She's going to kill Raven. Not literally, of course, because Raven's been through enough, and she really is some kind of genius when it comes to technology rehabilitation. But yeah. As far as Clarke's concerned, Raven is fucking toast.
In all fairness, Clarke is at least partly to blame for the mess she now finds herself in, but she can't help thinking the mechanic should be shouldering most of it. If it weren't for her constant grumbling and swearing that inexplicably attracts nearly half the female population of any given village she happens to be in...
At least her involvement is limited by infrequent exposure, Clarke admits sullenly.
After a long, involved, and entirely frustrating lesson in the subtleties of English profanities - for both parties involved - Clarke has never been more certain in her life that Lexa will absolutely be the death of her. And the worse part is, she'll have no choice but to go with a smile on her lips and an embarrassing dampness between her thighs.
Lexa saying the word 'fuck' has much the same effect as Lexa saying Clarke's name. It's quiet, precise, and slowly destroying Clarke's self-control from the inside out. A simple, four-letter word should not be able to make her squirm the way it does, and yet…
It might be the way Lexa bites out the final consonant, making it click sharply in the back of her throat. Or the way her eyes light with the memory of Clarke's mortifyingly thorough explanation of the various uses of the word. Whatever the reason, it's rapidly becoming a major distraction for the blonde.
Especially when Lexa gets angry.
Sort of like she is now.
Clarke stands silently at her right, their conversation having been interrupted by the scene before them, watching the confrontation as it unfolds. A warrior, one of Lexa's scouts, kneels before Lexa's throne, having been thrown there by the second warrior who stands behind him, bleeding sluggishly from one shoulder, clutching a small blade.
From what Clarke can understand, the knife belongs to the bleeding warrior, Brutus - a gift from his love, and therefore a symbol of their intent to be married, or whatever the trikru equivalent is. However it had gone missing a few days ago, only to show up on the belt of Malcolm, the warrior kneeling on the ground. Brutus had clearly taken exception when Malcolm had tried to defend himself with it.
"Yu don ste dig au kom swis, Makom. Brotos swis." Lexa's voice is cool and implacable as she stares down at the accused. Clarke shivers, berating herself for finding the hard cut of Lexa's voice this attractive in the middle of an armed dispute.
Malcolm clears his throat, but his voice is shakey when he responds. "Em don ron ai op-"
"Spicha!" Brutus snarls, and Clarke feels fairly confident in assuming whatever he just said wasn't complimentary. "Swis laik ain. Ain en Lora." Brutus takes a step towards the cowering figure of Malcolm, but stills instantly at Lexa's voice.
"Ste pleni, Brotos. Gyon au."
Brutus nods stiffly and leaves, still clenching the bloody knife in his hand.
Lexa turns her eyes back to Malcolm, her expression hardening. She flicks her eyes up to one of her guards, who immediately steps forward to haul Malcolm to his feet. "Em ste splita. Pul em we." The guard nods, but struggles as Malcolm begins to twist in his grasp.
"No, Heda, beja-"
"Shof op!" Lexa lunges forward, catching Malcolm's throat in her grip and squeezing until he can only wheeze. "Yu laik fucking skrish. Bants." Clarke gasps and bites a knuckle to keep anymore noise from escaping. The guard glances at her curiously before dragging the gasping Malcolm out of the tent.
Lexa collapses back into her throne, seemingly unaware of the turmoil her fury has caused in the sky girl.
"Was-" Clarke coughs, embarrassed by the rawness of her voice, and starts again. "Was that really necessary?"
Lexa tenses, barely lifting her chin from where it slumps against her chest. "It's a serious offense to interfere with someone else's union, Clarke. If a man cannot respect the union of his neighbor, how can he be trusted to respect the union of his clan? By our laws, he should have been killed. It was only because Brutus was not seriously injured that Malcolm will be exiled instead. If you-"
Clarke steps closer, petting over Lexa's clenched fist, and stilling her lecture. "That's not what I meant, Lex."
Lexa glances up, meeting Clarke's soft smile with a sigh, her body relaxing once more. "What did you mean, then, Clarke?"
Balling her free hand against the wave of arousal that hearing her name on those lips always brings her, Clarke quirks an eyebrow in a teasing accusation. "You've gotten pretty foul-mouthed lately."
The Commander stares as she works through the sentence, and Clarke can practically see her picking through each possible meaning of her sentence and discarding it, until finally she lands on the intended one with narrowed eyes and the beginnings of a smirk.
"It was called for," she defends unconvincingly.
"I don't think it was, Lexa. I do think you need to have your mouth washed out, though." Clarke can't stop the snort that escapes when Lexa's sly expression immediately turns to one of confusion. Before she can ask for an explanation, Clarke cuts in again. "It's something my mom used to threaten whenever she caught me using bad words. She would tell me if I insisted on using dirty words, that she would wash my mouth out to clean it again."
Still frowning, Lexa cocks her head, curious as ever when learning something new about Clarke. "That sounds unpleasant," she offers, and her frown softens in the face of Clarke's laughter.
"It was when it was my mother doing the cleaning," she chuckles.
Lexa relaxes, tugging Clarke around to perch in her lap. The sight would probably horrify Indra, but while it's just the two of them, Clarke can't help but indulge. Once she's settled, Lexa wraps her right arm around Clarke's back, gripping across denim clad thighs with her left.
"And what about when you are doing the cleaning?"
Caught off guard by the heavy, seductive tone, Clarke can only stare in shock as the Commander looks up at her, challenge brightening her eyes and curling her perfect lips. Coming back to herself with a shake, Clarke grins before ducking down until they're only millimeters apart.
"You tell me," she husks before closing the distance.
In the back of her mind, the idle thought occurs to her that perhaps her tongue is not the best suited tool for cleaning, but then Lexa's tongue begins to do some sweeping of its own and her thoughts stop altogether.
A/N: Here are the translations for the trigedasleng. If I've bungled the grammar for any of it, I apologize.
Yu don ste dig au kom swis, Makom. Brotos swis.
You were found with the knife, Malcolm. Brutus' knife.
Em don ron ai op-
He gave me-
Spicha! Swis laik ain. Ain en Lora.
Liar! The knife is mine. Mine and Laura's.
Ste pleni, Brotos. Gyon au.
That's enough, Brutus. Go.
Em ste splita. Pul em we.
He is outcast. Take him away.
No, Heda, beja-
No, Commander, please-
Shof op!
Silence!
Yu laik fucking skrish. Bants.
You're fucking shit. Leave.
