Clexa One Shots

The whole world, it is sleeping

By: billet_doux
"Shh, Clarke," you whisper, smiling against her lips.

The woman beneath you cranes her neck back, pulling her lips away from your own with a hot, heavy pant. Your lips move down her jaw line, teeth nipping as your hands busy themselves with the body beneath your own. Another soft grunt comes from Clarke's throat, and you place a chaste kiss on her neck.

"Lexa," she sighs, body arching up to meet your hand. You curl your fingers ever so slightly, eliciting a guttural whine from the woman on your bed, and you have never felt more in control than at this moment. This is not the control being heda demands; it is not the control you have grown used to. This, Clarke's body beneath your own, is a control earned; a control given, a gift from the woman you love, and that is what makes the difference.

You shush her again gently, bringing your lips down to her collarbone, her chest. While your right hand works against the juncture of Clarke's thighs, your left slides up her torso, resting between the valley of her breasts. She reaches out to grab it with her own hand, wrapping delicate fingers around your calloused ones, and your lips spread into a smile against the thumping of her heart. With slow, calculated movements, you bring her over the edge, feeling the heartbeat under your lips quicken, the hips under your hand jerk up, and hearing a strangled, broken cry from your houmon.

"Ai hod yu in," you mumble against pale skin, relieving your hand of its duty and resting it on Clarke's thigh.

Clarke lets out a contented hum, fingers dancing against the skin of the back of your hand. "I love you, too," she whispers back. You rest your head next to your hand on Clarke's chest, eyes fluttering shut. These are the moments you love the most, every inch of skin against your lover, hearing the erratic thump settling into that which has become your nightly lullaby. Clarke lets out a small laugh, shaking your head against her body. "What, one and done tonight, babe?"

You learned long ago that when Clarke used this term, she was not actually referring to a yongon, but was using it as a term of endearment.

The Sky People never fail to confuse you, but you have also long since learned to live with their strange expressions.

You grin against warm skin. "You have tired me, woman," you say.

Clarke's hand moves from yours, running its course down your side. "Then," she whispers once more, nails digging slightly into the skin of your thigh, "just lay down and let me take care of my beautiful wife,"

Your eyes are heavy, begging for sleep, but you can never deny giving your love to her.

Obeying, you turn onto your back, letting Clarke hover above you, kissing her way down your throat ever so gently, as if anything more than a feathery touch of her lips against your skin would set you ablaze.

But how wrong she is in thinking this; even the gentlest touch, even her gaze upon you sends you burning. It is not the intensity of your love for her that destroys you; it is being with her, being loved by her in any and every way that sets you on fire. Your heart burns out of love, your body burns out of desire, your mind burns out of lust. It is a pleasurable burning that you have felt since you first laid eyes on her, and you never wish for it to go away.

"Try to be quiet," Clarke grins above you. "Elle is sleeping,"

You roll your eyes, sleepily. "Aurelia is too young to know what the noises mean, Klark,"

"She is also too young to be woken hearing her mother's yapping," Clarke teases you. "She is just a newborn, after all. She needs her rest,"

"As if I don't? You have exhausted me," you tease her. Clarke grins. You let out a small grunt of frustration. "She can be moved to her own room, the nursery which you spent so much time preparing!"