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Finally, she is alone in her tent. The sound of the party outside is waning as people drop off to sleep, muffled as it filters through the slit of her tent flap. A breeze whistles in, chill against her bare, sweat-slicked skin, and it makes her shiver. But she is not cold.
Leksa takes another long draught of her bottle. She’s close to the end now, and the red that had tasted sweet at the beginning of the night is thick and bitter in her mouth, slimy against her teeth, and burns as it goes down. The furs are a rumpled mess around her. She shifts in her seat a little, swipes at the slick drying across her abdomen and the insides of her thighs: remnants of the beta she’d fucked half-way through the celebrations.
The Mountain has fallen. Their people have returned to them, safe and sound. The clans are united and all through the night, they have chanted her name in victory. Leksa has succeeded where Hedas before her have failed. She should be happy, or at the very least pleased and satisfied with her accomplishments.
And yet.
She up-ends the bottle, taps it with her forefingers to shake the last dry drops loose from the lip and catch them with her tongue. They sting in her mouth, sharp and angry, and even after the second bottle the holes in her heart and in her soul are empty and hollow. They bleed, and she feels more and more empty the more she drinks and the more she fucks. A lump corks her throat, because she has nothing left, and she spikes her uselessly empty bottle at the floor with a grunt. It shatters in the packed dirt, the dark glass scatters in a radius of glittering splinters. The shards are stained bloody red, like her hands, like her heart.
Still naked, Leksa curls into her furs and tugs them over her head. Her bed reeks of sex and alcohol, of alpha pheromones and bland beta come, and it fills up Leksa’s nose, sordid and taunting. But the covers block out the rest of the world, block out her responsibilities, block out her failures, block out everything but the blank, deep, inviting darkness. In here, she can pretend she is not Heda. In here, she can pretend she is not Leksa. In here, she can pretend that when she wakes up again and lifts the furs, she will be young and alive again.
But when she wakes in the morning and lifts her head, her mouth is dry and tastes of bile, her skin and bed still reek of sex and frustration and anger, and she knows her people will look at her and ask how she will die for them again.
The festivities following the successful extraction of their people from Mount Weather last several days. In that time, news reaches them that the Skaikru, that Klark, was successful in bringing down the Mountain. Lost in a haze of alcohol and tobacco and sex, Leksa hears how scouts found the bodies of over four-hundred Maunon in what appeared to be a dining hall, stinking and bloated and bleeding and dead. She hears the stories that no one seems to know the origin of - stories of dragon fire and the wrath of the gods that swept through Mount Weather’s halls. She hears the stories of the single Skai girl, of the WanHeda, and how she destroyed her enemy with the stroke of a single lever.
She wonders if Klark will come to destroy her too. She wonders if Klark already has.
Indra interrupts her in the middle of the night, cock-deep in another beta. The general clears her throat to announce her presence, but Leksa only spares a glance over her shoulder to see her standing there, and turns her attention back to the woman she’s mounted from behind. The girl balks, pussy tightening around Leksa’s length, and starts to slide off, but Leksa grips her hip with one hard hand and finds the button of her clit with the other and coaxes a sharp cry from her conquest before picking up her rhythm where she’d left off.
“I’m busy, Indra,” Leksa growls even while she fucks into slick, quaking muscle and grunts as another wave of arousal coats the base of her cock and drips down the inside of her thighs. In the days since Indra has started interrupting her mid-fuck, Leksa has discovered that the deep rumble of her growl can keep whoever is impaled on her cock wet and wanting, and she can’t be bothered to stop just to hear about another of Klark’s exploits. In fact, she can’t stop because anything to do with Klark makes her angry and horny and it is the easiest way to get her to come. She knows Indra does not interrupt her for that reason, but she also knows Indra does interrupt her because it is the fastest way to get Leksa off, and make her stop.
She hears Indra’s heavy sigh and grunts as she fucks harder into wet, shivering silk. She continues to massage the beta’s clit, and a long, reedy moan erupts from the girl’s mouth. “Get on with it,” Leksa snarls again, though whether she is talking to the beta she has mounted or to Indra even she is not entirely sure.
“The scouts have returned,” Indra says tonelessly, and the beta struggles in Leksa’s grip again until another long, rolling growl rips from Leksa’s throat and coaxes another violent shiver in the tight muscle massaging Leksa’s cock, “the Skaikru have returned to their camp. But Klark did not return with them.”
Leksa shoves the beta beneath her into the hard mattress of her bed and collapses over her, a steady stream of growled profanities breaking from her lips into the beta’s throat as she grinds hard into wildly contracting silk. She pumps her hips furiously as the beta trips over the edge, and the heavy contractions of the beta’s cunt build hard, hot pressure along Leksa’s aching length.
“She is gone, Heda.”
Leksa pulls out just in time for the first hot jet of come to break from the head of her cock and ribbon across the beta’s back. It is blindingly white in the darkness, artfully drawn across a long, lean, tanned back, and steams in the chill of early winter that filters in through the flap of Leksa’s tent. Leksa pretends that when Indra says Klark is gone that Klark is coming back to her. She pretends as she strokes another hard stream of come from her cock that Klark will be here soon, taking every load that spurts out of her into her own quaking cunt. She pretends that she still has a chance with the beautiful Skai girl, that Klark understands the choice she had to make, that in making a similar choice, in becoming WanHeda, that there is even the faintest possibility that Leksa might mate her.
She leans back on her heels, her throbbing cock still fisted in one hand, and pumps it slowly. White heat spills over the divot at the head and coats her knuckles, and to soothe the beta she used she swirls her fingers across the slippery wet backside splayed between her knees. The beta whimpers, and Leksa hears Indra clear her throat again, and the shift of her feet as she turns away.
“The scouts believe she is heading toward their first landing site,” Indra continues in a softer voice than before. Leksa closes her eyes and slows the hard pump of her fist, strokes herself as her cock begins to shrink slowly in her hand. The beta she fucked turns on the bed, and Leksa strokes a thumb over her thigh to express her gratitude. Because their violent fuck has allowed exhaustion to set in, and the mud of alcohol and tobacco in her head is finally enough to fog the anger and pain and resentment that had made it far too difficult to sleep before.
“Is there anything else, Indra?” Leksa asks finally, voice thin and reedy and raspy in the patchy veil of semi-darkness inside her tent. The candles gutter, as if sensing Leksa’s readiness to sleep.
“I have directed the scouts to keep an eye on her. To see if she returns to her people’s camp.”
“Good. Then leave.”
There is another slight hesitation. Leksa can feel Indra’s disapproval in the stare she knows is directed at the back of her head. But Indra eventually shuffles her feet and leaves, and she takes with her all the words Leksa has left. The beta leaves as well after a few moments, once she has dried herself off on the threadbare towel Leksa points her to and dressed in her clothes, and finally, Leksa is alone again. She collapses beside the wet spot on her bed, breathes in the thick, heavy scent of fear and anger and heartbreak running rampant in the furs and sheets, and dreams of Klark: of Klark’s mouth on hers, of Klark’s hands, of Klark’s hair and the stormy scent of her skin.
She dreams that Klark will come back to her, and that Klark will set her free.
“This is ridiculous, Heda,” Indra growls at her from the flaps that conceal the inner chamber of Leksa’s tent. She is shrouded in shadow, but Leksa - bare, glistening in sweat, driving into yet another nameless beta from behind - glows in the flickering orange light of the candle beside her bed. “You cannot go on like this,” Indra continues, her voice low and dangerous, but Leksa ignores her and continues to fuck hard into the squirming woman kneeling on hands and knees before her. The beta whines in pleasure as Leksa reaches around to toy with her clit, and fresh heat pulses around Leksa’s swollen cock and over her hips. Word has gone around quickly that Leksa is often interrupted mid-fuck, and if a beta wants to fall into Heda’s bed, she’d better be into a little exhibitionism.
“I can go on however I want,” Leksa snarls, one hand curled into the beta’s hair into a fist to hold her head down. It is easier to pretend that the beta she’s fucking is Klark if she cannot see the girl’s face, cannot see that the color of her hair and the curve of her lips and the glow of her skin is all wrong. Her hips slow their brutal thrusts, she revels in the feeling of being enveloped tip to base in fluttering, slick heat, and tugs at the clit between her fingers. The beta she has mounted whimpers in pleasure and rocks back against her. Leksa can tell by the roll of muscle tight around her cock that the beta is close. Fullness pulses along her throbbing length, she pumps her hips hard into the beta’s slick cunt and grunts as slippery heat pulls and grasps around her and contractions begin to ripple.
The smell of orgasm permeates the air. The beta groans in pleasure and rocks again, heat washes Leksa’s hips and Leksa pushes harder into her. She’s close, so close, if only she can pretend the beta she’s fucking is Klark…
A resigned sigh breaks the rapid rhythm of panting. “She needs your help, Heda,” there’s a beat, as if even Indra cannot believe what she’s saying, what she’s implying, “the scouts say she does not eat and does not sleep.” The reminder that someone is there, that someone is watching, has the beta spasming under Leksa’s iron grip and whining in combined humiliation and pleasure. Leksa starts up a new rhythm, her thrusts hard and deep, and the sound of her hips slapping into the beta’s ass cuts the air. Tension is coiling in Leksa’s abdomen, pressure is building at the base of her cock, orgasm ripples along the length, Leksa imagines herself buried deep in Klark’s cunt and fucking hard into her.
“You’re suggesting I go to her?” Leksa grunts, eyes squeezing shut as the beta’s moans rise and a fresh wave of contractions shudder through her. Leksa abandons the clit between her fingers, grips the hips against hers to hold them still instead. The rhythm she sets now is punishing and the beta kneeling before her pants raggedly between gasped cries of ecstasy.
“If it will stop this madness,” Indra answers, and Leksa can feel a shiver of twisted pleasure at the rebellion in her tone, “your people wonder if the Skai Prisa has broken you. I think they are not wrong.” Heat explodes along the throbbing length of Leksa’s cock and she snarls as she yanks it out just in time. The beta tumbles away from Leksa, a hard jet of come shoots through the air to splash across the girl’s twisted belly. The idea of Klark breaking her, taking her knot and mating her, making Leksa completely and utterly hers, has completely undone her.
She can see from the corner of her eye that Indra pushes herself to her feet, and is watching while Leksa pumps her cock in her fist. Thick white streams of come spurt through the air to ribbon across the beta’s chest and stomach. When Leksa looks over her shoulder at her general, she is wickedly pleased to see the hard outlines of resentment and misgiving across Indra’s face, that it is creased with tension and worry and anger all at once. She’s never enjoyed unsettling her general before, but her resentment of her own position and her anger have twisted and darkened her sense of humor. Now, it pleases her greatly to know she’s gotten under the impassive alpha’s skin.
Leksa grunts as she massages the last thick waves of come from her cock. She forces herself to stand, and the world tilts a little, reminding her that she is still drunk and high from the last bottle of moonshine and the last pipe of spliff she consumed before taking this beta - whose name she does not even care to remember - to her bed.
Wordlessly, Leksa cleans herself off with the rumpled furs half-hanging off her mattress. She’ll wash up more thoroughly after Indra and the beta leave, though the weak possibility that the scent of another woman on her skin will make Klark jealous is a thrilling and exciting one. Indra glares at her, eyebrows knit into a tight, furious frown.
“So you have decided, then?” Indra asks with only the slightest amount of dark satisfaction coloring her tone, “you will go to the Skai bitch that has broken you and what? Make amends?”
For a moment, Leksa allows white hot anger to invade her lungs and fill her with a strength so long absent it feels foreign now. Then she winds back her fist and a sharp crack breaks the silence, the force of Leksa’s strike has Indra twisting to the floor. Leksa can hear her own teeth grind in her head now, can feel the muscles in her jaw jump with her rage. She burns with it, from the inside out, and it is almost as powerful as the self-rage and self-hatred she has felt since she walked away from Klark on that mountain over a week ago. She ignores the naked, used woman on the bed, scrambling away from them both with a fearful whine, and stares at Indra as she rises from the ground with eerie grace and crosses her arms over her chest.
Indra’s lip is already swelling. Black blood glistens at the corner of her mouth.
“Be wary of your people’s dissatisfaction with you, Heda,” Indra says evenly, as if the blow to her face had not even ruffled her, “and come back the alpha you were before she broke you.”
“I have always been Alpha,” Leksa hisses back, voice cold as she strides past her general to the slitted opening of her tent to order a bath be drawn for her. “I am as steel, and nothing will break me.”
Indra turns to face her, dark eyes glittering in the dim candlelight. Leksa knows she should feel regret for the egg swelling along her general’s lip. Indra has always been loyal, has been like a mother to her, and Leksa has never before raised a hand against her. But pain and anger and self-disgust have twisted Leksa so deeply inside she cannot bring herself to care now. All she can bring herself to care about is the Skai girl that hates her. “Make sure she is cleaned up and returned to her home,” Leksa waves a careless hand at the beta she has just used, “and do not send scouts after me, Indra.”
“She will try to kill you,” Indra cautions her as she pads over to help the frightened beta off the bed, “and even steel breaks under enough pressure, Heda.”
Leksa holds the tent flap open for them, and a curious, cold smile curls at the corner of her mouth. “She won’t. Even if she could.”
It is a long ride from Tondisi to the dropship. The bath she’d taken before setting out was quick and cursory, cold because she’d grown too impatient to let the water warm properly. She still smells faintly of beta and booze, and she wonders how Klark will truly react to that scent. She wonders how Klark will react to her at all.
It is late by the time Leksa arrives at the charred black outskirts of the dropship. It still stinks of death and ash, even months after the explosion that burned hundreds of her warriors to a crisp. But she can pick out the thin scent of ozone and rain, and knows Klark is here. Her footsteps echo as she strides up the gangplank to the heavy synthetic curtain over the entrance.
She knows Klark is aware of her presence before she ever pushes it aside.
There is a gun pointed right at her chest when Leksa lifts the curtain. Klark’s expression is twisted with rage and disgust, and she is filthy. Old blood and dirt stain her features, her beautiful golden hair is a greasy, tangled mess, her whole body is fraught with tension, but her icy blue eyes glitter like fresh snow in the early morning.
Leksa crosses her arms over her chest and ignores the barrel pushing into her skin. She regards the woman standing in front of her, almost unrecognizable past the hatred and the anger. But Leksa knows Klark will not pull the trigger.
“What the fuck do you want?” Klark’s voice is low, rough, raspy. She has been crying, and her voice grates as if she has been screaming for hours without reprieve. Leksa’s eyes adjust to the low light of the dropship, and now she can see that Klark’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. She can see the shadows that yawn beneath, new lines cragged into her face from lack of sleep.
Leksa does not answer her question. She only narrows her eyes, pumps alpha pheromones into the air to remind Klark who the boss is between them, and shifts her stance. The single inch she has over Klark seems to grow to feet. Klark’s lips curl into a nasty snarl, her nostrils flare, and Leksa does not miss the sudden increase in omega pheromones curling in the air between them, a direct response to Leksa’s posturing.
Omegas are submissive to alphas. But not this one. Never this one. And as Leksa glares down at the gutsy omega squaring off against her, she remembers that an increase in alpha pheromones has never made Klark submit. All it has ever done is increase her drive to challenge - harder, faster, stronger, better.
Leksa raises a hand and pushes the gun away. She thinks she can hear Klark’s teeth grind in the silence between them, but Klark drops her hand and holsters her gun. Her arms cross over her chest in an exact mirror of Leksa’s stance.
“What the fuck do you want?” Klark asks again, still rough and grating, but softer, less demanding now.
“Nothing.”
This is not strictly true. Leksa cannot pinpoint her exact reasoning for coming after Klark, but a plethora of weak excuses come to mind: to ensure that the leader of the Skaikru does not plan on initiating war or an attack against the Trikru; to discuss peace talks; to confirm the truth of the rumors circulating about Mount Weather.
“Bullshit.”
Klark turns away, her acerbic tone a clear indication that she does not believe Leksa’s lie. Leksa steps in behind Klark, and Klark’s scent envelops her. It is much stronger here, thick and vibrant and encompassing, and Leksa sucks in a deep lungful without even thinking about it. It is sour with the edge of fear, bitter with anger, but still the sweet-salty smell of ocean spray, the electric underlay of a violent storm on the horizon. Leksa’s hands fall to her sides, her shoulders loosen. Her body warms reactively to this scent, and Leksa grits her teeth, because she and Klark are not friends, are not even allies, and her scent should not have the power to ease her tired spirit like this.
Sudden pain blooms across Leksa’s cheek and blinds her. She twists away from the impact, one hand rising to cover her face where Klark’s knuckles slammed forcefully into her. Her skin is hot and swells against her fingers immediately, and Leksa growls as she rises again, eyes flashing, to face Klark.
“You fucking bitch,” Klark’s growl rolls from somewhere deep in her chest, and Leksa steps back agilely as Klark takes another pass at her. Knuckles skim across the skin of Leksa’s nose, and Leksa has to dodge under another hook to get away from Klark’s furious and uncoordinated strikes. There is a glimmer in Klark’s eyes that looks suspiciously like tears. “Do you know what I had to do because of you?!” Klark’s voice echoes off the steel walls, harsh and grating and writhing with pain and anger and hatred. Klark throws another punch, greasy gold hair flying with her momentum, and Leksa deflects with the palm of her hand, wraps her fingers around Klark’s wrist and tugs hard.
They both grunt as Klark’s back slams into Leksa’s chest and Leksa wraps her other arm tightly around Klark’s midriff, holding both of Klark’s arms down with a steel grip and crushing them together. Klark’s scent swirls thick and heavy around Leksa’s head, choking in its intensity, and for a moment Leksa can’t breath. The warmth of Klark’s back bleeds into her front, their hips are molded together and Leksa feels her clit throb and swell.
“You did what you had to do,” Leksa whispers. Her voice is rough, but with arousal or emotion - or both - Leksa cannot force herself to examine. Klark shivers in her arms, though her skin feels almost feverishly hot. Leksa’s mouth skims over the pounding pulse point in Klark’s throat, and another heady wave of omega fills her lungs…
Her fantasies and nightmares surge to the forefront of Leksa’s brain. Klark shudders again, and a sound like a whine and a growl drips thick and throaty from her lips. Leksa feels her clit twitch in sudden, overwhelming arousal before it begins to extend.
“Fuck you,” Klark rasps hoarsely. Leksa blushes furiously and buries her face in the crook of Klark’s neck. She knows Klark can feel her suddenly swelling erection pressing against her backside, and it’s both humiliating and terrifying at once. But she is the Heda, and she is an alpha, and Klark is in heat. Klark is in heat and the soft swell of her ass is pressed tight against her, and every fantasy Leksa has ever had in the middle of fucking half the betas in Tondisi spring to the forefront of her brain, relentless and crushing.
“You did what you had to do,” Leksa repeats, struggling to mask the cracks in her voice, “just as I did what I had to do, to save our people.” She nips sharply at the fluttering pulse under her lips, to remind Klark that she is the alpha here, and to steal a taste of Klark’s heat from her pores. She tastes of sweat and grime, but it is electric on the tips of Leksa’s teeth. It makes Klark gasp, the hard swell of the air she’s sucked in pushes against Leksa’s arms and pulls a groan forcibly from somewhere deep in her chest.
“Fuck you,” Klark says again between clenched teeth. But her ass grinds against Leksa’s erection and her jaw tilts upward, granting Leksa access to more of her throat.
Klark. Is. In. Heat. And every thought Leksa had, every conversation she’d imagined, fly out of the dropship’s entrance and flit away into the growing darkness outside. All she can manage is to wonder if Klark’s heat started before she arrived, or if it was triggered when Leksa tried to overwhelm her with alpha pheromones. It doesn’t matter. They are still and silent for a while, sharing their body heat, mingling their scents, struggling with their instincts and their need and their anger.
“I hate you,” Klark whispers finally, and a whimper spills from her lips in the breath that follows. Though her entire body is coiled tight in the hard circle of Leksa’s arms, she twists her wrists and grasps Leksa’s hands with her own, holding her down, holding her close. Though Leksa’s heart is caged in blood and steel, agony slices through the bars and pierces her through. It’s already broken, but the damage caused now by the way Klark holds her still is irreparable.
A growl rips from Leksa’s throat, and just as she’s about to let go, to push Klark away from her and leave, Klark pushes back against her, ass rubbing provocatively into the hard swell of Leksa’s cock. “You don’t get to just leave this time,” Klark hisses poisonously, and a wave of omega pheromones washes over them both, “not again. You owe me, Lexa.” The thick cloud of Klark’s heat breaks the last tenuous hold Leksa has over her own sanity. Instead of letting go, she shoves the omega up against the wall, finds her wrists again and slams them against the cold steel, traps Klark’s warm, soft body beneath her hard, angular one and slots her hips against Klark’s.
“Fuck you,” Leksa hisses into the omega’s ear and rubs the aching length of her fully erect cock into the valley between Klark’s butt cheeks. It fits perfectly there, and though the fabric between them chafes, it feels good and Leksa starts a hard, slow tempo that she can feel catch in Klark’s pulse. Another whimper spills from between Klark’s lips, and the minute Klark arches into her, Leksa lets go of her wrist and reaches down to shove her hand beneath the loose waistband of her pants.
Wet heat greets her fingertips instantly. The dampness has only begun to reach the back of her pants, but the crotch is already soaked through with slick and Leksa can’t stop the groan that rolls through her chest. Her stomach tightens, need coils and jumps along the length of her cock, her fingers slip easily through Klark’s folds and dance over her clit. It’s stiff and throbbing against her already, and another pulse of heat floods Leksa’s fingers. She’s so focused on the contours of Klark’s cunt, the soft folds and the tight ring of muscle clenching over the first knuckle of her index finger, she almost misses the soft, breathy “yes,” Klark pants into her face.
Her control snaps briefly. She plunges her fingers deep into slippery heat and thrusts her hips into Klark’s ass hard at once, and howls in frustration at how painfully tight and constricting her pants are over her erection and the fullness that races its length, swelling it harder and deepening the ache. Klark whines in a way that catches the very breath in Leksa’s throat, and rolls into Leksa’s fingers.
After that, it’s a scramble to tear clothes off. Leksa’s fingers are clumsy over the button of her pants, and it’s especially hard to peel them off around the bulge pounding against it. Everything else is easy: Klark’s shirt rips beneath her hands, her pants fall and pool around their feet, and Leksa doesn’t even bother with her own top - not yet. The heady, heavy smell of heat and musk and need swirl in a cloud around them, and the arousal slicing through Leksa’s belly rises in deep, rolling growls through her lungs that burst from between her teeth. Klark is panting heavily, mist swells against the steel under her face with every breath and she whines with pleasure the instant Leksa’s fingers slide between her legs again.
But Leksa’s cock throbs. Heat slips past her fingers to drip down the insides of Klark’s thighs and Leksa grunts as she pulls and pushes to fit her aching length between them. She can’t help attacking Klark’s neck with her lips, tongue and teeth, nipping and sucking the soft flesh as it thrums under her mouth with the quiet moans and whimpers that roll unceasingly from Klark’s throat. The instant her slick slides over Leksa’s cock is the instant Leksa falls apart. It’s the instant she gives over every shred of control to the omega squirming under her weight and loses the shattered remnants of her heart to the woman she knows will pulverize its remains. It’s the instant she stops being Heda, and the instant she starts being Leksa.
It is a blur, and in the space between one forced breath and the next, Klark manages to topple them both to the floor and straddle her hips. Leksa’s fingers dig hard into soft skin, she hisses in pleasure and pain as Klark drags her dripping cunt along the underside of Leksa’s shaft, thickening the ache that pounds along it and pulling a glistening drop of precum from the purpling slit at the head. Pressure coils at the base, her knot inflates, her head swims with the thick, sweet scent of Klark’s arousal and her heat, and the sight of Klark - bare and glowing and writhing over her - is muggy and fuzzy and too beautiful to be real. A lump rises in Leksa’s throat. She’s not sure she wants this. Or at least, she’s not sure this is how she wants this.
A snarl curls on Klark’s lips. She slides up the length of Leksa’s cock until the flared head lodges against Klark’s pulsing entrance. Heat soaks Leksa’s hips along the way, pooling in her belly button, scalding and fragrant. The words ‘I love you’ pool in Leksa’s throat and harden there. She’s not sure if they’re true, or if they’re just a product of the bliss she can feel in the tight ring of muscle fluttering in a frantic attempt to close over her shaft. Her eyes burn, and Klark’s face blurs as the omega bends over her, shoving her top out of the way to palm at her breasts, and smashes their mouths together.
The metallic burn of blood flavors their kiss. Klark’s chapped lips have busted on impact and Leksa laps at the broken skin with the tip of her tongue to soothe the pain, but Klark only bites sharply at it as she lines her cunt up to the head of Leksa’s cock. It isn’t Leksa that drives deep inside - it is Klark who sinks over her and effectively steals every shred of breath from Leksa’s lungs and every half-formed thought clinging to the inside of her head. It is impossible to maintain any semblance of control, and it is all Leksa can do to keep herself from flipping them both over and rutting hard into Klark.
Fullness ripples along the shaft of Leksa’s cock and is answered in the shudder of hot, wet silk pulsing around it. A groan rolls in Leksa’s chest and Klark swallows it immediately as it surges between their mouths. She feels Klark flinch against her lips, feels her whole body tighten against the sudden, undoubtedly painful stretch, but Klark doesn’t hesitate to pick up an immediate rhythm. Leksa’s toes curl at the pleasure of being enveloped tip to base in Klark’s heat, and she’s already so fucking close to the edge it’s driving her mad.
But Klark rises over her, breaking their violent kiss with a final swift bite to her lower lip and glares furiously down at her. The razor sharp glitter in her glacier eyes is enough to tell Leksa she can’t come, she’s not allowed to. Her omega demands it, and it is her omega that is in charge. It is Klark that owns her in this moment, whether Leksa likes it or not.
And then Klark winds her body and rides her, and Leksa stares in utter fascination at the way her hips move, the way her smooth, soft stomach rolls, the way her breasts sway and the long, delicious line of her neck… her mouth waters and her gums ache. Her cock twitches with every squeeze Klark gives around it and Leksa rolls her hips to the rhythm her omega has set, struggles to keep up and to keep her climax at bay. Every nerve in her body is concentrated along the shaft buried deep inside her lover, and she feels Klark everywhere. Her knot throbs almost painfully, the hot slick that slides from between their joined bodies heightens the pulse of need, and the grind of Klark’s clit against its base has engorged it so heavily Leksa thinks it’s impossible for Klark to take it in, no matter how desperate Leksa is to tie them together. She grits her teeth, because a knot of equal proportion has formed in her throat and she can’t breathe around it.
It’s everything she ever wanted, but not at all how she wanted it. Klark’s scent bleeding into her skin makes her feel alive, but the hatred burning in her cold blue eyes is a slow, agonizing death. Leksa can’t swallow around the lump in her throat, the one holding all the words she wishes she could say but knows she can’t. So she holds on to Klark’s hips, digs her fingernails into soft, pale, grime-stained skin and struggles to contain the orgasm screaming for release. Every roll of Klark’s hips builds the tension coiling in her abdomen, and every clench of Klark’s cunt over her slick knot breaks Leksa a little more until she’s ready to scream and the ache is agonizing in its intensity.
Hot, tight velvet convulses around her. Klark clenches greedily at Leksa’s hard length and shudders with every twitch it gives. The sounds that break from Klark’s mouth are inhuman, deep moans and husky, rasping growls and it’s enough all on its own to bring Leksa to a trembling, whimpering mess. Klark grinds down hard, her pulsing cunt massages Leksa’s knot relentlessly, and Leksa screams because holding back is shooting pain along her abdomen now and she’s not sure she can come anymore.
“You never -,” Klark’s hiss cracks and Leksa struggles to understand the mangled words that stumble through her mouth, “you - never lose - fucking - control, do you?!”
She can’t take it anymore.
Leksa roars as she rises, ignores the stab of pain that races from the base of her cock to the head and throws Klark off her. Their bodies glisten with slick, and a pool of Klark’s arousal has puddled on the ground beneath their hips. The smell of it clouds Leksa’s brain as she scrambles to her knees and flips the omega over, her fingers scrabble for purchase and without pausing to line herself up properly, she drives deep into the slippery heat of Klark’s pussy. A sharp whine explodes from Klark’s mouth, but Leksa is deaf to the sound as she ruts into the omega from behind. Heat splashes her hips, belly and thighs and as quickly as Leksa picks up a sloppy, irregular rhythm she abandons it to grind hard against Klark’s backside and collapse heavily over her.
Lightning crackles along the heavy pounding length of her cock and sparks in the clenching velvet heat that surrounds it. Thunder breaks in her chest and rumbles between them. Leksa grinds her knot hard into Klark’s cunt, and her teeth close over the pulse in Klark’s throat as it is swallowed inch by agonizingly slow inch in slick, wet heat. She’s deaf to Klark’s whimpers beneath her, but Klark’s breath flaring against her forehead is cool and soothing. She revels in the writhe of Klark’s body against her own, and as the final throbbing inch of her knot slides into Klark’s cunt with a slick ‘pop’, Leksa’s jaw clenches shut and the metallic taste of blood fills her mouth.
Her skin ignites. Heat dances under her flesh and release floods her veins as the first scalding jet of come ripples along her length and explodes into wildly contracting muscle. Leksa feels the air leave Klark’s lungs in a single exhale and digs her teeth deeper into Klark’s throat, claiming what’s hers, what should always have been hers, what will always be hers. They rock together as shot after searing shot of come bursts from Leksa’s cock, and Klark’s belly swells with the deluge of Leksa’s release. Klark clenches violently around her, pulling every load greedily and squeezing at Leksa’s knot for more.
It is a long time before Leksa’s first orgasm fades and Klark’s contractions settle into aftershocks, before the mists of Leksa’s instinct to rut, fuck and claim burns away in the light of what she’d just done. And it is only then that Leksa realizes her mate is crying. Klark’s shoulders beneath her chest shudder violently, she turns her face away and her hands clench into fists around her head. Leksa pumps her hips into Klark’s weakly and laps at the deep, sluggishly bleeding lacerations she’d bitten into her throat, and every sob that rips from Klark’s lungs tears at the mangled shreds of her raw and bleeding heart. She wraps her arms more firmly around Klark and tenderly suckles the angry red mark she made in an attempt to soothe her. She doesn’t need to ask Klark why she’s crying. She already knows.
And once again, she can’t be sorry for what she’s done.
“Klark,” Leksa whispers finally, voice rough and raspy with overuse. Klark shudders beneath her and tenses. Leksa doesn’t know what to say to her, because the only words she has are ones she fears Klark will reject. Instead, she kisses the column of Klark’s throat and brushes her fingers through Klark’s hair until Klark turns her head again to face her.
The rims of her eyes are puffy and red, but her eyes themselves are the bluest Leksa has ever seen them. They glow in the settling dark, the color so pure and vibrant that everything around them is gray. Leksa’s cock twitches, heat runs along the shaft and another weak spurt of come breaks from the tip to flood Klark’s belly a little more. Klark’s eyes flutter shut, and Leksa dares to lean in and ghost a kiss to her mate’s lips.
The contractions start again, and Leksa’s teeth find Klark’s pulse and fasten over the grooves they’ve already broken in her skin, deepening their bond as Leksa claims her mate again. She pumps her hips into Klark’s, a growl builds in her lungs and escapes between her mouth and Klark’s throat in a soft, mournful whimper. Klark whines in reply, but does not fight it.
When their shared release fades again and Leksa lifts her head to find that fat, hot tears are still rolling down the bridge of Klark’s nose and across her temple, she finally finds the words she means to say. She’s not sorry for what she’s done, but she is sorry for the pain it brings the one she loves.
“Klark, I’m sorry.”
It comes out strangled, but sincere. Pain has corked Leksa’s throat and salt stings the corners of her eyes and her teeth clench with the agony that throbs in her chest, its beat synchronous with the fading contractions of Klark’s dying release. Klark only stares at her in disbelief.
“I’m sorry this hurt you,” Leksa forces herself to continue when Klark remains silent, to elaborate on her apology and make Klark believe her, “I’m sorry I hurt you. It was never my intention.”
She can feel Klark swallow. She can feel the way her mate’s heart shatters in her chest, can feel the ache of Klark’s soul in the rattle of her breath in her lungs.
And then Klark relaxes under her. Cold, sticky fingers sink into Leksa’s hair. Warm breath caresses Leksa’s face. Their foreheads touch, their noses brush, and for the next hour, through half a dozen more weakening orgasms, Leksa holds her mate in her arms, kisses and nuzzles and suckles the mating bite that will scar in Klark’s throat, and Klark’s sobs slow and quiet until she’s empty and silent. Leksa aches to tell her mate she loves her. She aches to hear the words said back. But she knows she has not earned it, and does not deserve it.
When her knot shrinks enough to slide out and their tie is broken, Leksa nuzzles her mate’s bitemark one more time and shifts to allow Klark to slip out from beneath her. But Klark only burrows deeper into Leksa’s embrace and turns enough to bury her face into the hollow of Leksa’s throat. Fresh tears mingle with the sweat still cooling and drying on her skin.
“Klark?”
The question is hushed. Klark’s name on her tongue sounds like a prayer. Klark shudders once, and Leksa feels teeth graze against her collarbone. She feels more than she hears Klark mumble “shut up, Lexa” resentfully into her skin, so she does.
Leksa lives her entire life in the soft, silent minutes that stretch between them then. It is the only life she will ever get to keep for herself, the only brief period she can claim as completely her own, the only breaths she takes that she feels are truly worth breathing. In those soft, silent minutes, Klark has set her free.
She knows it is foolish to imagine that this could possibly be forever. She knows she is setting herself up for more heartbreak to think that Klark’s closeness to her now means that her omega, her mate, can love her. She knows that when these short, beautiful moments are over, that she and Klark will separate again, perhaps forever, and all she will ever have of Klark is this memory. But Klark… Klark will carry her scent with her forever, will carry her soul, and for Leksa, this is enough.
Leksa has enough time to press a single, tear-stained kiss into her mate’s hair before Klark shoves her away. And just like that, those soft, silent minutes are gone.
The Heda forces herself to sit up while Klark scrambles to her feet and yanks her filthy clothes on. She watches with hollow eyes and a hollow heart and a hollow soul while her mate scrapes the tears from her eyes and scrapes angrily at the mark on her neck and turns, eyes screaming, to face her. She is numb while Klark shoves her pauldron and her jacket and her pants and her boots in her face.
“Leave.”
It’s not a request, but an order. Leksa slowly pulls her clothes back on, too tired and too broken to fight. She does not want to go, but she has made the ultimate commitment to Klark, and she knows it is not enough. It will never be enough.
“Get out,” Klark hisses, shoving at Leksa to hurry with her clothes and pulling her off the ground only to shove her through the synthetic curtain door of the dropship, “I never want to see you again.”
Leksa is broken glass, jagged and screaming. She stares through shattered vision at her mate, and knows Klark feels the same. It hurts to leave, but she knows it will hurt more to stay, to watch Klark self-destruct because Klark is too angry to do anything else, and Leksa’s presence only makes it worse. But though it is salt to the wound, she reaches out, touches Klark’s shoulder with the very tips of her fingers.
“I would die for you,” she murmurs into the miles that stretch between them. Klark stares at her for a moment longer, mouth stretched and tight and trembling. And then Leksa turns against her own instincts and walks away.
Her foot is in the stirrup when Klark calls out her name.
She pauses, but when nothing else comes, she slings herself into the saddle.
Her horse’s hooves nearly drown out Klark’s voice when she calls out a second time, and Leksa stops just where the burnt trees wither out of the ground, just out of reach of the forests of her people.
“Do the harder thing, Lexa,” Klark’s voice breaks in the cold wind that sweeps across Leksa’s damp cheeks, “live for me.”
The words crackle in the crisp winter air between them, the last dying leaves of a summer that ended too soon. Leksa tilts her head to look behind her, but Klark is already gone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She knows that Lexa has been keeping an eye on her. Even if she didn’t catch sight of Trikru scouts just beyond Camp Jaha’s wire fence. Even if she didn’t catch the staring eyes of traders and guards and messengers throughout the years since Lexa mated her, she would have known.
She can feel Lexa under her skin. She holds Lexa’s heart beside her own, feels Lexa’s blood run in her veins and beat against her chest. She takes strength from it. She takes everything she can from it.
It has been more than three years since the last time she’s seen her mate. Not because their paths don’t cross, but because she avoids her. She begs Bellamy to take her place in dealing with her, begs Kane to work out peace talks in her place, begs her mother to make excuses for her, and they do. The bite mark on her throat fades, but like any scar, it never truly goes away. And it aches…
She has her reasons for seeking Lexa out when she does.
A door opens. The light beyond is blinding, but Clarke can still see perfectly the figure standing at the center of the room beyond. White billows around her, sheer cotton curtains swelling in the breeze. She looks the same, every braid and every tassel, every thread of her sash, every eyelash, every line of her face. But her eyes themselves… they’re hollow.
The faded scar along Clarke’s throat burns.
Lexa does not look at her. Instead, her empty gaze falls to Clarke’s side, and for a moment, Clarke thinks she sees the forest in Lexa’s eyes return to life, but it’s just a ghost. It makes her ache. It seems Lexa could not do what Clarke begged her to do the last time they saw each other, and regret burns sharp and hot at the back of her throat. Lexa looks back up at her, but her expression is blank. There is no recognition there.
“Leave us.”
Lexa’s voice sends a shudder rippling down Clarke’s spine. It’s cold and hard, nothing like it once was, exactly like it used to be. The Commander’s guards file out of the throne room, and close the heavy pitted door behind them. Clarke feels a tug at her side and squeezes the tiny hand clasped in her own in reassurance.
The alpha standing across the room from Clarke is not her mate. Clarke grits her teeth and frowns, because though Lexa still looks exactly the same, she is completely unfamiliar to her now. Her footsteps ring as she descends the stairs from her throne, chin high and eyes cold. Clarke has rehearsed her speech over and over in her head, has pictured and imagined and examined this scenario so many times she thought nothing would surprise her, nothing would take her off guard, but this… she did not expect this.
But then Lexa opens her mouth again and says her name, and it sounds soft and sweet.
“Klark.”
A breath of air. A drop of water in a sandy desert. A thin, dusty beam of light in the darkness, at the end of a tunnel.
“Lexa,” Clarke hasn’t said her name in years. It tastes bitter-sweet on her tongue. “Meet your daughter.”
She watches Lexa look at their child properly for the first time. She watches the way Lexa’s eyes flicker in recognition, the way she looks down at the little girl standing close to Clarke’s legs. She sees the dawn on Lexa’s face, feels the way a little arm wraps around her knee, tastes the old musk of Lexa’s alpha scent in the air and sucks it down.
She watches while Lexa drinks in the sight of the child she never knew she had. And she watches while, a few moments later, Lexa looks back up at her, a question throbbing in her eyes.
Why? Why this? Why now?
Clarke bends, and her little girl’s arms wrap instinctively around her shoulders as she lifts her baby up. She takes first one step, then another, approaching as if Lexa is a deer caught in the lamplight, as if she might flee at the first sign of danger.
“Her name is Anya.”
She can feel Lexa’s heart slam in her chest in the way color begins to bleed into Lexa’s eyes. The way Lexa stares at them both, the way she lifts a trembling hand… Clarke doesn’t know how to tell her that she still doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what she’s done, that she may never deserve forgiveness for what she’s done. But it doesn’t matter. Because she knows, better than most, that forgiveness isn’t about what people deserve. Forgiveness isn’t even about the person being forgiven.
The tips of Lexa’s fingers brush over the soft curve of Anya’s cheek. Anya shies away, tucks her head into the crook of Clarke’s neck, and the heartbreak cracking over Lexa’s face clenches at Clarke’s heart. She steps closer to her mate, closer to her daughter’s sire.
“It’s okay, An. That’s your Nomon,” she whispers into her baby’s ear, and the way Lexa’s eyes flicker at her steal her breath away. Anya sits up against Clarke’s shoulders. She reaches back out to Lexa, big green eyes brave and solemn. Her arm is a bridge, and in the hand she extends to Lexa’s face are the hearts and souls of the two women that love her, but don't know how to love each other.
Lexa tilts her cheek into Anya’s chubby fingers, and for a moment, her eyes flutter closed. Clarke can hear the deep breath she takes, and knows she’s drinking in the scents around her. She knows when she sees the smallest quirk of Lexa’s mouth that she smells her own alpha scent still embedded deep in Clarke’s, and that she smells, for the first time, their daughter’s scent. Anya smells of the forest. She smells of wind and leaves and trees stretching from deep, sweet brown earth into clear blue sky. She smells of life.
“Mine?”
Clarke almost misses the single-word question. She’s too busy watching her mate come back to life, and it’s whispered so softly, so tentatively, so brokenly, she almost can’t believe it’s Lexa asking. Clarke closes the distance between them, and Anya’s fingers clench around the collar of Lexa’s jacket, holding them together like her little life depends on it.
“Ours.”
A painfully familiar smile tugs at the corner of Lexa’s mouth. When Lexa opens her eyes again, they are the dusky green Clarke remembers. They’re faded and worn and old, but they’re filling up and overflowing, and Clarke heals a little bit more to see the frightened, hesitant joy that crinkles in the corners and glitters in streaks down Lexa’s cheeks.
None of this will undo genocide. None of this will unbreak either of their hearts. None of this will make things right between them.
But it’s a start.