja · 9 hours

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Super excited to find a better way to offer presales. Even if you can't order, I would appreciate a share. I really can't wait to share this project with the world but initial costs with publishing an Indy book are high. Thank you!

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reallygroovyninja · 9 hours

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I am so fucking pissed at AO3 right now. I was getting ready to post a story, and it did a forced logout, and I lost everything I had set up.

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reallygroovyninja · 23 hours

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Chapters: 18/18 Fandom: The 100 (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa Characters: Clarke Griffin, Lexa (The 100), Becca (The 100), Finn Collins, Anya (The 100), Raven Reyes (The 100), Octavia Blake Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Minor Finn Collins/Clarke Griffin, Therapy, couples therapy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Clexa Week 2021, wanna bet Summary:

After a rocky two years of dating, Clarke makes an appointment with a counselor for couples therapy to try to save her failing relationship with Finn… but he doesn’t show up. She is about to leave when Lexa walks in, late for her own therapy appointment. In an attempt to salvage the situation for both of them, Clarke suggests that they attend her appointment together. Lexa bets her that the therapist will know right away that they aren’t actually in a relationship.

With a hundred bucks on the line, who will come out the winner?

For Clexa Week 2021 - Day 2 - Wanna Bet?

Content Warning: Later chapters discuss past trauma, mental health issues, and alcoholism in relation to a secondary character.

Rating, tags, etc. are subject to change as story progresses.

You can see the associated moodboard here.

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Chapter 18

One Year Later

“Well?” Clarke asked, holding her hands out at her sides and doing a little spin. “What do you think? Think she’ll like it?”

Picasso raised one eyebrow, then the other, like she was seriously considering the question. After a moment she lifted her head from her paws and ran her tongue out in a doggy grin.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Clarke said. She leaned down to scratch the dog behind the ears, then pulled back because if she got within a ten-foot radius she would instantly be coated in hair… but Picasso’s look of bewildered betrayal had her on her knees, ruffling her golden fur and pressing a kiss to her forehead, right between her big brown eyes. She even accepted a few kisses in return, tipping her face up so at least the dog’s long, slobbery tongue only got the underside of her chin. “Sorry,” she said, standing up to get out of range. “There’s only one tongue allowed in my mouth besides my own, and it’s not yours.”

If a dog could pout, Picasso did. Clarke had thought she’d known the meaning of the phrase ‘puppy-dog eyes’ before. Then she’d been introduced to Picasso, a young Golden Retriever who’d never done anything wrong in her life except develop a health condition her family couldn’t afford the surgery to treat. They’d surrendered her to the shelter where Anya worked (and where Clarke, along with a crew of almost a dozen volunteers, had painted a mural over the summer, which had increased foot traffic, and adoption rates, significantly) hoping they would be able to find her a home where she could receive the care she needed.

As promised, Anya had been keeping an eye out for a good 'starter dog’ for Clarke, and she’d thought Picasso might fit the bill. It had been love at first sight, and Clarke had agreed to take her as a foster post-surgery, allowing her to convalesce in comfort rather than in a kennel. The shelter had found a veterinarian willing to do the surgery at a significantly reduced cost, and Clarke’s tax refund had covered it, though she’d disguised it as an anonymous donation through the GoFundMe the shelter had set up for her care.

The dog had been in her house for less than forty-eight hours before Clarke called up the shelter to tell them not to bother looking for a new family for Picasso, making herself an official foster failure.

She had zero regrets.

“Lexa’s going to be here any minute,” she said. “I’m going to get your Kong out of the freezer, but you have to promise to stay in the kitchen when you eat it. I don’t need peanut butter all over everything. Do you promise?”

Picasso, whose ears had perked at the mention of her favorite treat-filled toy, bounced to her feet, doing a little dance that involved weaving around Clarke’s legs and leaving large amounts of herself behind. Clarke sighed, but she didn’t really mind. That was why they’d invented lint rollers, right?

She followed Clarke downstairs and into the kitchen, sitting without being asked while Clarke rummaged around in the freezer until she found the toy. “Do you promise not to make a mess?” Clarke asked, holding it just out of reach. Picasso stared intently at her prize, a string of drool forming at the corner of her mouth and dripping down.

“Right,” Clarke said. “Crate it is.”