AN: A vanilla oneshot/drabble that wouldn't leave my head. Also a minor fuck-you to those who think all I do is magic!cock. It is what it is. You can follow me at raedmagdon on tumblr if you want.
. . .
That's Why
. . .
It's in the way Clarke sweeps the stray strands of hair out of her face, tucking them back behind her ear. They cling to her forehead, catch against her rasping lips, until Clarke's fingertips brush them back where they belong. And when Clarke's palm lingers there long after, thumb running back and forth over the burning point of her cheekbone, Lexa always forgets how to breathe.
It's in the way Clarke's hands roam her body, conquering one moment, trembling with reverence the next. Clarke's hands are soft and strong, and they undo her completely as they take in her shoulders, her sides, her breasts. When Clarke tugs gently at the stiff peaks, her hips jerk against her will, but Clarke's thigh is always there to offer the perfect amount of pressure. She never finds herself reaching out through empty air.
It's in the way Clarke gazes down at her, blue eyes deep enough to drown in, making silent promises. Clarke doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve anymore. Wanheda has learned to keep her feelings hidden—something Lexa has been taught from childhood, yet somehow always fails to do—but in her eyes, Lexa can read all the words she doesn't say: 'yu ste klir' and 'yu ste meizen' and 'ai hod yu in'.
And with Clarke, she does feel safe. She feels beautiful. She feels loved, in a way she hasn't since Costia's death—perhaps since even before.
That's why, when Clarke's lips leave the tight point of her nipple and begin wandering in lazy trails down her stomach, her whole body shakes. It's why her clenching hands fist the furs beneath her, before finding a better hold in Clarke's golden hair. She doesn't tug, or direct, or try to control the path of Clarke's mouth. Heda can never surrender, or show any sign of weakness, but Lexa trusts Clarke with everything she is. Her submission is a gift, offered up with the whole of her heart.
That's why, when Clarke finally spreads her legs open and ducks beneath her knees, she melts instead of tensing. She's still shaking, still shuddering, rocked by the storm of desire and emotion Clarke always stirs in her, but she isn't afraid. She isn't afraid of this, not when Clarke is the one gazing up at her. She isn't afraid to love, not when Clarke is the one loving her.
That's why, when Clarke's tongue finally sweeps flat between her lips and circles the sensitive bud of her clit and swirls against her entrance, Lexa doesn't stifle her cries. She's willing to give voice to her pleasure, her desire, her need—and most of all, her love. Muttered words of devotion mixed with Clarke's name spill out, but she knows the stream of sighs and pleas is appreciated. She can tell by the way Clarke speeds up, trying to stimulate every part of her at once.
When two of Clarke's fingers slide inside of her, she freezes in her rocking. Her hips quiver, and she can only clamp down in blissful acceptance.
When Clarke's mouth latches back onto her clit and slowly starts to suck, she bites down on her lip. The pain is slight, soon washed away by a crashing wave of pleasure at the feather-light strokes.
When Clarke's other hand finds hers, twining their fingers together and squeezing tight, tears well in her eyes. She doesn't mean to cry in moments like this, but she doesn't mind when it happens. Not anymore.
And then she comes.
She comes against Clarke's mouth, in a pulsing tide of wetness, fluttering and clenching and squirming because it's all just too much. She comes with gasps and whines and whimpers that she didn't even know she was capable of making before Clarke showed her how. She comes, and comes, and comes, until Clarke's chin is a sticky mess and so are her thighs and her abdominal muscles hurt from how hard they've been rippling.
That's why, when the throbbing within her finally fades, she lets go of Clarke's hair and throws her arm over her eyes as a shield, hiding in the crook of her elbow. Even though they have done this countless times before, part of her is still embarrassed, still uncertain. But then Clarke scatters a soft shower of kisses over belly, and she finds the courage to peek out again. She's still sniffling, but there's no helping it.
"Klark..."
When Clarke looks up at her, Lexa is sure her chest is about to burst.
"Ai hod yu in seintaim."
As always, Clarke smiles with the full force of the sun radiating from her glistening face. As always, Clarke crawls up to snuggle behind her, draping a warm arm over her waist. As always, Clarke nuzzles into the back of her shoulder and starts breathing deeply, inhaling the scent of her skin. Lexa shifts back into her, basking in the glow, wrapped up in the blanket of love Clarke has surrounded her with despite not saying a word. Clarke's love is everywhere, and so is her own, and sometimes, her heart hurts because she can't hold it all.
She closes her eyes, content to drift off to sleep. It's in the way Clarke holds her, as if she never wants to let go.