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Much has changed in the past ten years, Clarke muses as she stands at Lexa’s shoulder, no more than a single step behind.
She is no longer one of the Thirteen Ambassadors seated in a semi-circle before Heda’s throne—half stinking of alpha, chins lowered in grudging submission, the rest waiting patiently, sharp minds racing several steps ahead.
She is no longer Skaikru either, no longer Wanheda, no longer a wild omega of the woods. She is the Fleimkepa, the Commander’s mate and most trusted adviser, a position she has grown into quite comfortably during the passing of the years.
Lexa is also no longer the Commander she used to be as she addresses her Council. Her voice still has fire in it, a flame that promises to devour—but it is also a calm, controlled blaze, only to be unleashed on those who disobey. It is a voice that demands peace more often than blood, a voice that first spoke to Clarke in a dimly lit tent clogged with the warring scents of fear and hope.
But during the past decade, one thing has not changed at all. Both of Heda’s overlapping tones, the Commander’s fire and the Peacemaker’s warmth, still coax heat to life between Clarke’s legs.
Standing still without squirming is a difficult trial indeed. Although Lexa is addressing the Ambassadors, negotiating a border dispute between Azgeda and several of the other Clans, Clarke’s ears like to play tricks. They imagine—or perhaps remember—every growl, every sigh, every whispered word Lexa has ever delivered into the shell of her ear or the crook of her neck. Every “Klark,” every “Ai hod yu in,” every “Come for me, niron”.
Clarke knows that, after nearly a decade of marriage, she should have grown accustomed to her mate’s voice. It shouldn’t make her shiver the way it does, shouldn’t cause sticky heat to soak through her smallclothes when Lexa’s words aren’t even directed at her. But being accustomed to Lexa has not lessened her desire. If anything, familiarity has made the yearnings of her body even more unbearable.
Since all the wetness in her body has rushed elsewhere, Clarke moistens her dry lips, taking a quiet breath. That is another mistake. Not only does Lexa’s voice still have the power to melt Clarke's very bones, the alpha’s scent alone is enough to cast a spell.
Lexa’s smell is a storm of demanding alpha, but not just alpha. It is also pine trees and clean wind and warm sunshine, all of the beautiful things Clarke had wondered at during her first few weeks on Earth—and wonders at still. It is the smell of cozy blankets thrown in a tangle at their feet, of sex-sweat cooling from their exhausted bodies after hours spent in each other’s arms.
It is a scent that Clarke’s nose recognizes as home, but even though it’s comforting, it opens a yawning chasm in the pit of her belly, an ache that won’t stop screaming until it’s filled. Only an effort of will prevents Clarke from reaching out with her own scent, from calling to Lexa in a plea for the fullness only her alpha can provide.
Clarke shakes off her haze, fighting to pay attention. Lexa is chastising the Azgedan Ambassador, warning him that any further attempts at expansion will not be tolerated. But Clarke does not see warning in Lexa’s movements. She sees the sleek shift of muscle predators have while hunting prey, and her heart drums a frantic rhythm against her ribcage.
She wants to be that prey. She wants Lexa to hunt her, to corner her in just a few graceful strides, pin her to the wall, and steal the breath from her mouth with kisses. She wants Lexa to flick open the buttons and laces on their pants, to slot their hips together and claim her in a single thrust, to sink sharp teeth into her shoulder.
That puts yet more disruptive ideas into Clarke’s head. Although tradition dictates that she must stand behind Heda, there is no explicit rule that forbids her from leaning forward a few inches. Nor is there a rule that prevents her from stealing a glance at Lexa’s profile.
Butterflies burst in Clarke’s stomach as her eyes fall on the slight swell at the front of Lexa’s leather pants. She knows the years have not cooled her mate’s desires either, but the visible proof is a point of pride. She wonders if any of the Ambassadors have noticed, but doesn’t care enough to check. Instead, she reaches forward ever so slightly, just enough to thread her pinky through Lexa’s and link their hands together.
“Klark.”
Clarke blinks. It isn’t the heavy silence that hangs in the room or the way the Ambassadors are staring at her that tell her she’s been broadcasting an invitation. It’s Lexa’s face and the look of want written there, feral desire mixed with something like loving amusement, for those who know her well enough to recognize it.
And Clarke knows her well enough.
She smiles, blinking slowly and holding Lexa’s eyes. She does not quiet her body’s call. If the other alphas present in the room hear, they will simply have to deal with the ensuing arousal or embarrassment.
“Heda.”
The way she says Lexa’s name might be perceived as an apology for the interruption, an offer for Lexa to continue with the business at hand. But Lexa does not interpret it that way—just as Clarke didn’t mean it that way. Lexa’s upper lip peels back slightly over her teeth, and the blaze in her eyes is all lust.
When she turns to address the room, her voice is much more Commander than Peacemaker. “Bants. Ai na dil kom Wanheda.”
Some of the Ambassadors look surprised, but there are no protests. Clarke isn’t sure any of them are capable of objecting to the order. A few are annoyed, and others are angry, but Clarke cannot find the energy to care. All her thoughts and feelings are focused to a sharpened point, aimed directly at the front of Lexa’s pants.
Everyone exits. The large doors close with a thud only half as heavy as Clarke’s own pulse. Lexa turns toward her, and the way she holds herself, a trap ready to snap at the slightest movement, makes Clarke’s sensitive nipples strain beneath her shirt. She wants the heat of Lexa’s mouth on them, but isn’t sure either of them have the patience.
Lexa holds perfectly still, her jutted chin carved of stone, her squared shoulders an iron wall. Standing face to face, there is nothing to prevent Clarke from admiring the view. She swallows around the growing thickness in her throat, hitching a pleased breath at the bulge she has caused. Aside from Lexa’s swelling scent, it is the only sign her mate is nearly ready to snap.
Clarke knows it won’t take much for either of them. She takes the single step that separates them, rubbing her softness against Lexa’s tension, making sure the ‘v’ of her pelvis presses firmly against the head of Lexa’s cock. Clarke feels its outline twitch through the leather, just for a moment, and Lexa’s pupils widen. Then Clarke pulls back, walking toward the balcony behind the throne without so much as a kiss or caress goodbye.
If Clarke had been counting—which she doesn’t need to—she wouldn’t have gotten to three. Lexa is on her in a flash, yanking aside the collar of her shirt, sinking sharp teeth into her mating bite. Clarke gasps, but she is all smiles as Lexa grinds against her rear, giving her another feel of the hardness she had only grazed before.
“I love you,” Clarke murmurs, a laughing apology as Lexa marches her out onto the balcony.
Lexa guides her by the hips, still arching against her from behind. The alpha growls around her mating hold, and Clarke knows that is the best response she can expect. She doubts her mate’s jaw will unlock until Lexa is sheathed inside her.
The act of joining doesn’t take more than a few moments. This isn’t the first time Clarke has purposely overstepped, and Lexa has had ample practice. Within a matter of seconds, Clarke is bent over the balcony railing—a railing that had been installed precisely for this purpose—trousers at mid-thigh, bare backside swaying in the air as Lexa fumbles with her own pants. Clarke shudders at the whisper of leather ties being unfastened, and the streams that had soaked her underwear before slide down her legs unimpeded.
Then there is a beautiful spark of pain, and Lexa is in her, claiming her in a single brutal thrust.
Clarke’s eyes water, but mostly with relief. It stings, but only in the sweetest way, and she is more than wet enough to take every inch Lexa has to offer. The ache within her is silenced at last, but her moan of happiness swiftly grows into a wail of discontent. It has only been a split second, barely time enough for her clinging walls to adjust to the thickness buried within her, but she needs more. She needs movement, the sharp snap of Lexa’s hips, the feral rut Lexa uses when Clarke needs to be taught a lesson.
“Ai niladon,” Lexa snarls into Clarke’s sore shoulder, only releasing her hold enough to form the words. “Did you really need to be filled so badly? Was the emptiness so unbearable that you couldn’t wait another half hour?”
Clarke whimpers in agreement. She had needed the fullness only Lexa could give, and waiting hadn’t only seemed unbearable, but impossible. In ten long years, she has gotten no better at displaying patience. This is not the first time Lexa has plunged in and out of her over this very balcony, and Clarke knows it is far from the last as well.
“Savor it,” Lexa growls into the crook of Clarke’s throat, right where her scent and heartbeat live. “Because an omega who teases her alpha gets exactly what she deserves.”
“Sha,” Clarke pants, but expressing more complex thoughts is beyond her. There is only the powerful thrusts of Lexa’s hips and the throb of Lexa’s length within her.
Their two bodies become one over and over, twined voices rising into the cool evening air. Clarke doesn't even notice the chill, or the beautiful pink and orange sunset beyond Polis. She is a slave to Lexa’s rhythm, to the hunger and heat her alpha lights within her, a firestorm that cannot be held at bay.
Clarke presents herself even higher, arching so her mate’s blunt head can hit her deepest places. Each withdrawal is torture for her trembling walls, and each forward stroke is bliss. When Lexa pauses for the briefest moment, hips quivering even as they lock in place, Clarke keens in hopeful distress. Maybe, just maybe, Lexa will fill her, flood her, claim her in the way she craves above all others.
But no. Not yet. She may hold the leash on Lexa’s desire, but that leash has long since snapped. “Shout my name,” Lexa mutters, dragging her hot tongue along Clarke’s throat to gather up every droplet of sweat. “Tell all of Polis who you belong to. Which alpha keeps you full.”
Clarke is powerless to resist. As the sun sets, her willing sobs rise on the evening wind, carrying her lover’s name far over the streets below. “Lexa… Lexa… Lexa!” She would call that name a hundred times, and a hundred more if her mate only asked, but there is no need. Lexa shudders in approval, slamming forward with renewed energy as she unleashes a quiet, guttural roar of her own.
Blue-black fingers stretch across the sky, blotting out the orange until it is a single wavering line of fire. Stars spark into existence, and the distant white points grow brighter and brighter as the burn between Clarke’s leg changes. Something wide and firm broaches her entrance, a twitching thickness her inner walls ache for. The size of Lexa’s knot always makes Clarke tremble, but, oh—the wonderful fullness is worth the brief flash of pain a thousand times over.
“Do it,” Clarke hisses, but her note of urgency ends in a whine. “Lexa, please…”
She arches her spine, trying to position herself at a more inviting angle over the balcony, but Lexa has already lost patience. She ruts forward with a low groan, and Clarke cries out as the stretch begins. It barely lasts a moment. Before any discomfort registers, her muscles suck Lexa in with a clicking pop and seal her there. Tears of overwhelming relief well in Clarke’s eyes, and she screams her mate’s name to the stars one last time, clutching the balcony railing as though it’s her remaining only tether to the world.
There is nothing Clarke can do to hold back her peak, nor does she wish to. Her orgasm crashes over her rippling in waves, and she welcomes each one as it washes through her body. Her gasping yelps and her thundering heartbeat and her quivering inner walls are all Lexa’s, and the harsh throb of Lexa’s length within her and the hot bursts of breath along the back of her neck belong only to her.
When Lexa grips her hips just so, teeth grazing the top of her spine and taking the back of her neck in a pinching bite, Clarke knows what’s coming. Through her shudders, she forces herself to relax, holding her breath deep and still. At last, when Clarke is nearly mad from waiting, Lexa’s pelvis gives a final unsteady jerk. Her teeth dig deeper into Clarke’s throat, and her knot gives a powerful twitch, sending sharp streams up along her shaft to pour from her pounding cock.
A wide smile spreads across Clarke’s face as familiar warmth floods her core, pooling in her deepest places. Lexa is every bit her alpha, just as she is Lexa’s omega. This was exactly what her body had craved from the moment she first heard the music of Lexa’s voice and tasted the Commander’s scent on her tongue ten years ago—and a decade later, that craving hasn’t faded one bit. She grasps tight at Lexa’s knot, molding close to its shape, milking it for everything her mate has to give. Every spill of Lexa’s seed is precious, and though Clarke knows she will leak heavily later and carry Lexa’s dripping scent on her thighs, she would mourn the loss of a single drop so soon.
It takes a long while for Lexa to empty. By the time she does, Clarke has shuddered through a second release, and Lexa has released the scruff of her neck to mutter in her ear. It is a stream of filth mixed with loving praise, and not knowing whether she will hear “Jok, Klark, yu gapa ste gafa gon ai growa,” or “Ai hodnes gon yu graben gon skaifaya”, leaves Clarke happily dizzy and unbalanced until Lexa is spent, sweating and shivering against her back.
Even then, Lexa makes no effort to part from her, and Clarke would by no means allow such a separation anyway. They gaze out over the city together, watching as torches flicker to life in the streets below, casting the world into a soft yellow glow.
“Negotiations were supposed to end tonight,” Lexa sighs beside Clarke’s cheek, huddling closer to protect her from the worst of the cold. “I blame you for this.”
“Me?” Clarke protests, only a little indignant. “All I did was brush your hand.”
“And made sure every alpha in the tower could smell you.” Lexa gives her hips a soft push, but there is no urgency behind the movement. She is obviously well-satisfied, in addition to being slightly amused.
Clarke chuckles. “We’ve been mated ten years. I'm sure I smell as much like you as I do like me.” Lexa huffs at that, and Clarke turns to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Besides, who’s going to complain? You're Heda. You decide when the breaks are.”
“Heda shouldn't need to take breaks in order to remind her mate of her place.”
Clarke flicks her tongue over Lexa’s lips, laughing as she recoils an inch in surprise. “The only place I want to be is on top of you, in our bed.”
“How about beneath me?” Lexa asks, raising her eyebrows hopefully.
Clarke shows her approval with a kiss. If it means the two of them will spend the night together and the Council’s problems will wait until morning, she is more than willing to negotiate terms.