It has been months since the last time they'd seen each other. Months since Lexa left her standing at the foot of Mount Weather, without her promised army, without her support, without anything but a burning in her gut and behind her eyes and an empty ache in her chest that, even until now, hasn't gone away. It has been months since she pulled that lever, with Bellamy’s warm, rough hand over hers, and watched as bodies – old, young, innocent, guilty – doubled over in pain, screaming and shrieking in agony while their skin erupted in radiation burns and the life seeped out of them through angry red pores.
It has been months. And Clarke’s not sure she’s ready to face the Commander again. Not yet, maybe not ever.
But in those months, even during Clarke’s long absence, Lexa and the Trikru have made great efforts to assist Clarke’s people in surviving the harsh winter. They sent heavy furs, meat, grain, fruit, vegetables, wood. Despite suspicions and stares colder than the storms swirling white outside. Despite the burning anger and resentment that greeted them at the end of every trip. Despite knowing that, by turning away and abandoning Clarke and all the Arkers trapped inside the mountain, they had annihilated every last tenuous shred of the alliance between them, and all that kept the Arkers from declaring open war on the Trikru was the plain and simple understanding that it would be the last thing they ever did, and the bloody sacrifice Clarke had made to ensure their survival would have been in vain.
Clarke knew. They had told her in the village of the Boat People, where Clarke had found herself after days, nearly a week’s worth, of starving and walking and searching for some kind of peace. Luna had given her the news herself, told her in quiet, calculated tones that, although Lexa had forsaken her at the mountain, she had returned to look after her people.
Clarke tried to forgive her. She’s still trying. Some days, it’s easier. But most days, it feels impossible, and the best Clarke can manage is a low, burning resentment and hatred and hurt for what Lexa had done.
And some days, rare days, Clarke remembers the sparkle of salt gliding down Lexa’s bloodied cheeks, and the hitch in her voice when she said goodbye.
Today is not one of those days.
It hardly matters. Clarke returned a week ago to Camp Jaha to find it in better condition than she had expected. She returned to find her people hale and healthy, strong and working in fields plowed and sown with seeds gifted to them by Lexa’s unfailing weekly caravans of supplies. There are ghosts in their eyes, ghosts that echo the ones in Clarke’s soul, but theirs are far away, ignored in favor of hard toil in soft earth that will yield them a harvest of their own for the summer, fall, and coming winter.
Because they were not the ones to pull the lever, their ghosts can be ignored, in ways that Clarke’s cannot, will not.
But as immediate and unrelenting as her ghosts are, Clarke knows she cannot stay away long, cannot ignore her duties too long. She made a commitment the day she led Emerson through the labyrinth of the broken Ark with a large unit of grounders flanked at her sides, and made her declaration of leadership to the Chancellor, her mother, and to the whole of Camp Jaha.
And the time has come to take up her mantle again. The time has come to renew the old alliance between ground and sky, to ensure her people’s further survival, to put everyone else ahead of herself. Again.
Clarke hesitates in front of Lexa’s tent. Lexa has been in Polis throughout the winter, and Clarke is not the only Arker who has seen neither hide nor hair of her since the day she walked away. But now Lexa is in TonDC, a day’s ride from Camp Jaha, here to renew the alliance, just the same as Clarke. Clarke doesn't want to go in, but the pull to push the tent flap open and walk inside is almost unbearable. Her belly clenches, her memories trip back in time to Lexa’s mouth on hers, to Lexa’s sweet scent invading her nostrils, to Lexa’s impassive face, shrouded in blood and war paint and darkness, as she walked away from her for the last time.
Clarke steels herself, stiffens her shoulders, and pushes inside.
It is as dark and stuffy inside Lexa’s tent as it ever was. Though it is still spring, the heat is already unbearable, sticky and heavy as if promising rain, though the rain never seems to come. It takes a moment for Clarke’s vision to adjust, and when it does, it is almost as if no time has passed since the last time Clarke was here.
Papers are strewn across a massive desk in the middle of the tent. Chairs are littered around it, equipment crowding the narrow spaces though this time they are tools of farming, growing, hunting, rather than tools of war. A heavy curtain hides the narrow bed Clarke knows is at the back of the tent, and there is movement behind it, a soft panting, and a scent that is Lexa… but somehow richer, fuller, more intense. A muscle in Clarke’s jaw jumps, her belly twists again, and heat flushes deep in her thighs. Lexa knows she’s coming today, that their first of many meetings was meant to start nearly ten minutes ago. She should have been waiting, but instead –
A soft gasp reaches Clarke’s ears and she tenses, one hand on the gun holstered again at her side, the other hovering uncertainly over the tent flap behind her. “Lexa?” Clarke ventures, voice steadier than she feels, and forces herself to take a step further inside, blue eyes fastened on the curtain swaying opposite her.
Silence. Movement ripples, and Clarke’s hand drops from behind her, though the gun’s rough grip bites into her clenched palm. Then Lexa emerges, alone, skin glowing with a fresh layer of sweat and her green eyes burning. The smell hits Clarke hard, and Clarke has to close her eyes, swallow hard, and focus to ignore the twinge in her gut and the heat rising in her cheeks.
It is a statement. Lexa’s voice is low, husky, and Clarke forces herself to release her tight hold on the gun in her hand. Relaxing is impossible like this, so Clarke settles for a stiff stance, feet shoulder-length apart and hands clasped in front of her, where pressure begins to grow between her legs.
“You are early,” Lexa pushes away from her bed, allowing the curtain to fall shut behind her. Even from across the wide expanse of the tent, Clarke can smell the thick smokiness on Lexa’s fingers, and the humid stuffiness of their surroundings only makes it worse.
Clarke swallows again, hard, before opening her eyes to fix them on the woman staring hungrily at her from many feet away. “No,” she answers slowly, voice taking on a soft growl she can't suppress, “I'm not.”
Lexa only answers with a soft ‘oh’ and a shuffle of feet.
This is not the Commander Clarke remembers. She is still expressionless, stone-faced. But she seems strangely hesitant, unsure, and Clarke wonders if she is remembering, too, their last minutes together months ago. Clarke wonders if she remembers the taste of her lips. If it was Clarke she thought of behind the curtain moments ago, and if it was Clarke's name on her tongue, unspoken but formed, while Clarke listened on the other side. Clarke wonders that she never considered the possibility of Lexa going into heat, that the potential had never occurred to her, despite knowing the Commander is an omega.
She is clearly in heat now. Clarke wonders if this is how Lexa deals with all her heats, by masturbating while she waits for her next meeting to start. She wonders if other leaders have caught her before, or if Clarke is the first. She wonders if Lexa did this on purpose, because Lexa is not the type of person to be caught off-guard in this way, and if this is somehow payback for Clarke pulling away last fall, when Lexa bared her soul to her and kissed her. She wonders if Lexa took so long masturbating because she knew Clarke was coming, and somehow, that knowledge had made her heat too insistent to ignore.
“Maybe I should come back later,” Clarke finally clears her throat, breaking eye-contact with the slowly approaching omega, “when your heat is over.”
“Why?” Lexa returns immediately, voice sharp and familiar and tipped with only the faintest traces of the arousal and need Clarke can smell rushing in her veins at that moment. “Is my heat a problem for you, Clarke?”
Clarke grits her teeth. She wants, desperately, to say no. She wants to spit at Lexa’s feet and deny the answering arousal flooding her groin, wants to cross her arms over her chest and stare blandly at Lexa, while Lexa stares back with a full understanding of how much she does not affect her. But she does, and a hard swell is already beginning to pull at the front of her pants.
Lexa licks her lips and clears her throat, obvious understanding in those damned green eyes. “You are not a child, Clarke.”
There is a challenge and an admonishment in Lexa’s words. Clarke knows she can control her arousal, but that is not the issue. The issue is the arousal itself. That Clarke can feel a draw to Lexa at all disgusts her completely.
“Or are you implying that it is I who lacks control?” the glint in Lexa’s eyes gives away that she is teasing. Anger surges through Clarke, though she knows by Lexa’s hard, sudden blink, the flirtatious suggestion was unintentional. A soft, deep growl vibrates through Clarke’s lungs, spilling from her lips like a distant roll of thunder. “I apologize,” Lexa says immediately, eyes still closed and her hand sweeping to the chair in front of her, “I did not intend it the way it sounded.”
Lexa begins her approach again, steps slow and careful. Clarke stands still, feet rooted to the floor and shoulders stiff, eyes drinking in every detail. There are bags under Lexa’s eyes, a sadness in the dappled green of her irises that Clarke is surprised, shocked, to see, and her shoulders seem heavy and weighted.
“Stay, Clarke,” the way Lexa pronounces her name sends an involuntary shiver down Clarke’s back, “the alliance demands it.”
So Clarke stays. She doesn't comment that the alliance needed Lexa to stay months ago on the mountain. It is pointless, a moot argument, because Lexa didn’t stay, and there is nothing either of them can do to change this fact. And Clarke knows there is nothing Lexa would do, even if she could, to change it.
And despite the anger and betrayal swirling in Clarke’s belly, she flinches every time Lexa says her name, skin shivering at the hardness of Lexa’s tongue over the consonants. Sweat rolls down her back from the stifling heat of the tent, and the intensity of Lexa’s scent drives Clarke to tie the flaps open, despite the coy smirk curled at the corners of Lexa’s lips and the understanding in Lexa’s stoic gaze. The humidity is an excuse. They both know it. But Clarke is not ready to admit it, not yet.
They do not talk about what happened at the mountain. They do not talk about either kiss or betrayal. Instead, they solidify the already agreed-upon parameters of the new alliance, nitpick over details, argue for the sake of arguing because the push and pull of negotiation is a powerful distraction, and neither of them want Clarke to leave, and neither of them are willing to admit it. It is dusk by the time Clarke finally does leave, head pounding, mouth dry, throat sore, body aching, to return to her own tent on the outskirts of the village. Tomorrow, the agreement will be made public, the alliance made official, and the Arkers – now the Sky People – will be welcomed as the thirteenth clan in Lexa’s Coalition.
Sleep does not come to Clarke easily that night. She strips hurriedly in the privacy of her own small tent once the flaps are closed, the thick humidity of the unventilated space uncomfortable but unavoidable if she wants to sleep bare in her skin. Her nose is still full of Lexa, her skin still tingling with Lexa’s heat, and Clarke cannot seem to rid herself of Lexa’s scent. It is everywhere, in her clothes, in her hair, in her skin, pungent and inescapable. She throws herself on top of her furs, too hot to slide under despite the decided coolness of the evening, and pulls her hair out from under her head to fan across the pillow. Strands, soaked in Lexa’s pheromones, cling to her damp neck, and Clarke can't help but cup herself and sigh at the wetness gathering on her fingertips.
At least it had gone no further than this. She swipes her fingers through her folds idly, her thumb brushes against her stiff, swollen clitoris, and she’s grateful it did not swell and grow, but it aches, it throbs and Clarke wonders if it would be less uncomfortable if it had. She wonders if it would be less uncomfortable for her if she satisfies her needs right now with her own hand, then promptly shoves the thought away and rolls over onto her side.
Lexa abandoned her, betrayed her, walked away when Clarke needed her most, and Clarke hates her. She wills the arousal rushing in her veins to disappear, closes her eyes, and tries to force herself to sleep.
In the end, she knows she can't, and fucks herself on her fingers while angry tears slide down her cheeks, burning against her skin.
If the past few days have been difficult for Clarke, they have been unbearable for Leksa.
Her heat should have ended two days ago. But it is as if her body knows, as if it demands a specific, perverse craving to be sated and will not fade until it is. All through the negotiations, Leksa’s skin burns with need for the blonde arguing adamantly, pointlessly, with her. All through the ceremony welcoming the Skaikru into the Coalition, Leksa bathes in Clarke’s scent, stomach twisting itself into knots and skin shivering, burning for the alpha standing beside her. All through the ensuing celebrations, night after night, Leksa has been forced to endure close proximity with the only alpha she wants to satisfy her heat, and the only alpha she knows will refuse her. And now, nearly a week after the first time Leksa is caught masturbating by Clarke, the first time in many months since Leksa had left her standing alone in the mountain’s hulking shadow, Leksa is hollow, aching, desperate, for a release from this unbearable heat.
None of her heat cycles have ever lasted this long, or been this difficult to manage. Leksa pushes her underwear off for better access to herself, shoving the furs on her bed out of the way in the process. It is nearly dawn, and in a few moments, Indra will be striding into her tent with updates, news, and impatience for their ritual morning spar. And though Leksa is sore from fucking herself in every spare minute she has had since Clarke’s return, she is desperate to soothe this never ending ache, even if only slightly, even if only for a few minutes.
Her fingers glide through the constant wetness between her folds, blunt nails scraping angrily over skin red and swollen with overstimulation. A pulse of heat greets her fingertips, and Leksa gasps as Clarke’s blue ocean eyes flicker into view. Her skin tingles at the small of her back as Leksa remembers the warm pressure of Clarke’s hands there months ago, the first and last time they'd kissed. She plunges two fingers in immediately, biting back a whine and bucking her hips up into her hand. She wishes it was Clarke she was jerking her hips up into. But it’s not, and Leksa has to pretend, again, that she feels Clarke’s breath ghosting against her cheek, that she hears Clarke’s voice in her ear, whispering for her to come, because her body and heart demand it, and her mind cannot help but supply it.
Leksa comes with a sob strangled in her throat. Three fingers push deep into her, wet heat spilling between them and onto the rough cotton blankets beneath her. She rolls onto her side, hand trapped between her thighs, and buries her face into her pillow. Right now, she is not the Commander. She cannot be the Commander. Right now, she is weak, and she knows it, because her alpha is across the village from her, sleeping soundly in her own tent and ignoring the call of pheromones Leksa knows she’s giving off in heavy waves.
When Indra enters the tent, Leksa knows she can smell the heat still coursing through her veins. The alpha stiffens at the tantalizing scent, gives Leksa a hard stare, and settles one hand on the hilt of her sword. Leksa doesn't miss the slight swell stiffening at the front of Indra's pants, but she ignores it.
“Still, Heda?” Indra all but growls, dark eyes examining Leksa where she stands, dressed and stone-faced as ever. Leksa growls back, but doesn’t answer. “It has been a week. The other Alphas grow restless.” There is accusation in Indra’s cold voice, and almost an order - take an Alpha, if you must, and be done with it - and Leksa’s upper lip lifts into a snarl. As if any Alpha other than Clarke will satisfy her. As if Leksa has any control over the situation. It is the only situation Leksa never has, and never will, have control over.
“My heat is none of your business, or theirs,” Leksa hisses, green eyes glittering and hard in the dimness of her tent, and is satisfied when Indra gives her a stiff nod in acknowledgement.
Leksa gives up that night. Her body is not the only part of her making these demands, and her mind is breaking under the strain of them. For the first time in years, Indra has managed to trip her and trap her to the ground, and for the first time in years, Leksa is not at the top of her game. For the first time in years, Leksa is not fit to be the Commander of the Coalition, and for the first time in years, the Commander Spirit within her feels incomplete and not whole.
The trip to Clarke’s tent is silent. She flits from shadow to shadow, clad in light leathers and sweating profusely under the layers, struggling not to pant as her heat burns her from the inside out. Fear sweeps through her again, that Clarke will refuse her, turn her away, commit her to a lifetime of inconsolable heats and an emptiness in her whole body she knows will not fade when her heat eventually, reluctantly does. She needs this, and Leksa thinks she’s willing to beg, even if it’s just for the one night.
She knows Clarke senses her the instant Leksa slides between her tent flaps. A body stiffens on the bed, and a flood of alpha pheromones rushes over Leksa, almost powerful enough to physically knock her over. Leksa stares at the figure tensed and poised for what Leksa initially mistakes as flight on the narrow bunk, her own body tensed in return, eyes drinking in the expanse of smooth, pale skin glowing with sweat in the thin, weak moonlight that dances in between the narrow gap in the tent’s flaps. Leksa licks her lips, the pounding, hollow ache in her gut intensifying maddeningly at the sight that greets her.
Clarke is stretched across the bed, one hand cupped between her thighs, legs bare and bent over the furs. She is still wearing her top, but the hem has ridden up over her hips, revealing a smooth, hard stomach dotted with sparkling moisture. Clarke’s face is flushed, and anger and arousal swirl dangerously in her blown eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Clarke’s whisper is harsh, rough with the growl Leksa wishes she could taste on her lips. But Clarke’s fingers are still moving, and her back arches off the bed as a wave of furious pleasure sweeps through her. Leksa feels an answering sweep wash over her, and more wetness pulses between her own legs, ruining yet another pair of underwear. Leksa swallows around the hard lump in her throat, and forces her feet to move, to pull her the rest of the way inside. Clarke’s scent closes around her, thick and heady and musky, and Leksa can’t stop the whimper shivering in her throat.
It makes Clarke arch again, makes her eyes flutter shut and her jaw clench as orgasm sweeps through her. Leksa watches intently, mouth dry, as something swells against the palm of Clarke’s hand, the beginning of an erection Leksa has been waiting to see for almost a week and Clarke has been dreading for just as long. “Get out,” Clarke snaps, voice broken and strained, but Leksa doesn’t move, only stares while Clarke snatches at her pants beside the bed and yanks them on.
“No, Clarke,” Leksa finally manages to find her voice, but it comes out strangled and alien, “not this time.”
The words are like a slap to the face, and Leksa flinches as she realizes what she has just said, and the implications of her words. The snarl twisting Clarke’s mouth is both tempting and terrifying.
“Oh,” Clarke spits back, “so now that it’s you who needs something, you can stick around? How convenient.”
Leksa almost withdraws, stung by the poison in Clarke’s words, but staying this time is necessary. For both of them. She takes a deep breath, forces herself to meet the burning blue of Clarke’s gaze, and takes another step into Clarke’s tent. “No,” she repeats, “my heat is impeding my ability to lead. This affects us both now, Clarke,” satisfaction curls in Leksa’s gut to see the way Clarke’s throat bobs in a hard swallow in reaction to the way Leksa says her name, “We are allies. You are a leader under my Coalition.”
This sounds almost worse than Leksa’s last statement. Clarke’s eyes widen, and Leksa can see the shake of her shoulders as she growls. She can also see the growing bulge tenting at the front of Clarke’s unbuttoned pants. Heat floods in her veins.
“So, what,” Clarke growls, and the vibrations of it seem to shiver in Leksa’s skin, “now you own me, is that it? You get to fuck me whenever the mood hits?”
“No,” Leksa repeats again, the word a whisper brushing against Clarke’s skin as Leksa presses in, slicing through the few feet between them on shaking but determined legs, “I’m asking you to fuck me, so this torture can end.” She cups the hard swell straining against the fabric of Clarke’s pants, bends to press her lips to Clarke’s fevered skin, and is ashamed of how delighted she is to feel it shiver under her touch. “Once, Clarke. Get it over with. Then we can both rest easy.” The powerful scent of alpha soaks through her clothes, and Leksa knows if she is turned away and forced to return to her tent alone and unsatisfied, she may very well cry for the first time since Kostia died. Her heat has never been this bad, never been anything more than a minor annoyance. Now, it is a driving force, and Leksa can no longer think past blonde hair and infinitely blue eyes and a raspy voice that once begged her to stay and is now commanding her to go. Her heart and body know that Clarke is her alpha, even if Clarke’s teeth have never marked her, even though Clarke has never claimed her. Even her mind is resigned to this fact.
Clarke shoves her roughly away, flipping Leksa onto the bed even as she scrambles out of it. Her nostrils flare, eyes glinting in the darkness that weighs heavy over them, and Leksa can hear her panting harshly through her mouth. Her hands are clenched at her sides, and Leksa aches to reach for them, smooth them open with her own and kiss their palms. “Fine,” Clarke grudgingly agrees, “once. For my sake, not yours.”
The words hurt just a little more than they allay. But Clarke doesn't give Leksa the chance to examine why. Instead, Leksa is mesmerized as Clarke shoves her pants back off in a single, choppy motion, exposing her hard, throbbing erection, and shoves Leksa back into the bed only to yank down Leksa’s pants too. Leksa wraps her arms around Clarke’s strong shoulders, lifts herself off the bed to help Clarke and whimpers as cool air hits flushed skin. She wishes Clarke would take all their clothes off. She wishes Clarke would wrap her arms around her, kiss her again like she did in her tent months ago, make love to her the way Leksa has been pretending she does every night for a little under a week now.
Hard fingers part Leksa’s knees, and a heavy weight settles between them. Leksa whimpers again to feel Clarke’s shaft press into the inside of her thigh. A drop of wetness beads against her skin, Clarke’s this time instead of hers, and a rush of arousal floods her belly and pours out of her. Immediately, Leksa winds her legs around Clarke’s hips, pulling her down, closer. Arms settle on either side of Leksa, not holding her, only straddling her, and Clarke’s tip pushes against Leksa’s slick folds.
A moan tears the air between them, and it is unclear whose lips it left. Leksa digs her fingers into Clarke’s sweat-soaked hair and tugs her down hard, their mouths meet in a rough, angry kiss, teeth clashing and tongues whipping against each other, and then Clarke thrusts.
Her cock pushes into Leksa’s entrance with almost bruising force, but it feels good, and a hard gust of air breaks from Leksa’s mouth against Clarke’s cheek. The ache inside her multiplies, her heels press against the backs of Clarke’s thighs in an attempt to force more of Clarke in, to fill the almost painful emptiness that has taken up residence in Leksa’s core, and a few more inches slide in, splitting Leksa open and making her whine pitifully in gratitude. Clarke grunts in relief, her hips buck hard into her, forcing yet another few inches in. Her mouth trails down Leksa’s cheek, teeth nipping sharply at flushed skin down to her neck and Leksa notes with intense, gut-wrenching disappointment that Clarke is careful not to bite over her pulse point. A tongue scrapes maddeningly over her throat and Leksa can taste salt on her lips, where they meet the nape of Clarke’s neck. Clarke slides in to the hilt, carried by a heavy pulse of wetness pounding from Leksa’s core to her entrance.
It is something else completely. Leksa can’t breathe for the sudden, heady rush of emotion and sensation that overwhelm her. Her legs tighten around Clarke, and the layers of clothing between them feel suddenly like far too much distance. She is full of hard, pulsing Alpha, writhing and mewling beneath the alpha that refuses to claim her and be claimed by her. Salt stings in Leksa’s eyes, her throat closes, and as Clarke moves in her, Leksa’s arms tighten around her alpha, pleading for forgiveness and for love in a way Leksa knows she will never manage with words. The desperate, hollow ache of her heat is already evolving into the desperate, hollow ache of a heart split in two. Leksa buries her face in Clarke’s shoulder, nips pleadingly at her pulse point, and arches hard into Clarke, knowing the alpha will understand her request.
Clarke’s arms tighten around her; hard, calloused fingers find Leksa’s neck and dig in. The rough pressure alone is a refusal, a denial, but Clarke thrusts in hard, and Leksa feels Clarke's moan growling into her, chest to chest. Leksa can feel a knot too, beginning to swell at the base of Clarke’s cock. She wants it inside her, but she knows it never will be.
“Fuck!” The harsh whisper burns against Leksa’s skin, where neck meets shoulder, and teeth nip at the space above her pulse point when Clarke thrusts again sharply. Her alpha is heavy over her, but Leksa rolls her hips into every push, arches into the woman she aches to mate, and she can feel Clarke’s chest swell and deflate with the way each writhing movement affects her. She can feel the way Clarke twitches and pounds inside her. Release inches into view, and Leksa groans at the way Clarke grinds into her, as if searching for it, as if trying to draw it out.
“Fuck me, Clarke,” Leksa pants out, voice low and raspy and pleading against Clarke’s ear, and is instantly rewarded by the tremble of Clarke’s arms around her, by the shiver of her skin, by the hard twitch of Clarke’s shaft splitting her open and the sudden pulse and rush of an orgasm she knows is just within Clarke’s grasping reach. Leksa can feel her walls tightening around Clarke, and need and pleasure press maddeningly around her, drawing another harsh pant and moan from her lips that is answered immediately in the crush of Clarke’s chest against hers. “Fuck me,” Leksa tries again, and grinds up as Clarke grinds down in a desperate, nearly violent attempt to merge and fuse. Clarke’s knot presses hard against her soaked entrance and Leksa has to bite her own lip hard enough to draw blood not to scream in pleasure. She wants it, so badly. Clarke’s cock pulses violently, and then Clarke loses control.
Somehow, Leksa’s obscene demand has the power to completely undo the alpha from tip to base. She pounds relentlessly into Leksa, her thrusts so hard and sharp it’s almost painful. Leksa swallows a scream, yanks Clarke’s face around to crush their mouths together, and the coppery taste of blood mixing with the salt of sweat is almost enough to push her into orgasm right then and there. But Leksa holds back, desperately, in an attempt to stretch out this excruciatingly delicious experience for as long as possible. It’s the only chance she'll get to feel Clarke’s raw power working her over. It’s the only chance she'll get to hold Clarke in her arms and kiss her; the only chance she'll get to love her.
Clarke slams into her over and over, both of their chests are heaving with suppressed cries of pleasure, and rough, gravelly moans travel between their sealed mouths. Clarke pulls herself to her knees, and Leksa clings on, powerful legs wrapped so tight and so firm over Clarke’s hips that she hangs from Clarke’s body and sways as Clarke plunges in and out of her. Clarke tears her mouth from Leksa’s, and the growl that shivers between their lips sends an echoing shiver running in the slickness now sliding down the creases between Leksa’s thighs. “Say it again,” Clarke demands, her voice deep and rough and raspy with intense arousal.
Leksa throws her head back, exposing her neck to Clarke, and whimpers. She’s hanging from Clarke’s shoulders, her whole body lifted off the bed while Clarke fucks into her, and Clarke’s muscles flex intoxicatingly under her skin. “Say it again!” Clarke barks, and Leksa can feel Clarke’s pumping cock straining inside her, splitting her wide open and ready to explode.
“Fuck me, Clarke!”
In a single, swift movement, Clarke lifts herself completely off the bed and settles back on her legs. Orgasm rips through the alpha, and Leksa shudders to feel it bursting inside. She yelps into Clarke’s shoulder as Clarke’s arms wrap hard and tight around her back, holding her down, crushing their hips together and pulsing hard streams of come deep inside. Clarke’s come soaks her, fills her completely, and the hard shots pounding into her finally rip her into a shuddering orgasm of her own.
It’s beautiful, exquisite, wonderful, the best moment of Leksa’s tumultuous, tortured existence. But it’s also excruciatingly painful, as Leksa is filled to overflowing in an instant, and she feels their combined release flood past her entrance and soak the knot she knows Clarke is holding back just behind the tight ring of muscle around her entrance. Relief and delicious release wash through Leksa, and Clarke is panting hard against her, fingers digging into skin through layers of cloth and leather and Leksa wishes again that the miles of clothing between them would simply vanish. Their mixed come floods in pulsing waves over Clarke’s hips and thighs, and Leksa trembles in her alpha’s arms, desperate to feel teeth dig into her flesh, aching with a different kind of hollowness than before.
She nips again at Clarke’s pulse point, a soft, shamefully plaintive whimper cutting the thick air between them. Clarke’s teeth scrape against her sweat-slicked skin, close over her pulse point, and for a heartbreaking moment, Leksa thinks maybe, maybe Clarke will bite. Maybe Clarke will mate her, claim her, at last. But Leksa’s intense release begins to fade into aftershocks, and the last, weak pulses of Clarke’s orgasm taper, even after a large handful of long silent moments holding each other like this, and Clarke’s teeth give no more than a slight, prickling pressure over her burning skin.
Clarke is still hard and erect when she finally pushes Leksa off and slides out. The shaft gleams in the pregnant darkness with their combined orgasms. Blue eyes bore into hers, and Leksa knows she will cry tonight for the first time since Kostia died.
“Done?” Clarke asks, her voice hard and choked in the heavy stillness between them. Reluctantly, Leksa nods. Her heat is over, satiated by Clarke’s unforgiving fuck. But the hollowness in Leksa’s chest has only grown deeper and more painfully jagged. “Good,” Clarke grunts, and bends to pick up Leksa’s pants only to throw them spitefully at her, “then get out.”
Leksa allows herself to be weak for a little bit longer in the privacy of her own tent. She strips completely, drops her clothes in a pile at the foot of her bed and collapses into it as painful sobs rip through her chest and break on her lips. Tears flood her cheeks, and she pushes her fingers into the soreness between her legs, gathering the mingling remnants of the orgasm she just shared with the woman who should be her mate. Clarke’s scent clings to her skin, and swells in Leksa’s nose as she lifts her soaked fingers to her face and licks them.
The taste isn't pure, but it’s in their combined flavors that Leksa finds the most comfort. She thinks Clarke must taste like heat and buttercups and sunlight, the way Leksa thinks she tastes like darkness and soil. She sucks as much of it off her fingers as she can, before sliding her fingers down her belly and past the tired, aching ring of muscle at her entrance. She pretends Clarke is there, pretends she can still feel Clarke’s hot weight over her, that she can still hear Clarke’s growling moans of pleasure in her ear and taste Clarke’s sweat on her tongue. She pretends that the blunt nails she digs into the base of her neck, where her broken heart beats against her skin, are Clarke’s teeth, biting hard enough and deep enough to draw blood. Her teeth clench and grind, she pounds three fingers into herself and arches off the bed, teeth snapping at empty air in a futile, desperate attempt to claim and mate her alpha.
When the last, weak aftershocks of her self-induced orgasm fade, Lexa flips onto her side, cocoons herself in her furs, and cries herself to sleep. Her heat is gone the next morning, but the ache to curl up in Clarke’s arms, to kiss her skin and breathe her in is stronger than it has ever been.
Right after Lexa leaves, pants soaking through almost immediately with the gush of their combined orgasms still flooding out between Lexa’s thighs, Clarke tries to settle back into bed to sleep. But Lexa’s scent is everywhere, on her skin, in her hair, buried deep in the sheets and thin mattress of Clarke’s bed. Her erection will not soften alone, and Clarke pumps her hand over the slick stickiness, fingers squeezing to get the last drops out, though there are none left. She presses the edge of her fist over her knot, clenches it, closes her eyes and fights her nausea as she pretends it is the hard ring of muscle around Lexa’s entrance closing over it. It is thoughts of the Commander, mewling in her arms, panting and writhing and hers that finally brings Clarke enough release for her erection to go limp then shrink back into a swollen bud.
And Clarke can’t sleep in her own bed.
Instead, she drops to the packed dirt floor, dragging her cleanest sheet down under her to lay on. She tears off her shirt, cups her fingers over her mound, and clenches her teeth, still reeling from the innate desire, the raw instinct to dig her teeth into Lexa’s neck and mate her. Lexa is her omega. If the truth wasn't clear to her before, it is clear to her now, and Clarke hates herself almost as much as she hates Lexa for it.