Clexa One Shots

The Commander's Room

By: TheEvangelion

The rope has her wrists taut and long towards the ceiling, has her breasts exposed and her belly pushing outwards with the effort to stay on her toes. It's the calloused hand down her spine that makes her breathe again, that has Clarke drawing a long breath in the realisation that she had stopped inhaling all together.

"Good girl, you're doing well," the commander praises with a soft whisper.

She wants to unmake herself into clay, wants to be soft and malleable between her heda's rough hands. And in that regard, Clarke hungers for her commander in all of the nights that she is away from the city, when she is off soothing the frayed politics of her many lands, when she is away tending to the fires of the world. It's when the commander is not in residence that being Wanheda becomes a crown that Clarke cannot take off, a heavy thing on top of her head that keeps her neck sore and her sleep rare.

So many decisions.

So little room to breathe.

So few moments to be human and fallible.

In their private quarters, in the holed up rooms that have became their home, Lexa makes all of those problems disappear with nothing more than the loftiness of her shoulders and the dominant flex of her jaw. The soft leather belt in her hand usually helps, granted. But Clarke could make do with just the skin and bones of her heda if she had to, they were more than enough to make the troubles of being a leader, a decision-maker, dwindle away into a quiet nothingness.

"Now," Lexa stirs Clarke from her daydreaming, "The ambassador from Azgeda. You dismissed him from his post and sent him home?"

Clarke listened to the belt start to become unbuckled and felt herself grow antsy, felt her soft pink nipples begin to stiffen and her cunt hunger for the commander's measured wrath. Lexa prowled around her, lofty and staunch, her warpaint dripping down the sides of her cheeks in to terrifying points. Clarke felt like a strung-up rabbit, an animal of prey that was well and truly caught beneath the stare of this predator. She tugged hard on her bound wrists. It earned the tiniest hint of Lexa's laugh with the pointless act.

Clarke exhaled a shaky breath, "He didn't have any interest in the alliance, Heda. I had to show the others that Polis is not to be considered weak when the heda is away..."

Her explanation does nothing to soothe the brooding commander.

"I understand the ambassador was hurt when he finally reached Azgeda. They tell me a broken arm and six ribs, what do you have to say about that?" The commander waited patiently like a displeased teacher.

Clarke strained against the ropes like an unwilling gelding. It was all for show, a little performance she did during these games to maintain her dignity. Lexa soothed her with a brief stroke of her bottom, then a little reassuring hushing noise that had Clarke red with embarrassment.

Clarke slumped and felt herself grow wet.

"Well I don't know anything about that." Clarke licked her lips nervously, "he must have tripped?"

"Tripped?" Lexa reiterated.

"Tripped."

The belt was pulled back and unleashed on her ass with a single hard stroke of leather. Clarke wrapped her hands into the rope above her wrists and pushed forward on her toes, grunting with her teeth gritted tightly.

Lexa adjusted herself calmly and stepped around with slow thuds of her boots. She cupped Clarke's chin and raised it, allowing herself the slightest of smiles at the tremble of Clarke's bottom lip.