Author's Note: So I've had bits and pieces of many stories on my computer for a while. I will warn you now that the pieces in here may not ever be finished. If they become their own story they will be finished, if just might take ten years. Feel free to comment on which parts you liked or didn't like, as your opinion does matter to me and will make a difference. I felt like I should stop hoarding ideas and share the love. Clarke/Lexa guaranteed.
In this story I will include all the NSFW ideas. This will include Alpha/Beta/Omega AU, Futa/G!P/W!P, women impregnating other women, knotting, and fuck or die situations with dubious consent. If any of these do not appeal to you than at least you were informed before you began to read :P as always the consequence for your choice are yours. If I have missed a warning please let me know. I will attempt to give a brief blurb of kinks before each story so that you know if you want to read it or not. I don't find men sexually appealing so please be aware that the smut stories will have a lot of gay/bi ladies. I do think a lady is a person who identifies herself as female so some of the ladies might have different styles of lady bits.
A Challenge Met
Alpha/Beta/Omega AU set in canon verse set during the first meeting between omega Clarke and alpha Lexa. In which Lexa gets really turned on by how dominant Clarke is and Clarke has never seen an alpha before.
Ark history taught that after the bombs people from all different space faring nations combined together to form the Ark. They called it the Ark because it was the last known remnant of human life in our solar system after the flood of radiation ruined the planet. Life on the Ark was difficult, some peoples survived, some went extinct. One section of society that didn't, or perhaps couldn't, make the transition to the realities of life without Earth was alphas. At first their inability to adapt wasn't noticed. The prevalent culture of the Ark was embedded with alpha dominance. The idea of alphas being unable to handle the requirements of their new life was quickly dismissed. It wasn't until after the leaders of the Ark voted on limited breeding and to float all offenders of the rules unless they were under eighteen that the truth came out.
Pre-bomb popular culture said that omega's were child driven. That was, after all, the purpose of heat. So the Ark leaders planned out various strategies to help omegas adjust to a life with limited breeding options. Omegas were granted the right to have extra children. This right wasn't just to the benefit of a small part of Ark's population; it was partly based on genetic planning. Genetic planning that required as much genetic diversity as possible to enable humanity to survive for hundreds of years with limited resources. It helped that children from alpha/omega unions tended to be healthier, stronger, and smarter.
The adjustment was hard for unmated omegas, as was expected. It was hard for everybody. Bonded pairs adapted best. Some believed that bonded pairs were more capable of shifting their biological drive from children to mate. Betas struggled at the imposition on their free will, at the limitation of their options. The part of the population that struggled most in adhering to the law were unmated alphas. Nearly every unmated alpha was floated within two years of the law first being put into place. Within ten the only alphas on the Ark were mated. For decades no new alphas were born. By the time fourth generation was born on the Ark the omegas, lacking alpha pheromones to awaken them, had blended nearly seamlessly into a single population, betas by nurture if not nature. When the hundred were sent to Earth, a test of the survivability of humanities birth place, it was accepted that there would never be three breeds again. Just betas and whatever few remnants of what may have been omegas that remained.
Clarke misses all the clues. This is understandable, really, because she has no context in which to place them. The last mated pair on the Ark died over ten years before she was even born. So the fact that her palms are sweaty and her heart is racing is just dismissed as nervousness. Her laboured breathing is desperation. Even the amazing smell that drifts out of the Commander's war room is dismissed as a weird quirk of Grounder culture. Clarke doesn't pay attention to any of these details. She's here with a purpose, a mission, and the survival of her people hangs in the balance. Clarke will not fail. She will not be denied. Especially not by the two hulking guards standing stoically outside the opening to their Heda's war room.
It isn't until the hand beckons through the flap that they move aside and begrudgingly let Clarke enter. Clarke wants to be less impressed by their professionalism, their rigid attention to duty, she does. But the Grounders, for all their danger and strange blood filled ways, have a dignity of self about them that always impresses her. They have been tested by fire and death and have made themselves stronger with it. Made themselves strong enough to carry out their threat of Arker genocide. Clarke pushes her way into the thick fur flaps that lead to the Grounder Commander's war room with nothing but determination to save her people (it's the same determination that saw nearly three hundred Grounders dead and burned, she hopes this will have a different outcome).
The area inside is large with a high roof and the tent's ragged material lending the room a greater air of space. Tables pushed against the cloth walls are covered in papers and candles. Clarke catches a glimpse of a layered and detailed canvass map with dozen of figurines spanning across one entire table. She wants to stop and examine it, fill in the details of the land she's walked and hunted and buried in. She doesn't. She doesn't stop walking until she's standing in front of what her mind refuses to call anything but a throne.
The throne is massive, intimidating. Its back is comprised of antlers, branches, and bones. It dominates the room, a stark testament to the power the Grounder Heda commands. In contrast the girl upon the throne is slight, lean. The contrast should jar, should make the girl look weak and small in comparison. It doesn't. There is an odd sort of symmetry that the artist in Clarke adores. The throne is built by thin, curved pieces stacked just so, more presence and purpose than actual physicality. As though suggesting that it need not be everywhere to own all the space it encompasses. The girl too is built thin, smaller than any other adult Grounder Clarke has seen save perhaps Anya. She is more presence and purpose than one would think a body could hold. Confident in her ownership of all she encounters. The throne is made up of what belongs to her, the forests and all that live or die within it, and she knows this.
Clarke's too determined, too focused on her goal to give away that how this sight affects her beyond the slightest twitch of her fingers and the hungry roam of her eyes. Grounders, Clarke has learned, are a brutal sparse people. Clarke, she has also learned of herself, would love nothing more than to catch every aspect of them immortalized on paper and charcoal.
"If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will slit your throat." One of the guards, now standing tall in the room, had growled at her before permitting entrance. Clarke thinks it would be an appropriate title for a picture of this scene, the Commander lounging in her throne of the forest's life and death with a sharp deceptively small piece of sharpened metal in her hand. The blonde swallows back a laugh as she realizes that the most dangerous Grounders are small and deceptive in their looks. Her chest feels light and aching and Clarke pretends it was the thought, the almost laugh that caused it. She ignores that her chest felt that way since she first breathed the beautiful air in the war room. It is easy to ignore, as are all things that lack sense. Scent was never that important on the Ark, where recycled air and a lack of water had lent everything a stale air long before even her mother was born. Clarke knows that the ground smells good but she was never raised with the ideas or words to describe how the smell in this tent is different from any other of the multitudes of smells on Earth.
"So," the Commander drawls as she twists her knife into the throne's arm. "You're the one who burned three hundred of my warriors."
"You're the one who sent them there to kill us." Clarke's response is immediate. She had carried the guilt of many things, but she refused to carry this burden alone. If the Grounders hadn't hurt them, hadn't tried to kill her people, they would still be alive. It had been a fight to the death and Clarke had won, she'd had to. The alternative was unbearable. It was the same alternative that she faced now that drove her to keep a straight back and lifted chin. She would not allow herself to be intimidated by the woman before her. She would show the Commander that she was a force to be reckoned with. Under the gaze of the Grounder Commander her once disciplined mind was insisting on recalling memories of nature documentaries where animals submitted by baring their throat (she single mindedly ignored that most of the documentaries she recalled were of mating rituals).
"Do you have an answer for me, Clarke of the Sky People?" The Commander drawled, as though Clarke was her to tell her when supper was to be expected and not whether her people would leave or die.
"I've come to make you an offer." Clarke's rebuttal was quick, decisive. Her low voice was husky and trembled with a foreign undercurrent that Clarke shrugged off as a minor show of her concern. The Commander's eyes narrowed and Clarke wished for the first time that the other woman was without war paint so that she could judge her expression accurately. Clarke thought perhaps it was anger.
"This is not a negotiation." The Commander's voice was sharp and completely firm. Clarke repressed the tremble the Commander's absolute certainty created in her knees from fear and something else, something greater. In another situation Clarke may have paused, may have considered what exactly had ran through her body at the Commander's tone. This situation, however, demanded her full concentration.
"I can help you beat the mountain men." Clarke's voice lowered with her intent. Lexa felt it shiver and wend its way around her ears and into her mind. There was something about the blonde that appealed to her, that made it difficult for her eyes to stay locked on blue eyes instead of roaming the sleek body and finding which curves and colors drew her most.
"Go on." The Commander said, patient. It was patience that had won her much in the past and Lexa found it no hardship to exercise it now. Her people may want the Sky people dead immediately but Lexa has been Heda long enough to know that unplanned haste can be costly.
"Hundreds of your people are trapped inside Mount Weather, kept in cages." Clarke's hands remain still by her sides, resisting the urge to wipe sweat from her forehead. "Their blood is used as medicine." The Grounders, apparently accustomed to the hot air of the room, showed no sign of discomfort at the rising temperature. Clarke still wasn't used to the constant shift in temperature, even after nearly a month on the ground. The Ark had maintained a steady and cool temperature, the only shift occurring in the steady progression of simulated twilight and only a few minimal degrees to encourage the more animalistic parts of the human brain to think day had truly become night or vice versa.
"How do you know this?" The Commander's question is intent, focused, but her gaze does not match it. Her eyes flicker around the room, taking in threats and positions, before scanning slowly over Clarke. She watches a bead of sweat slip from the woman's temple down her neck to disappear under her shirt and wishes, abruptly, insanely, that she could strip her to find that drop and lick it off. Lexa stiffens her will and presses back against the rigid bands in her clothes. She cannot straighten her posture anymore as the metal protection in her jacket was customized to ensure the most intimidating posture she is capable of be maintained for as long as she wears the heavy armored jacket.
"Because, I saw them." Clarke licks her lips and Lexa can't tear her eyes away from the motion, doesn't want to. "My people are prisoners there, too. I was one of them." Lexa wonders if blonde would taste like clouds, a nourishing wetness caught between sky blue and golden light. She forces her mind back to the matter at hand too late, as Indra has seized her silent musings as a chance to talk.
"Lies," Indra's voice is harsh, angry and dominant. "No one escapes the mountain."
Clarke resists the dominance of Lexa's general with a mere glance, her challenging stare meeting Indra fully. "I did," Clarke moves her gaze back to Lexa, just as defiant with her, "with Anya." Lexa meets the Sky Princess' challenge head on and feels a clench of want in her core. "We fought our way out together."
"Another lie; Anya died in the fire." Indra's gaze is direct, a silent command for the sky girl to submit to her will. Clarke makes no response to Indra's command. "You killed her." The hardened general stalks forward, instinct and anger pushing her to move and demand this girl's submission. To demand that she acknowledge her alpha status. Lexa holds up a hand, staying her general's forward momentum and ignoring the corresponding low growl of Indra's disapproval.
"She told me you were her second." Clarke's words and her gaze are directed solely towards the Commander. Her blues eyes catch on the imperious hand as her breath catches slightly in her chest. Clarke lifts her trembling hand to her ribs and slides it slowly down the fabric of her shirt to her pants pocket. She sees the grounders tense at the action, even with her eyes riveted on Lexa's pale pink tongue as it licks dry lips to wet them. "I'm sure she'd want you to have this." Clarke pulls out the thin brunette braid, Anya's braid.
"We don't know it's hers." Indra insists dismissively to her Commander. The general's muscles are tense and aggressively ready to act. Indra has been a general for longer than Lexa has trained to be a warrior. Her opinions and abilities were respected by the Commander before Lexa. Lexa grew to respect the general as well, in most things. But Lexa is Commander. She has the memory of more lives than her own in her head. She has enough memories to know that Indra isn't just driven by her training to protect the People. Clarke is a strong and brave leader, she is foolhardy and dangerous. Indra's training, Lexa remembers designing it when she was the third Heda, should tell her to tread cautiously with such an opponent. That Indra cannot, or perhaps will not, think beyond this moment is the clearest indication Lexa can see that she's missed something; something important. Lexa can only think of one thing important enough for Indra to act like this during the first meeting between Heda and Skaikru.
Lexa closes her eyes and forces herself to draw in a deep scenting breath through both nose and mouth. The sharp sting that her memories identify as anti-septic and stringent chemicals hits her nose fast and hard. Lexa feels her ribs tense as she struggles not to choke on the repulsive smell. Lemons linger on the back of her taste buds. Underneath is the musty scent of earth and pollen, barely perceptible even for an alpha's advanced sense of smell. If the Skai leader had been hoping to hide her natural scent she'd succeeded admirably. Lexa is Heda and Heda is persistence. Persistence pays off, as it often does.
Hidden under the chemicals used to cleanse and disguise, under the cake on mud and greenery, is the most amazing thing Lexa has ever smelt. It's faint and trying to scent it is hard than hearing a whisper in a crowded room full of shouting people. The acid sting of chemicals is worth that barest hint of heaven. Lexa knows exactly what it is, exactly what it means, and Lexa feels her flesh shift between her thighs in preparation. Clarke is an omega. Clarke is entering her heat.