archenemy | clexa

eighteen

Lexa doesn't get any satisfactory results, so she's still agitated when she goes back in the tent to confront Clarke herself and ease the Goddess' possible lust to kill.

Yet again, Clarke manages to catch Lexa completely off-guard. Lexa's mind goes blank upon entering. That's a bad sign. Again, Clarke delivers a sharp, cold blow only with her eyes, yet this time, it hits somewhere deeper in the very core of Lexa.

Clarke's eyes are of cold, but gleamy ice now. They're brimming with tears. While Clarke undoubtedly looks like she could kill Lexa with the swing of a hand right now, she's... vulnerable... at the same time. Curled up somewhat on the bed, the amusement gone out of her face. There's no more enjoyment, no more sarcasm in her hate. Now, it's pure, like the tears in that deadly blue.

Lexa knows she has to lay down her pride and apologize, even though she doesn't feel like it.

That's a lie. She strangely feels like it. Not because she thinks crying over something as small makes Clarke less of an annoying person, but because there's something uneasy in Lexa's body now that has something to do with these unshed tears.

"Clarke," she sighs exasperated, yet keeping her mood at bay not to upset Clarke further. An upset Goddess feels far too wrong to Lexa. "I did not know that stuff was a big deal to you, okay?"

"Of course you wouldn't know. Didn't care at the harvest feast, did you?"

"Why would I care about your stupi- your shirt?" Lexa tries to force out calmer than usual, but Clarke's face does not look any kinder.

"Right, why would you care. Anyone would've been fine. Just trying to imagine it's your ex-girlfriend all the same, were you?"

Fuck Clarke, if she almost cried over a stupid shirt and found it in her right to be upset, who was she to talk about Costia?

"Shut up. That's nothing you get to talk about!"

"Isn't it? Because I remember it was me you slept with, that sounds like my business to me."

"Is that your way to play, bring up that fact? It has nothing to do with whether your clothes fit."

"Of course not, that's what I said. You know what Lexa, I knew you were a brainless, shallow idiot, but judging off the way some of your people are, I had some hope left. But you're just like the others. You can spare your breath though, because I've heard it every time my thighs took up 'too much' space, my shirt was 'too tight' or I was still hungry like everybody else after the crappy 'meals' we got where I'm from, only I was stupid enough to voice it. I don't care. You can go fuck yourself and find a girl to swap with your ex that's thin enough if you already think I'm overweight."

Lexa is about to snap back at Clarke when she realizes what Clarke is on.

The fact that Ax and Lin didn't get any other Skaikru person to pride themselves on their sewing abilities was because this isn't about the goddamn shirt, it's about Clarke's body.

Before Lexa can find anything to say, Clarke takes the silence as a response, gets up and says, "I get it, Heda. Only the best for you. They all want to see my tits until there's stretchmarks. They all want my ass but not the accompanying thighs. No one wants too little, no one wants too much, better look out what you wear, better look out what you eat- fuck you."

Lexa has never once heard anyone want that. She could never imagine wanting one thing but not the other. And who the fuck told Clarke to look out for what she ate? What kind of world did Gods come from?

"Clarke, what the fuck? I was talking about the stupid shirt, not your body beneath it. It's just an expression here, every child learns to read, handle a weapon, ride a horse and make some basic necessities like clothes. I was calling you stupid because your shirt is strangely mistailored, not ugly."

Clarke looks at her mistrusting and Lexa burns.

"Really, this is what you're trying to do? Saying I call you ugly because you know I'll have to disprove it?"

"You haven't proven anything," Clarke snaps back.

"Oh, I'll prove you alright how much I fucking love your thighs too. They can take up as much space as they like on my shoulders. Take off that ugly shirt, I want to see you entirely."

Clarke stands there suddenly breathless, having absolutely no objection. She tears off the shirt carelessly and Lexa notices that Clarke didn't have the time to put on anything beneath at the sudden attack of Azgeda.

Maybe Lexa's not all that mad about the attack now.

She pushes Clarke back on the bed, gives a fleeting gaze to the tent flap to make sure it's secured closed, and then she leaves all of what's expected of her now behind and fucks her godly enemy instead. She leaves kisses on all stretchmarks and scars in her wake, stains Clarke's breasts and stomach and thighs with hickeys and makes sure to annoy her an extra bit with a soft hickey on Clarke's neck.

Clarke's hands just dig deeper into Lexa's hair and she moans more high-pitched and Lexa has a feeling it didn't annoy her at all.

There's a certain satisfaction in making Clarke quiver, now knowing fully well who she is, in making her eyes go black with desire while the ring of blue still pours out a certain hatred, in making her moan, "Oh Lexa, please," when Clarke usually doesn't use 'please' at all.

There's a whole other (more secret) satisfaction in coming back up self-satisfied, but Clarke goes to feel Lexa's own wetness instead, in Clarke's raspy, teasing whisper of, "Oh, I didn't know how much you enjoyed eating me out,", in trying to keep up any pretence of being unaffected until Clarke makes her see stars.

And there's a last (most secret) satisfaction in lying down in bed, weak for only a few seconds, careless for only a few seconds, hands and lips lingering for only a few seconds. For a fragment of time, it's just them now, covered in the reminiscenes of desire, away from anything else.

Then, the hate floods back in. Clarke's hand slips slowly, as if to extend the feeling of warmth beneath her fingertips, from the soft skin covering Lexa's ribs. Lexa lingers in the last kiss they share under the pretence of the fading afterglow.
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