#while curl and braid brushes can help...they can look awkward and stiff if used in random directions

[clanoffetts]

Like Real People Do, Part 3

series summary: Kyra Esson, a pilot trying to forget her past, takes Jango Fett up on an offer. It's supposed to be her last hurrah before she settles down, but she can't seem to leave the bounty hunter, no matter how hard they both try.

word count: 2k

warnings: 18+, NSFW. Fluff; Eventual Smut maybe; Slow Burn; uh oh jango catches feelings; Yearning; Dirty Thoughts; ; severe misunderstanding of Slave I’s layout; (M) masturbation

The ship’s hum lulled Kyra to sleep that night and gently brought her out of it the next morning. When she sat up in the cot, her neck was stiff and her back desperately needed to be popped. How the actual fuck did this man sleep here every night? Maybe that’s why he was eager to sleep in the pilot’s seat.

“You awake?” He calls up the ladder. 

“Barely,” Kyra calls back, standing and stretching her limbs. 

Jango hadn’t been awake long, it seemed, as his voice was gruff and his curly hair was a mess atop his head. “You want one?” He asks as Kyra makes her way down into the main hole. He’s holding up some kind of bread in his hand, and it’s half eaten.

“What is it?” 

“Bread.”

Kyra nods. “Sure.” 

Jango grabs a pack of something from a crate and a bowl that he fills with water. He rips the packet open with his teeth, and Kyra sucks in a breath, the action hitting her straight in her stomach. She exhales shakily, watching Jango dump the contents of the packet into the bowl. 

“Like magic,” he says, watching the powder soak the water until it forms a roll of bread, just like his own. “There you go.” 

Kyra bites into it, instantly regretting the size of her bite. “It tastes like nothing.”

“Rather it tastes like nothing than taste like bantha shit,” Jango shrugs. 

-

The rest of the day is boring. Jango isn’t much of a talker, Kyra realizes, and their banter is an exception not a rule for the Mandalorian. Jango had sat silently across the room in his armor, sans helmet, tinkering with something on his workbench. 

Jango grunts every time he tightens a bolt, putting all his force into it, making the bolt almost impossible to loosen. And his grunts pry into Kyra’s mind, through the novel she’s trying to read on her ‘pad. 

Jango watches her in his peripheral, shifting in her seat while her eyes keep steady on the words in front of her. Her hair isn’t up today, he notices, instead it’s in long black waves down her back, almost reaching the swell of her- 

Stop , he brings his attention back to the weapon he’s working on. The damned thing doesn’t even need to be fixed, but he’s never met someone that makes it hard to talk. Usually, it’s a choice for Jango to withdraw, but this woman has him unable . It’s not that she matches him in his banter, at least not in a way he can understand, but it’s her nonchalance. He’s a kriffing Mandalorian, and she didn’t care. It’s the Pamarthe in her, he thinks. That’s what it is. It has to be. 

-

Dinner goes the same. Jango’s teeth rip open two packets at once, and Kyra gulps. Her roll comes out wonky, slightly soggy. 

“Here,” Jango says, holding out his. “Have mine, that one looks awful.”

“I’m sure it’s fine-“

“Kyra,” Jango says her name for the first time. “Take mine, it’s the least I can do.”

“You’re letting me stay on your ship and use your bed, the least I can do is eat soggy bread,” she replies, but he still sits across from her, hand out. “Fine.” Their hands brush slightly with the exchange, and both finish their dinner fairly quickly. 

-

The evening is boring, as hyperspace often is, but Jango doesn’t help. He answers questions with short answers, and he doesn’t ask any in return. Finally, Kyra excuses herself.

“Goodnight, Jango,” she says, her voice coasting over his name like no one else’s. 

All he can muster is a curt nod. 

When Jango steps into the ‘fresher a few hours later, he stares at himself in the small mirror. He examines his skin, where the scars cut deep and where a little bit of bacta could’ve prevented scarring, if he hadn’t been stubborn. 

Jango grabs his shirt by the collar, pulling it over his head. His chest is littered with small scratches, too, and his arms, where there aren’t tattoos. The middle of his chest has a bacta bandage on it, right between his pectorals. He’d applied it that morning, hoping it would ease the ache left behind there. He was wrong. 

Jango pulls it off quickly, depositing it in a wastebasket. The scar is still pronounced, he knew it would be, he’s never taken care of wounds very well. 

The water of the shower is hot, numbing the pain on Jango’s sternum. The water runs down his body, over the curve of his muscles and through the curls of his hair. 

Jango’s mind wanders to the woman sleeping in his bunk. She seems to only have the one scar across her left brow, and her porcelain skin was covered in scratches from the sand, but no scars of Jango’s caliber. 

He thinks back to her long hair, it looked so soft , reaching the soft curve of her ass while she read. Stop , he scolds himself. But it’s too late, his cock is hardening under the stream of water. 

He pushes any thought of Kyra out of his head, You fucking creep, he thinks, and instead pulls disembodied images of women and men from various holoporn videos he’s seen over his years. Jango’s rough hand grasps his cock, tugging fast and hard, trying to get this over with. 

Jango hopes his stray groans and swears are covered by the stream of water from the showerhead. “Kriffing hells,” he groans as he comes, the final image that flashes in his head is Kyra, sitting reading in the hold of his ship with that hair of hers down.

“Fucking creep,” Jango tells himself as he washes his release from his hand. 

When he steps out of the shower, wrapping his towel around his waist he steps back in front of the mirror. Jango wipes the fog from the mirror, and stares at himself again. He then reaches to a cabinet, pulling another bacta patch and unwrapping it. He lays it across his sternum, pushing gently to get it to stick. Kriffing things aren’t working, he thinks. They said they’ll work and I’ll be able to hunt-

There’s a thud from the front of the ship, and Jango rushes from the ‘fresher. “Are you ok?” He calls up to the bunk.

“Yeah, yeah sorry,” Kyra replies. “Dropped my datapad, sorry.”

She’s in her pajamas, her hair is in a loose braid from the nape of her neck. She’s reaching to the floor from the bunk, grabbing the ‘pad from the floor. “Oh,” Jango says. “Ok.”

Kyra watches him watching her, her eyes wander to the dark hair at his navel, the towel dangerously low. And then she notices the bacta patch. “Are you ok?”

“Hmm?”

“The bacta patch, are you ok?”

He lays a hand over his chest. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Kyra stares at his large hand, covering his toned chest, and tries her hardest to mask it as concern for the bacta patch. 

“Good,” she says. “I’m glad.” 

It’s awkward for a moment, the two just looking at each other. “Well,” Jango says, turning back. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Jango.” 

Why’d she have to say my kriffing name again, he thinks as he makes his way back to the ‘fresher. Many people don’t say his first name, and if they do, it’s because they’re pleading. Otherwise, he’s just “Fett”. But not to her . 

Jango steps into sweatpants and then pulls a matching black t-shirt over his head. He climbs into the cockpit, hissing at the pain in his chest. The chair isn’t comfortable, not to sleep in, and he almost wishes he had taken Kyra up on her offer to sleep in the pilot’s seat instead. Almost. 

-

The next day is much of the same, ration packets distributed and made, small talk avoided by Jango. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? If you’re injured you should be sleeping in your own bed,” Kyra says, taking their bowls from breakfast to wash in the kitchenette. 

Jango nods. “I’m fine, Kyra, I promise.” Jango is taken by surprise by saying her name, and he can’t see it, but she is too. Her name feels foreign on his tongue, but he likes it. Almost like the first time he tasted a foreign whiskey, but this was better.  

“Well then, Jango,” Kyra says, her voice breathier than normal, hoping Jango can’t pick up on it. And in his own frenzy, he doesn’t. “If you change your mind just tell me. No hard feelings.” 

Jango says nothing, instead he just watches her. “Why do you do lekku braids everyday?”

“Lekku braids?” “Isn’t that what those are called?” He gestures to the two braids on her head, starting at her forehead and weaving all the way down to the nape of her neck and then some. “Or do you call them something different on Pamarthe?”

“I think I’ve heard them called that before,” she replies, shocked that Jango has entered a talkative mood again. “I’ve never really called them anything. They make my long hair easier to manage, that’s why I like them.”

“Why don’t you just cut it, then?” Jango knew many women who cut their hair short, making life under a helmet easier. It was part of many Mandalorians’ show of discipline. 

Kyra shrugs. “Because I don’t want to.” 

“Sometimes we have to do many things we don’t want to.”

Kyra looks at him. Was he trying to be profound? “Yes,” she agrees. “But I don’t have to. Are you trying to say I’d look better with short hair?”

Jango shakes his head. Kriffing hells, you’ve fumbled it. “No, no, not at all,” he says. “I- I quite like your hair, really. I was just curious, that's all.”

“Mm,” Kyra hums, drying the breakfast bowls trying to make sense of the man sitting behind her. 

Jango watches her, her braids swishing with every movement. He tries his hardest to keep his gaze from her thighs in her leggings, and when he can’t he stands, clearing his throat. “I’ll be in the cockpit.”

“Are you sure? We could always hang out a little, you know, and watch a holo. It won’t kill you.” 

With you, it might, he thinks. So he pushes himself away. A talent of his, really. “Quite sure.” 

He’s back with the short sentences, the curt nods, and the quick turns. Kyra watches him climb up to the cockpit, her brows furrowed. Odd man, she thinks as she makes her way back to a chair, setting up her ‘pad to watch a show.

-

The whole day is just that, Kyra in the hold watching a holodrama and Jango in the cockpit listening to the holodrama. He wants to go down there, he wants to see the story between the Twi’leki man and the Pantoran woman unfold, their fighting families keeping them apart for the sake of their businesses- Jango feels quite stupid for being so invested, but he is. He’s put his helmet on to listen better, so he can hear every dramatic gasp leave every character’s mouth. 

-

“We’ll land tomorrow at…” he checks a screen, “2100 hours, Pamarthe time.” 

“We won’t be landing at 2100 hours,” Kyra says. “I’m not flying into Pamarthe in the dark. Not on a foreign ship.”

“Why?”

“You should do more research,” she tells him. “Pamarthens are very particular on who can land. There are stories of ancient warriors that will come back to attack. And, well, Pamarthe is always ready for their return. It’ll be easier in the daylight.” 

“That’s stupid,” Jango says. 

Kyra’s face contorts with offense. “Amaxine warriors were very real on Pamarthe. It’s no more stupid than Mandalore exiling Mandalorian-”

“Do not speak about Mandalore,” Jango snaps, his finger pointing at her as she sits in the co-pilot’s seat. “Do not speak about something you do not know.” He stands, retreating down from the cockpit and into the hold.

“Then don’t be a hypocrite and do the same, Fett.”

[retrievablememories]

make it feel good (m) | taehyung

pairing: taehyung x black female oc genre: smut, fluff, and a lil bit of angst summary: in which two best friends realize what they've been missing out on this whole time. word count: 7.5k warnings: dirty talk, food play...if you squint, body insecurities a/n: i don’t know if this would be considered idol x reader since ole girl has a name but you can imagine her as whothefuckever (as long as she remains black...lmao) i just hate writing 2nd person “you” and it felt awkward to keep saying “she” so i gave her a name. i crossposted this to wattpad for like 2 seconds but took it down just so everyone knows. maybe i’ll post it again. also yeah this title is based off the childish gambino song lol.

His voice floats on the wind.

The air is cold, and she has to pull her oversized coat tighter around herself so she doesn't freeze. She thinks about buttoning the coat up, but her fingers are stiff from the low temperature, and she doesn't feel like expending the extra effort to flex them into such complicated positions.

She turns around to look at him. He is waving something small and indiscernible in between his long fingers, although she can guess it's probably a seashell or some similar object. From this angle the wind blows straight into her face, stinging her eyes and making them well up with tears. She turns her face away from the wind's assault and faces the ocean again, waiting for him to come over to her and display his new finding.

It only takes a few seconds before he's right beside her again. She feels him before she even sees him. His body heat radiates out in every direction, indifferent to the cold that leeches the warmth out of everything.

"Look," he says gently, his deep voice right in her ear. He holds his hand out in front of her. There's a small rock tucked in his palm; it's shiny with jagged edges and darker than the blackest night. His fingers curl around it as if he's trying to shield it from the wind. She cautiously brushes it with her index finger and it's a strange sort of smooth-rough texture. Still rubbing the surface of the rock, her eyes drag up and up, away from his hand until her gaze is resting on his lips, a bit chapped but still rose pink, and further up to his eyes, which are focused on the object in his palm.

Suddenly he flicks his eyes up to hers, meeting her gaze head-on, and she can't help the tremble that reverberates through her entire body. She pulls her hand away from the rock in a restrained gesture, trying not to move too quickly and betray her utter nervousness. In her haste, her fingers skim past his own and her skin burns. He smiles softly at her. His eyes, in this moment, are impossibly warm. They portray a multitude of things she can't bring herself to acknowledge, or figure out, or accept. Moments like these make her infinitely grateful for her dark skin; the heat spreading across her face won't be revealed.

She's hot enough just from the way he's looking at her, but she pulls her coat closer again—more out of insecurity than any real need for warmth. She averts her eyes in a way that she hopes isn't too obviously embarrassed or flustered, though she's sure he's already caught on to something. He has always been able to read her like a book, and with the increased proximity their vacation brings, she's not sure how much longer the both of them can keep pretending like there isn’t something steadily building between them. Her unmoved facade has begun to splinter and slip.

The sound of the waves does little to calm her nerves as she looks at a point on the horizon, impossible to see clearly from the cover of night.

"Taehyung, maybe we should head back now. It's getting late," Nayana says, keeping her voice as even as possible.

Taehyung stares silently at her for a few seconds longer, and even though she can only see him in her periphery, the simple action elicits a variety of emotions that make the corners of her mind fuzzy. Then he nods, pocketing the rock and giving her his signature boxy smile, as if nothing occurred. "Sure, let's go."

The walk back to the hotel is quiet. Not uncomfortably quiet—at least she hopes not—but there's a stillness that fills in the gaps between their minds and bodies.

There aren't too many people in the lobby this late. Most are up in their rooms tending to their own business or out partying—which is what their group of friends had opted for. It was Jungkook's idea, of course, and if anything was his idea, Lisa was up for it, which resulted in everyone else tagging along—everyone except Taehyung.

Nayana had decided to keep him company so he wouldn't be completely alone, which wasn't hard to do since their friends' excellent room-matching skills left them occupying the same room. Yet another undercover scheme to get them closer together and goad them into eventually revealing their feelings for one other. It was the kind of thing they were all acutely aware of but didn't speak on for fear of whatever consequences lie on the other side.

On the elevator ride to the fourth floor, Taehyung nudges Nayana repeatedly and makes faces at her through the elevator's mirrored panels until she finally smiles and shoves him back. He laughs, and her heart beats a little faster at the sound.

They get off at their floor and head to their room toward the end of the hall. Nayana trails slightly behind him so she can observe his back view, admiring his broad shoulders and long legs. He'd changed a lot since they first met; she still remembers the young, small boy he used to be. On occasions when she takes the time to really think about it, the contrast between his past and current self is jarring—but not in a bad way.

She is startled out of her thoughts when he looks at her over his shoulder.

"Why are you all the way back there? Are you staring at my ass?" He says it loud enough so that anyone currently in their hotel room could probably hear it, and she knows he's trying to embarrass her. Nostalgic moment = ruined.

"Ugh. Boy, shut the fuck up." Nayana snorts and rolls her eyes, and this makes him giggle. "Give me something to stare at and maybe I would."

"Are you saying I don't have an ass?" Taehyung asks teasingly as he slides the hotel key into the card reader. "Then be generous and give me some of yours."

"In your fucking dreams, Taehyung," Nayana scoffs and punches him in the arm. Their push-and-pull game of innocent flirtation is nothing new. But ever since her feelings for him began to tip away from merely platonic, his comments never failed to make her falter and sweat and wonder if anything he said could be an indicator of his own interest.

She's glad their friends at least had the decency to leave them in a room with two beds.

Nayana makes her way over to the far side of the room, near the window, where her bed is located. There's a balcony outside the window, and from her bed, she has a nice view of the ocean below when the curtains are pulled back.

"Do you wanna shower first?" Taehyung asks, hovering near his suitcase as he waits for her answer.

"I'm surprised you're not suggesting we shower together and save water," she responds, still looking out the window.

"I mean, I'm down if you are." Nayana doesn't even have to look at him to know he's smirking and raising his eyebrows in that way she (loves) hates. She laughs airily and sheds her coat and shoes before rolling over onto the bed, her braids haloing out around her head. She drops her purse onto the nightstand and pulls her phone out.

"You go first, I take too long in the shower and I don't want to keep you waiting forever."

While he's in the shower, Nayana's phone pings, signaling a new text message.

11:45 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 what u doing girl??

11:46 P.M. Nothing...just waiting on Tae to get out the shower. Why?

11:47 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 are u and taehyungie gonna have some fun?

11:49 PM We already went out and walked on the beach earlier...

11:50 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 u know that's not the kind of fun i'm referencing sis.

11:52 P.M. BYE GIRL. I have no clue what you're talking about me and Tae are just friends

11:52 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 but we all know u'd rather be more.

11:53 P.M. ANYWAY why are you texting me? You're at the club bitch ain't you supposed to be partying????

11:55 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 this place is lowkey lame. nothing but corny wannabe rappers selling mixtapes in here. i've already cussed out two dudes who tried to get at nakiya. yoongi and namjoon are close to losing their tempers. lucia's drunk af and jungkook is babysitting her. we'll probably be back soon.

11:55 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 thinking back on it, it's a good thing u ended up in the room with taehyungie instead of me. i'd h8 to come back and walk in on u getting ur cakes smashed to smithereens

11:56 P.M. Lisa.............please

11:57 P.M. LaLisaaaa 💕💕 😘 u love me. have fun . and know tht i slipped some condoms in your purse pocket. be safe bitch.

11:58 P.M. 🖕🏿🖕🏿🖕🏿🖕🏿

Nayana grabs her purse off the nightstand and checks every pocket, just to see if Lisa was fucking with her or not. Sure enough, on the inside pocket, there is a strand of condoms tucked snugly inside. The backs of her knees tingle and her body grows hot as she allows herself to entertain the idea of using them...with him...who is currently still in the shower, very much naked and very much wet. Immediately after this thought crosses her mind, she squeezes her eyes shut and groans, silently berating herself.

Girl, stop! You're not even sure if he likes you or not. And even if he did...you cannot have sex with him.

The shower cuts off. Her heart rate kicks up. She zips her purse back up and closes out of her messages. Although she knows mind reading is impossible, she can't help but imagine what he'd say if he knew what she was just thinking. She lies back on the pillows and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible when Taehyung comes out of the shower, wrapped in one of the complimentary bath robes the hotel provided. "It's all yours," he says, and she nods before gathering her toiletries and entering the bathroom.

When Nayana finally comes out of the bathroom, she finds Taehyung lying on his bed still in his bath robe, watching something on his phone and eating from a bag of Hershey's Kisses. She pauses near his bed, her facial expression stuck halfway between amusement and incredulity. "Where did you get those?"

"I brought them with me," he says, wiggling his toes in the direction of his suitcase.

She raises one eyebrow, crossing to her side of the room and putting her dirty clothes away in a laundry bag. "Are you gonna share? 'Cause I feel some kinda way about you eating chocolate all up in my face when you know it's my number one weakness."

Taehyung pats the open space on the bed beside him. "Come watch this cheesy ass k-drama with me and you can have some." Nayana goes to take him up on his offer but hesitates when she realizes that she will be sitting beside him while he's wearing the robe—with nothing underneath. Taehyung notices the awkward smile on her face and sits up, his k-drama momentarily forgotten. "Oh, I can change if you're uncomfortable, I—I just—you know how it is when you plan on getting dressed after a shower but then you're distracted by something? Yeah, I—um, sorry."

Seeing Taehyung assume the opposite position in their usual interactions—flustered and stumbling—makes Nayana feel less embarrassed about her own chaotic emotions, and a small part of her even takes pleasure in it. Before she can think twice about her actions, she's already climbing onto his bed and tugging at his arm to pull him back down. "It's fine, you don't need to. We're friends, right?" She instantly regrets saying that, but it's the first thing she can think of to assuage his nervousness. He nods, but his responding smile appears just as strained as hers was moments ago.

Taehyung turns the volume all the way up and holds the phone so they can both comfortably watch it. They have to huddle closer than Nayana anticipated, and he's practically lying on her chest, but she doesn't mind it much. The bag of Hershey's sits in the minimal space between them and they take turns taking Kisses out of it. The wrappers collect in a little pile on the bed.

In the drama they're watching, a scene comes up where the main girl is being fed by her love-interest-slash-mortal-enemy after fracturing her wrist and being unable to lift the utensils herself. The overly romantic music combined with both actors' exaggerated facial expressions makes Taehyung burst out laughing. Nayana startles and looks at him with wide eyes.

"Can you believe that? Who does this?"

"What, feeding each other? You've never done that before?"

"I was more referring to the fact that she's letting her so-called enemy feed her with a spoon," Taehyung says, rolling his eyes. Nayana elbows him in the side. "But yeah, the feeding part is so corny."

"Really. It's kind of cute to me..." Taehyung throws Nayana a skeptical look and she instantly feels judged. She scrambles to put together a response before he can open his mouth. "I—I mean, isn't it obvious? It's not so much the act itself but it's the feeling of being cared for...knowing that someone else cares enough to make sure you're good." Taehyung's expression shows that he's turning something over in his mind, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes go back to the phone screen and she thinks that he's dropped the subject, so she relaxes again—until he says,

"So you like being taken care of?"

His words come out careful and measured. It's an odd question, and she wonders where he's going with it. She's hesitant to answer. The crinkling sound of him opening another Hershey's Kiss distracts a part of her mind.

"...Yes. Who doesn't?"

"You would be surprised," he mumbles. Before Nayana can ask what he means by that, the words are halted in her throat as she watches him balance the little piece of chocolate between his fingers and bring it up to her lips. It's so close that if she were to pucker her lips, she would touch it easily.

"What are you doing?"

"Feeding you."

A puff of air leaves her lips—the beginnings of a why?—but she decides not to ask. Because this is another of those precarious situations that could catapult their friendship into uncharted territory, and she is deathly afraid to go plunging into that terrain without armor, a shield, and a backup plan. So, she takes the candy without asking any questions. She's very careful not to close her lips around his fingers. This is already more suggestive than she thinks her poor cardiovascular system can handle.

Taehyung's mouth quirks up in a smile, but he doesn't seem satisfied.

"Now, feed me."

"Greedy ass. Weren't you the one calling it corny?" she jokes, but she reaches into the bag anyway. Her body thrums with anxiety and it takes a few tries before she can still her fingers enough to actually grab a Kiss. She wants to believe that she is playing it cool enough to where he won't pick up on her inner turmoil, but she knows that isn't true.

Nayana peels the wrapper off and guides the chocolate to his plush lips. He leans closer and opens his mouth, capturing the candy with this tongue. Unlike her, Taehyung isn't afraid of an overly intimate touch; he allows his tongue to glide across her fingertips. The thing that nearly knocks the wind out of her chest, though, is the way he keeps eye contact with her the entire time. The act of eating chocolate has never been so erotic. He makes it look like something wicked.

The phone is lying on the bed now, the k-drama paused and forgotten.

Taehyung unwraps another candy, but his eyes don't leave her face.

He feeds Nayana again, and again she avoids touching his fingers. When she has eaten the chocolate, she expects him to take his hand away so he can have his turn, but he doesn't. His fingers hover in front of her mouth.

"You—you have chocolate right...here." Taehyung presses his thumb onto her full bottom lip and swipes across, albeit much slower than he needs to. Her breath hitches and stutters at this action. She regards him with disbelieving eyes, her mind jumbled together with a hundred different thoughts. When he pulls away from her, he brings his thumb to his own mouth and licks the smear of chocolate away. His expression is unreadable—at first. But then he moves his hand, and she is almost horrified to see the small smirk there.

This single look changes something. Or everything.

For once in her life, Nayana doesn't think about the consequences, the aftermath, or the debris after the dust settles. There is nothing of importance to think about except herself, Taehyung, this hotel room—her hands, reaching for his face—his lips, pressed to her own and more delicious than she could've ever dreamed. A vulgar moan drips all silky and hot from the gap between their lips, and she realizes belatedly that it's her own voice. Taehyung laughs at her enthusiasm, but it turns into a moan of his own when he reaches behind her and grips her ass in his big hands.

The kiss is sloppy and far from the movie-perfect couplings you see on screen, but it is one of the hottest things she's ever experienced, so she can't complain.

With his hands still on her ass, Taehyung lifts her up and drops her down in his lap, rocking his hips to meet her when she settles. She feels his half-hard dick through his robe, rubbing against her through her pajama pants and underwear, and even with so many layers between their bodies, the feeling of him is indescribable. Taehyung sucks her bottom lip into his mouth and grinds into her again, although he quickly becomes frustrated with the muted friction. He slides his hand up her shirt to rest on her waist and his fingernails scrape against her bare skin, coming noticeably close to her stomach. This is what snatches her back to reality. Her reality.

Nayana jerks away from his lips and puts her hand on top of his to prevent him from going any further.

He looks at her with his eyebrows furrowed and his pouty, swollen mouth turned down into a frown. He searches her troubled face for answers. Some of her braids obscure her face, and he brushes them away. "Wh—what's wrong?"

"I can't." She lets out a pained groan and climbs off his lap to lie back on the bed, her arm thrown over her face. She is still uncomfortably warm and throbbing between her legs, but she tries to ignore it.

"I'm sorry," Taehyung blurts out, trying to keep the panic from rising in his voice. The sinking feeling that he might've went too far and singlehandedly destroyed their friendship brews in his stomach. "I'm really sorry—I should've asked you first. I shouldn't have—"

"Stop, it's not your fault," Nayana interrupts, sitting back up to face him. She chews her lip and casts her eyes downward, unable to look at him directly. "I...I want to, believe me, but..." She pauses a moment, thinking of a way that this could still work. "Can we at least turn the lights off?"

"The lights?" Taehyung questions it as if he's never heard of such a thing, and his apparent obliviousness doesn't alleviate her distress. "I...wanted to see you, but if that's what you want—"

Nayana rolls her eyes. "Taehyung, I don't want you to see me and think this was all a mistake. Or run away screaming." She laughs in an attempt to make it a joke, but the sound isn't genuine. Taehyung understands.

"Are you embarrassed of your body?" His voice is gentle, but in her defensive and vulnerable state, it comes off as patronizing. She struggles to think of a reply that won't hurt his feelings, not wanting to lash out at him.

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes. I want you to see yourself the way I've always seen you...even though I haven't exactly said it. Because I didn't want to risk things with you. But I'm saying it now; you're more beautiful than I can put into words. Your body is beautiful. There is nothing you could ever do to run me away."

Nayana makes a noise of disbelief, although it doesn't come out as harsh as she intends. "Sure, okay. But you haven't seen me without clothes."

"I'd like to. If that's okay with you." Taehyung's voice is lower than it was a second ago and the difference makes her squirm. She chances a glance at his eyes and finds the same soft, melting look from the beach. She can't remember the last time someone has looked at her like that—or if anyone ever has—and this revelation makes the backs of her eyes sting. Sighing, she rubs her face. This is not the time to get emotional.

"Dim the lights," Nayana says quietly. "Don't turn them off."

Taehyung does as she tells him to while she clears the mess of candy wrappers off the bed. Soon there is nothing left on the bed but their two bodies, the raw sexual energy from only moments ago transformed into a more subdued, humming tension. They face each other. Nayana's eyes shift to different spots of the room every few seconds. Taehyung moves closer until there's only centimeters of space between their faces, his nose brushing hers. He moves his hand to cup the side of her face before pressing his lips to hers, firm, but not rough. She parts her lips to let him inside and he accepts, licking into her mouth and sucking her tongue. The other hand that's not on her face rests on the juncture between her thigh and hip. Nayana feels awkward with her hands at her sides, so she tentatively places her hand at the nape of his neck, running her fingers through his long hair.

When he breaks the kiss, she can't stop herself from chasing after his lips, and he chuckles at this. Giving her a chaste peck, he says, "I'll give you everything you want. Just be patient." He moves to her jawline and down her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses on the places he predicts will be most sensitive. Occasionally he pauses to nuzzle into her neck, breathing in her familiar scent of vanilla. This is not Nayana's first time having sex, but her body responds so quickly to his touch that it's embarrassing. By the time he makes it to her collarbone, she is soaking wet.

Taehyung's hand stays planted on her hip, kneading the supple flesh and, every so often, curving around to squeeze her ass cheek. "Tell me what you want me to do," he whispers, pausing his attentions on her chest to look up at her. Now she is the oblivious one, looking back at him in near-shock.

"I..." Some part of her is grateful that he's letting her do the deciding here, handing the reigns over so she won't feel rushed or taken advantage of. But the other part feels lost and without direction. What does she want him to do? "T—touch...me."

"I am touching you," he answers, smirking.

Nayana resists the urge to pout and roll her eyes. Always the damn tease. "I mean...touch my...touch m—my pussy."

Taehyung's resulting smile is wide and hungry as he slides his hand between her thighs, cupping her pussy in the palm of his hand. He makes sure to tilt his hand so the heel of his palm grinds against her clit. Nayana gasps and grabs his shoulder. "Fuck, it's so warm." He bites his lip hard, his hooded eyes sliding from her pussy to her face. He continuously rocks his palm into her clit while he busies his mouth with her breasts, latching onto one brown nipple through the fabric of her T-shirt.

"Tae," Nayana moans, pushing her hips into his hand to create more friction. He switches off to the other nipple, smoothing his tongue across it before gently biting it. Her grip on his shoulder tightens and her back arches, the action pushing her breasts further into his face.

"Hmm, you like that?" Taehyung grazes his teeth over her nipple again and he can practically feel her get wetter in his palm. "You like being bitten? You like being hurt?" Nayana's response is an embarrassed whimper, but she whispers yeah. Taehyung simply grins and files that bit of information away in his mind for later.

His kisses reach her stomach. Nayana lies on her back to accommodate him so the position won't be awkward, although she starts to fidget from nerves. The urge to reach down and push his head away is overwhelming, and she balls her fists up in her shirt to keep from doing so. Even though he's steadily rubbing her, it's not enough to make her fully relax and her body tenses up. Taehyung doesn't fail to notice. "It's okay," Taehyung murmurs, gingerly kissing her soft, slightly pudgy stomach. He moves at a slow pace to avoid making her too uncomfortable, glancing up to give her reassuring looks every now and then. He takes his hand off her and she sighs with disappointment, only to let out a high-pitched moan when he circles his thumb on her clit. Her legs tremble and her body heat increases but she still has enough sense of mind to notice his other hand on the hem of her shirt, and when he asks for her permission, she answers with a shaky yes.

Taehyung pushes her shirt up until it's sitting under her breasts and doesn't try to take it any further than that for the moment. "You're so soft," he sighs contentedly, leaving kisses here and there on the expanse of her brown skin.

He dips his tongue into her belly button for a hot second before moving down to the waistline of her pants. Nayana jumps when he does it and they both end up laughing at her reaction. It's a strange sensation, one she's never experienced before, but she decides that she likes it.

When Taehyung asks if he can slide her pajamas off, she takes a deep breath and nods, to which Taehyung says, "I need words, baby" and leaves a hot kiss on her abdomen that leaves her mind fizzling.

"Take...take them off, Tae."

He does so, taking his hand away from her neglected clit for the second time that night to pull her pants off and leave them lying somewhere on the floor. He gazes at the stretchmarks spreading across her hips and thighs and curving around her ass and he smiles. "You're so pretty," he hums, running his hands over her skin. He traces some of the lines with his fingers. "A work of art. But not just any art; you are the kind of masterpiece an artist spends their whole life perfecting." He settles down between Nayana's legs so he can get closer. "I wish we'd done this sooner. I wish I'd said something sooner. I've spent too many nights wondering," he holds her thighs apart, "what it would look like to have you all wide open for me."

"Ha—ave you?" Nayana's question comes out in a staggered breath when Taehyung chooses that moment to bury his face into her clothed pussy, his nose bumping against her clit. When she realizes that he's breathing her in, she becomes so flustered that she covers her face with her hands.

"Of course," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I can't count the amount of times I've laid in bed with my hand around my dick, imagining what it'd be like to have you sit on my face and cum all over my tongue." Her lavender cotton panties are so wet that her lips are visible, and Taehyung prods his tongue against her hole before coming back up to lick her clit. "Can I taste you now?"

"Please."

Taehyung hooks his fingers into the band of Nayana's underwear and takes his time pulling them down, kissing each new exposed patch of skin until his lips land on her pubic mound, just above her clit. His eyes pin her under his gaze as he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks. Nayana tugs her lower lip into her mouth, her eyebrows furrowing from the pleasure rocketing through her veins.

Taehyung makes quick work of her underwear, tossing those to the side too, before he's diving in face first. He uses his long fingers to spread her lips open and drag his tongue across her pussy from bottom to top. He takes her clit into his mouth again, circling his tongue around it and sucking it at the same time, while he carefully slides one finger halfway inside. He searches with the tip of his finger until he finds what he's looking for, and he knows he's struck gold when Nayana clenches and bucks into his mouth.

Taehyung introduces another finger and curls them both up into that spot repeatedly, keeping a steady pace. Nayana relaxes enough to release one of her hands from its clenched position on her shirt and bring it to Taehyung's head. She grasps the strands of his dark hair between her fingers and tentatively presses his face closer. Taehyung tightly grips her thigh with his free hand and moans into her pussy, the vibrations making her twitch around his long fingers.

"Fuck," he gasps out, "this is too fucking good." Taehyung gives her clit a sloppy French kiss and lets his tongue roll around the small nub until Nayana is vocalizing his name in a broken cry and threatening to tear his hair out. "Pull it harder, baby. You're not the only one who enjoys being hurt."

Nayana is close. The way Taehyung speaks to her, his voice honey and velvet, only pushes her farther toward that shining peak. "Tell...me more."

Taehyung locks eyes with her and smiles like he knows something she doesn't. He increases the speed of his fingers. "What about, babygirl?"

"About...you—when you would think about me...at night."

"Ahh." When he speaks, Taehyung's mouth doesn't part from her for too long. He's intent on pleasuring her with both his words and his tongue; between every few words, he pauses to kiss and suck her clit. "I don't know if you even remember this...but there was this time we went to a festival...and you wore this red dress. It clung to you perfectly...it drove me crazy. I was half-hard the entire time." Nayana moans at this. "When I went home that night, I couldn't stop imagining...bending you over one of those picnic tables and eating you out right there...or fucking you in my car with people outside just feet away. It would've been so easy...to just pull your dress up and slide inside." Taehyung punctuates this last sentence by pushing all the way in and rubbing Nayana's g-spot until she is screaming and covering his fingers with cum. He finds the sight of her orgasm incredibly endearing, and he laughs as he keeps fucking her with his mouth and hands until she forces him away.

Taehyung sits back as Nayana takes a moment to catch her breath. He watches her with loving eyes and a wet face—an interesting combination. When she's calmed down, she sits up and captures his lips in a kiss, tasting herself in the crevices of his mouth. Her hand settles on Taehyung's thigh, dangerously close to the tent in his robe, and he suddenly realizes how painfully hard he is.

"I wanna touch you, Tae. Can I?" Nayana asks, her lips brushing his.

"Honestly, I'd let you, but I'm so horny I think I might cum the moment your hand wraps around me. I'd rather be inside of you when that happens."

Nayana might've laughed if he weren't staring at her so intensely that it felt like layers of her very core were being stripped away. She merely watches him as he pulls the tie of his robe apart, letting the soft fabric fall open and slip off his shoulders. Taehyung's dick is exposed to the open air—flushed, drooling precum, and curving toward his stomach. It's thick, but not too long, which Nayana is grateful for, because it looks like it's going to be a tight fit without the added trouble of having her cervix stabbed. As Lucia would always say; bust the walls out, not the ceiling. Yeah, thanks, Lucia.

"Like what you see? You've been staring for quite a while." Taehyung's tone is filled with amusement, but Nayana doesn't miss the hint of uneasiness lingering in his eyes. A giggle slips past Nayana's lips as she leans forward to kiss him.

"You're perfect." Taehyung makes a noise of appreciation, and before he can deepen the kiss, Nayana is sliding off the bed and heading to her nightstand to retrieve her purse. Taehyung's eyes are glued to Nayana's body the entire time. Taehyung grips his dick, thumbing the head and spreading the precum around while he commits her curves to memory. Nayana comes back to his side seconds later with the pack of condoms Lisa "gifted" her.

"You brought condoms on this trip? Were you planning on fucking me all along?" Taehyung asks, chuckling.

"Okay, number one, these are from Lisa, and number two, you didn't bring any, so were you expecting to fuck me raw? Because that's not happening...yet."

Taehyung bites his lip at the idea of yet. He pulls one of the foil packets off the strand and rips it open. "I didn't bring any on this trip because I wasn't really anticipating sex with my closest friend, but, you know..." Taehyung rolls the condom onto his dick and gives his shaft a few satisfactory strokes before tugging Nayana into his lap. The head of his dick slides across her clit and they both gasp. Taehyung tightens his grip around her waist and positions his dick with his other hand. "Are you ready?" he whispers, pressing his lips to her neck.

"Yes."

Taehyung thrusts up at the same time Nayana lowers her hips, causing him to slide halfway in. Taehyung muffles a grunt in the side of Nayana's neck. His dick twitches when she moans, long and low, in his ear. "Are—are you okay?" he grits out through clenched teeth.

"I'm f—fine," Nayana insists. She clings to his bare back for dear life, her fingernails leaving little indents in his tan skin. The stretch is unfamiliar and it stings—she's never been spread open this far—but it's a good pain. The kind of pain that leaves you crawling back for more. She craves more of that sensation. Before he can speak again, Nayana sits her full weight on him, taking him completely inside of her body.

When Taehyung bottoms out, his eyes roll back. He can only imagine what it would be like to be inside of something this damn warm and wet without the condom on, and he has to ground himself to keep from busting at the mere thought. His breath puffs out across Nayana's neck and collarbone as he screws his eyes shut and remains still. When Nayana experimentally rocks her hips against his, Taehyung grabs her hips with shaking hands, his fingertips sinking into the soft flesh. "Wait, fuck. Not yet." He kisses and nibbles along the column of her throat in an effort to distract himself and to work her up more. A few more moments pass, and he thinks he's finally calmed down enough to move.

Taehyung pulls out until just the tip is left inside and pushes back in—not harshly, but with enough force to make their skin slap when they connect. He does this again, pulling Nayana's body toward him at the same time so that she easily slides down his full girth, and again, and again, until he creates a steady rhythm that has them both moaning into each other's mouths. Nayana, still with her shirt on, now throws the useless article of clothing away, completely baring herself to Taehyung. Taehyung's breath hitches at the sight of her bare breasts in front of him, and his hips falter for a second before he increases the pace, feverishly fucking into her.

"Tae, yes, yes, oh fuck, don't stop," Nayana's pleas get louder when Taehyung takes a nipple in his mouth and starts sucking. He slides his hand from her hip around to the space where their bodies meet, gathering her wetness on this thumb before pressing the digit against her clit and rubbing in circles. Nayana tightens around him. This action spurs him on even more. Nayana lets out a shriek of surprise when her back abruptly collides with the bed, Taehyung throwing her legs over his shoulders. Their lips meet in a messy tangle of tongues and teeth as Taehyung rolls his hips, again searching for the spot that will have her coming apart in his arms.

"Fuck, please—" Nayana's breath catches and she chokes on her words when he strikes her g-spot, making her legs tense up around his neck. Taehyung grins wildly and relentlessly pounds into that soft, sensitive spot, driving her closer to the approaching end. The room is filled with the vulgar, wet slap of skin-on-skin, a sound that Taehyung loves, a sound that motivates him to fuck her into the hotel mattress until nothing escapes her mouth but punctuated gasps.

Nayana clenches around Taehyung almost unbearably tight, and he lets out a deep moan from the feeling; it's as if she's sucking him deeper within her body. Sweat drips off his nose and chin and lands on her own sweat-slicked skin—evidence of the hard work he's putting in. The pool of warmth in the pit of his stomach rapidly spreads to the rest of his body and he knows he's not going to last much longer, but he refuses to come before her.

"You gonna come for me? Come on, baby...come all over this dick." Taehyung's thumb returns to her clit and it only takes a few more well-placed strokes before she's finished. Nayana's mouth parts in a silent scream as she comes, her body tensing like a tightly-strung bow and her walls pulsing around his thick cock. Taehyung continues rubbing her clit, prolonging the waves of pleasure ebbing through her quivering body until she squirms away from his incessant hand.

At the sight of Nayana fucked-out and spent beneath him, his thrusts begin to lose rhythm, hips clumsily smacking into hers, and soon he is pushed over the edge, burying himself balls deep as the first spurts of seed shoot into the condom. Rough, broken moans spill from his lips as he works his way through his orgasm, thrusting a little more before finally coming to a stop. Taehyung's body slumps with exhaustion, though he makes sure to keep most of his weight off her. After catching his breath, he glances at Nayana to find her already looking at him. She regards him with an amused and affectionate expression. He dips his head to kiss her, though he can't stop himself from smiling.

Taehyung pulls out, slips the condom off and ties it before going to the bathroom to dispose of it. He returns with a warm washcloth that he uses to clean Nayana and himself with. His caresses are as gentle as they were at the beginning of the night, a contrast to the way he just plowed her into the bed moments ago. Nayana's eyes start to hang low, but there is something she must do before she can even think about sleeping. When Taehyung comes out of the bathroom again, he's about to climb into bed beside her until she says,

"Taeee...can you get my bonnet for me? I can't sleep on these pillows without it. It's in my suitcase...in the first compartment."

"Mm, sure." Taehyung kisses her cheek before walking over to her suitcase (still butt-naked). Even after everything that just transpired, Nayana's stomach fills with anxiety-ridden butterflies over the kiss. She's unused to this level of intimacy with Taehyung; every action is performed with intentions that aren't simply platonic anymore, and she doesn't know how to handle this.

Taehyung comes back with her bonnet in his hand, and Nayana reaches for it, but instead Taehyung plops it on top of her head. He laughs at its lopsidedness until he sees the unamused look Nayana levels him with. The laughter fades as he bends down so they're face to face and tucks her braids into the bonnet with meticulous care. It's impossible for Nayana to keep her face neutral and she soon breaks into a shy smile, averting her eyes from Taehyung's.

Bonnet secured, Taehyung turns the lights off and nestles under the sheets with her, her back to his chest and his arms holding her in a comforting grip.

"I...really like you, you know." His voice is tender. He fumbles over the word like, wanting to say something more but still afraid.

Nayana wonders if he can hear her heart pounding.

"I like you too, Taehyung."

Nayana wakes up with the sun blazing her eyes, legs tangled in the bedsheets, and a warm body pressed against her own. A warm body...

Everything from last night floods back to her lethargic mind. Her chest grows warm and her heart beats overtime. She turns her head around to look at Taehyung, who is still blissfully asleep, his arm draped over her middle. His features are soft and relaxed, a contrast to his normal disposition. A smile spreads across her lips at the sight of him.

Nayana's phone rings from the nightstand, signaling an incoming FaceTime call. Of course, it's from Lisa. She doesn't even remember bringing her phone to his side of the room last night. Against her better judgment, she answers the call, making sure to turn the volume down so Taehyung doesn't awaken.

Lisa's big, smiling face pops up on the screen seconds later. She's in the hotel room she shares with Lucia, standing outside on the balcony. "Heeeeeeeeeeyy sis—oh my God, is that Taehyung?" Lisa's greeting is cut short when she spots Taehyung's arm in the corner of the screen.

"Uh—maybe?"

Lisa screams so loud that Nayana is sure the annoying sound can rival every seagull in the area combined. Lucia's panicked voice pops up in the background as she rushes out of the bathroom to check and make sure Lisa didn't plummet off the side of the balcony or something. "Lu, come here! Look at this shit!" Lisa yanks Lucia by the arm, pulling the dark-haired girl into the frame. She's freshly showered and wearing nothing but a towel that she struggles to hold in place as Lisa jostles her around like a ragdoll. However, her eyes also widen when she sees the cause of Lisa's hysterics.

"Nayana, girl, is that you? Who's in the bed with you? Is that Tae? HAHA!" Lucia covers her mouth and cackles like a witch. Now the both of them are cheering, screaming, and laughing as loud as they can. Nayana is sure the beach goers on the sand below must be contemplating calling hotel security.

"I TOLD you it would work!" Lisa cries out, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Ya girl is a GENIUS! You guys need to listen to me more often!"

"Too bad you can't be a matchmaker for yourself. How long have you been eye-spying Jungkook and you still haven't made a move?" Nayana retorts, stifling a laugh. Lucia bursts out laughing and Lisa slaps her arm.

"Don't worry about me, girl. All in due time. In the meantime, we should leave you alone with that new boooooyfriend of yours!" Lisa reminds Nayana of a silly first-grader who sings the "K-I-S-S-I-N-G" song whenever she spots another potential couple. Nayana rolls her eyes. "We'll see you later, yeah? Unless you two decide to stay holed up in the room all day. You gotta tell me all the details!"

"Girl—bye!"

The conversation ends and Nayana is immediately back to staring at Taehyung. She's too wired to go back to sleep, and right now, there's no better sight to see than this.

Nayana doesn't know how long she lies there observing him, but eventually he wakes up. She doesn't even bother with pretending like she hasn't been watching him sleep. He blinks his eyes cutely and yawns, smacking his lips. They make eye contact and they both laugh.

"I could get used to waking up to this," Taehyung says quietly, voice husky. He cups her cheek in his palm and smiles. He shifts closer but yelps when something suddenly pokes him in the side.

"What is it!?

Taehyung reaches under the covers, searching for the object. When he finds it, he holds it up for Nayana to see. It's the pack of condoms, four still left over from last night. He raises his eyebrows and smirks.

"Wanna use the rest of these?"

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 27

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

With the six of them, Appa’s saddle was crowded. True, the avatar sat on the beast’s head to guide him, but the rest had to be squashed among their supplies, which after the first day had been stacked up at the front of the saddle to offer them some protection from the wind. It was closer quarters than Zuko would have liked. He was all but buried between Sokka and Toph, whose nausea had yet to settle. Katara sat at the corner of his eye with her hair loose and blown back by the wind, with the chain of sea-wolf teeth braided into it like a coronet. She hugged her knees for most of the trip, and aside from the odd petty exchange with her brother, during the day with very little to do, she mostly kept her thoughts to herself. 

At first, he thought it a facade employed so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, but after a few days of watching her easy cheeriness in camp, he detected a forced note in her manners towards the others, as if she were humouring them – and none of them seemed to notice. Or perhaps, he decided as they swooped low over the countryside, they were so used to seeing this version of Katara that they didn’t realise it was an act. In the fire nation she had been clever, and cultured, and determined, and even though she had turned those talents against him – his blood still boiled to think about it – seeing her hide those parts of herself away left something unsettled in him, like seeing a delicate silk painting left out in the rain. 

Not that it mattered. She had avoided him ever since he had joined the group by the campfire. Her behaviour was fine with him, really, when there were so many other things to think about, such as his impending reunion with the Fire Lord, or how the combined weight of their group and their provisions meant the sky bison was flying slower than he should be on the winding, circuitous route they were taking towards the coast. 

The avatar, at least, seemed to agree with him.

“Guys, I don’t think Appa can take another day of flying like this,” he announced when they landed that night. “Not if we want to make it across the ocean.” 

“And we’re all so looking forward to that,” Toph grumbled as she carefully felt her way down the beast’s leg. “And eugh, we’re on sand. Of-sodding-course. Excuse me while I go and throw up.” 

The others climbed down from the saddle with varying degrees of stiffness after the long, cramped hours of flying. They had stopped on a crescent beach of greyish sand, surrounded on all sides by steep cliffs obscured at the top by vegetation. The dying light shone through the waves that curled onto the shore, and birds called to each other as they settled down to roost. 

Sokka rubbed feeling back into his legs. “If we dump most of the gear can we make up the time? We’re already three days behind schedule.” 

“Appa’s an animal, not a ship,” Aang replied. “You can’t just unload him and make him go faster. He gets tired.” 

“So do the rest of us, but if we don’t defeat the Fire Lord –” 

“Better to get to the Fire Nation late than not at all,” Suki interrupted. “And we might as well leave the camping stuff here anyway. There aren’t many places in the middle of the ocean to pitch a tent.” 

Sokka flashed her a goofy grin. “Good point. You’re so smart.” 

“I know,” she replied, brushing her fingers over the carved necklace at her throat. 

“I might go and join Toph in throwing up,” Katara muttered. 

“I’ll remember you said that when you start fawning over some brawny jerkbender,” her brother teased. “And then I’d have to knock him out, since you’re my sister and everything.” 

“You couldn’t knock out your back,” she snapped, cheeks darkening. She did not look at Zuko. “I’m going to catch us some dinner. If someone else could unload Appa and get a fire started that would be lovely.” 

A stunned silence fell as she marched away. 

“Hey Sokka, I think you said something,” Aang joked, when still nobody spoke. 

Sokka huffed. “Waterbenders. It’s probably something to do with the moon – ow! What was that for?” 

“Being a sexist pig-chicken,” Suki retorted, as she batted him on the arm. “‘I’ll have to knock him out’ – honestly. And that was before you started bringing moon cycles into it.” 

“Hey, it’s a big brother’s duty to defend a little sister’s honour. Prince Hothead!” he called, looking for support. “You’ve got a sister, right? Tell the mean lady it’s our job to be protective.” 

Zuko, who had already climbed back into Appa’s saddle and started untying the guide ropes, kept his voice carefully neutral as he answered. “If I ever tried to ‘protect’ Azula like that, she’d probably set me on fire. You should count yourself lucky.” 

“Yeesh. Your family has problems, buddy.” 

With a frown, Zuko turned back to his task. The light was nearly gone now, and though he could probably use his bending to see, the knots would be awkward to undo with only one hand. He paused to try and work out if he could approach them from another angle, but when he glanced up to shake his hair out of his eyes, all thought of knots and ropes went out of his head at the sight of Katara.  

She stood almost hip-deep in the sea, poised in a starting stance while the waves broke around her. As he watched, she lifted her hands and raised a column of water, then in a graceful turn drew a stream out from the mass that contained a sinuous, glittering mass – a young elephant koi, he realised. The creature struggled, twisting on itself to get back to the safety of the sea floor, but her power held it absolutely, and as she turned and brought it back to shore, the water flowed away from her legs like the falling petals of a flower. 

Someone shifted beside him; he hadn’t even heard Suki approach. 

“You were staring,” she said, offering a bland smile. 

He swallowed, and hoped the failing light hid the burn in his cheeks. “The first time I saw her bend, she sank three of my father’s warships by herself.” He glanced at the warrior as she let out an appreciative whistle. “I’ve never seen someone with that much control over their element, not even Azula. I was taught that firebending is superior to other kinds of bending, which was why we deserved to win the war, why we were winning. But it’s not true.” 

Until the words were spoken, he hadn’t recognised them. His frown deepened, thinking back to the past weeks at the temple, and the training sessions with his uncle in the early morning where nobody could see. The old man had chided him for forgetting his root, his breath, and had sighed at the predictability of his form. 

It is good to take wisdom from many different places, he had said. If we take it from only one place, it becomes rigid and stale. It is not the use of the four elements that makes the avatar so powerful, but his understanding of them.  

“I’ve found people from the Water Tribe tend to have that effect,” Suki replied, with a fond look over her shoulder. “Help me with this.” She set her hands to the knots, and Zuko, catching the idea, ignited a small flame in his palm to help her see. For a moment they worked in silence, until the main ropes holding their supplies went slack. Beneath them, Appa had started snoring. 

“When Sokka’s fleet first arrived in my village, we were neutral in the war. Avatar Kyoshi separated us from the mainland so we wouldn’t have to suffer outside conflict, and we tried our best to follow her example.” She smiled. “And then this young, hotheaded warrior limped his ship into my harbour, and I realised that by isolating ourselves, we were only waiting for the war to come to us, and the longer we waited, the worse it would be. Kyoshi would have kept the peace, and we dishonoured her memory by not trying to help, so we decided to leave the island and join the avatar.” 

“Our people think of honour differently,” he replied, scowling.  

“How so?” 

For an instant, he considered telling her everything, about his banishment and his cut hair and the sting of betrayal, but it would be an admission too far, a tenuous lie while the idea still churned in his mind that by bringing the avatar to the Fire Nation, his father’s approval was in his grasp. 

“We should have Toph bury what we don’t need,” he said instead. “The Fire Nation sends patrols out in airships and they’d spot it otherwise.” 

He was quiet for most of the next morning as they set out across the ocean. They had left everything on the beach but their weapons and just enough bundles of dried food to sustain them for the two days it would take to cross to the tail-tip of the Fire Nation archipelago, and with Appa fed on alfalfa mixed with high energy seeds, they were making good time. By early afternoon they saw the first Fire Navy ships low on the horizon, outliers for the main blockade. 

“We should’ve called in some of ours for a diversion,” Sokka grumbled as they passed overhead. “Do you think they saw us?” 

“Better to assume they have and expect the worst,” Zuko answered. 

Toph sighed from her place clinging to the edge of the saddle. “Excellent advice from the ray of sunshine. Can someone tell me what’s going on?” 

“We’re at the blockade,” Katara supplied. “And we have a plan. Take us down.” 

“Down?” 

But Aang only nodded. “Way ahead of you, Katara – Appa, yip-yip!” 

Groaning, the sky bison dipped towards the sea as the blockade appeared as a line of specks on the horizon. He gained momentum with broad sweeps of his tail until the wind streamed in their eyes. Behind them, a rocket screeched into the sky, exploding in a shower of sparks. The Fire Nation had seen them after all. 

“Uh, Katara...” 

“I’ve got this.” 

As Appa levelled out, pulling up just in time for his toes to skim the waves, Katara rose to her feet in a bending stance, twisting her feet so they rooted to the saddle, encased to the calf in ice. She reached out behind her, scooping mist from the surface of the water and fanning it so it billowed out before them, until only the lap of the water beneath Appa gave them any orientation at all. 

Zuko turned to Sokka, his expression grim. “The navy knows waterbenders use fog to hide their approach. They’ll know we’re coming.” 

As if on cue, a fireball exploded over their heads, lighting the fog with a flare of orange. Appa roared and swerved to dodge the missile, and scuffed up spray as his forequarter collided with a wave. 

“They would’ve seen us coming anyway,” Sokka replied, clinging to the saddle. Another fireball detonated, closer this time. “But this way, they won’t see where we’re going.” 

“Look out!” 

Suki’s shout came almost too late. The fog parted for a ball of flame headed straight for them. Katara twisted and threw an arm up with a spike of ice to catch it and the fireball smashed into it. The force of the impact broke her stance and sent her to her knees with a snarl.  

“Katara –” 

Shouts echoed through the fog, a whip-crack orders accompanied by the turning of gears and the soft whoosh of pitch igniting. Appa bellowed again and an instant later, he was drowned out by the telltale crunch of trebuchets being launched. 

“Katara, we have to dive!” Sokka yelled. 

“We can’t,” she shot back. “We won’t have enough air, and we can’t afford to surface too close in case they spot us.” 

“That won’t matter if we’re dead!” 

“Too late!”  

She braced herself as the fireballs tore through the air. Aang struggled to steer Appa with one hand, while his staff waited in the other like a bat ready to swing. Even with two of them, they could never hope to repel every one. Zuko saw this in slow motion, just like he saw the fog dissipating as Katara’s focus shifted to defence, sweat on her brow, and he saw the water swirling beneath them, and Toph’s blind eyes wide with fear knowing there was a threat and no way to react to it. He wasn’t aware of moving, of sliding into a stance, of summoning fire – not until it burst from his fists and shattered the oncoming projectiles like confetti. 

Katara stared at him. 

“Focus on keeping our cover,” he barked. “I’ll shoot any that come too close while the av– Aang steers us through the worst of it.” 

“I...” She blinked. “Right.” 

He turned away, scanning the air above them as she rooted herself once more, and then the mist drew in, enclosing them utterly. Aang wove a serpentine path just above the water, non-direct like his element, and without a clear target the Fire Nation ships floundered, spitting fireballs into the air at random more with the hope of hitting something than anything else. Only a few veered close enough to do damage, but Zuko shot them down. The foreign shouts grew louder. 

Something reared on their left side, a hulking shadow behind a wall of white, close enough that Appa had to roll sideways to avoid it. The movement was too steep, however, and he crashed into the water with an impact that rattled everyone aboard to their teeth. 

“Did we get something?” a nervous voice called from above. 

“I heard a splash!” 

Katara let go of the fog. “Now, Aang!” 

The avatar nodded and stood, matching her movements. Together, they swept arcs of water overhead, weaving it like a cocoon. Appa panicked as they sank, struggling at the unfamiliar suck on his limbs, and for an instant it seemed the bubble would burst. 

“Keep him calm,” Katara ground out, holding the weight of the water on one arm. 

“Easy, buddy. Everything’s going to be alright.” 

They went under. The world around them dimmed to murky shadows pressing close, distorted and silent through the screen of water as they passed under the blockade. Above them, the churn of rotor blades throbbed like a heartbeat until Katara, with a grim, satisfied smile, reached up and froze them solid. 

“Congratulations, Sweetness,” Toph groaned. “You’ve managed to make flying worse.” 

They kept on for what seemed like ages. Both Katara and Aang used their bending to help Appa power through the water, though they struggled to keep his natural buoyancy in check. The light filtering through from above painted shafts of crystalline blue onto the void around them, and into the occasional flash of scales as shoals of fish darted past. To look down was to be filled with an ominous sense of vertigo, but not in the same way as flying through the air. Then, at least, the eye had reference points and perspective to make sense of what it saw, but here there was nothing but a void of ever increasing darkness that loomed up to swallow anyone who stared at it for too long. Zuko pulled his eyes away, lightheaded, itching under the weight of it. 

“Katara...” he breathed. 

“Not now.” 

He shook his head. “Your nose is bleeding.” 

“I can handle it,” she snapped. 

But the others were drawing in too, their concern far more welcome than his alarm. 

Sokka placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “We should be far enough away now. As long as we don’t take off, we shouldn’t be seen.” 

“Appa’s fur is pretty waterlogged by now, I’m not sure he could take off,” Aang offered. 

“Who cares if we can fly?” Toph interrupted. “Has anyone else noticed we’re running out of air?” 

Faced with agreement from all sides, Katara nodded and changed her movements. At first there was little change, but gradually the water around them brightened, with rippled shadows taking definition as light became sky and the ocean fell away. Then, about ten feet from the surface, Appa realised what was happening and threw off Aang’s steady hand on the reins. He bellowed and surged upward with a stroke of his tail. The sudden movement was too much for Katara’s shaking legs. She collapsed to her knees, losing her hold on the bubble of air, and the weight of the water met the smack of force as they surfaced – it swept them away like leaves before a storm – and then the ringing in their ears bled into the disorienting screech of seabirds and a rough breeze that stung their faces like sandpaper. 

“Is everyone alright?” Sokka asked. 

There were murmurs of assent from various corners of the saddle, and a groan from Appa, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes. 

“No sign of the Fire Nation,” Suki supplied. “We did it.” 

“Not until we reach land, we haven’t,” Toph reminded her. “Is Katara alright?” 

Sokka turned to find his sister sprawled with her legs stretched out in front of her, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, with the clotted blood from her nosebleed still lingering on her upper lip. 

“I’m fine,” she said.  

Aang settled next to her. “That was almost avatar-level bending. I’m sorry I couldn’t help more.” 

“You were busy with Appa,” she replied. “We all saw how well it went when he panicked.” 

“He’s sorry too. Hey – you know what you need? One of the cinnamon buns Sifu Hotman packed for us! They should be –” He trailed off to find Zuko already handing him the waxed packet containing the sweet treats, and with a grin he turned back to Katara. 

“Thanks, Aang, but I’m feeling a little dizzy right now.” 

“That’s why you need to eat.” He rocked back on his heels and contorted his face into a scholarly, old-man expression complete with a stroke of an imaginary beard. “A master knows to master themselves before they can master the mastery of their element,” he told her in a wheezy but recognisable impression of Iroh. “And the most masterful way to master the self is to master your hunger, master Katara!” 

“If I didn’t know you better I’d swear you practiced that,” she managed, relenting as he waved the basket under her nose. The buns did smell delicious. “Fine. But you have to tell Appa to keep swimming.” 

“Deal!” 

“Thank you.” She glanced aside as she said this, but Zuko was facing away from her, towards the horizon ahead, and didn’t appear to notice her regard. 

[jawsandbones]

Threnodies for Leto, Songs for Fenris - Part 1/3

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

He learns to say no. He whispers it to himself in the dead of night, up at faintly blinking stars. He practices. He takes pleasure in it – the sound of it on his tongue, the way it feels in his mouth. The ability to speak his mind. To have choice. No. At first he fears the use of it. He has been taught how to bite his tongue too well. Fenris knows what comes with hesitation, denial. It begins with the dark frown, the biting word and ends in the lash, in punishment. Hawke asks if he would like to come with them on a day he had planned for other things. “No, I – I would rather not,” he says as he braces himself. Stiffens the line of his back, the square of his shoulders, prepares for the reprimand. She only smiles, leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms.

“That’s alright. I’ll bring you back something,” she tells him. He still feels it even after she leaves. Leaning against his closed door, hands in fists against the wood. The heavy beating of a nervous heart, the faint rush of adrenalin that pumps through every vein. He smiles, laughs to himself, presses a hand against his forehead. It is that first ‘no’ which gives him the allowance of more. He tells Varric that no, he does not want to try the Hanged Man’s mystery soup. The dwarf shrugs, chews on some unidentifiable grey meat. Merrill asks him to pick mushrooms with her and he tells her no, and she goes to ask Anders. He steps back when Isabela holds out a fish for him to hold, a very flat no, and she throws it at the back of Hawke’s head.

He learns acceptance. The right of rage, permission of grief. Fenris mourns the life he never knew, bitter to the one he has left behind, learns to take joy in the one he is creating. Hawke is a welcome figure on his doorstep, and he finds he likes the sound of her voice. They speak of anything that comes to mind, Hawke an attentive listener to anything he has to say. Some nights it is no more than comfortable silence, shared space, and a few times Hawke falls asleep in the chair. They find which bakery he likes best, learns that apple pastries are his favorite. She brings him a bottle of Ferelden ale. They drink it together, and it’s Hawke who smashes this bottle against the wall.

Isabela teaches him how to skip stones. She laughs as he growls frustration at the third one that simply sinks. She cheers when the sixth finally goes, three pathetic hops, but more than good enough. Anders and Varric double over in laughter together as he wakes to find Merrill has braided daisies into his hair. He spars with Aveline, helps her bridge the opening she leaves on her right. She gives him a small bag of cookies in thanks and a ���please don’t tell Isabela I bake.” Times spent at the Hanged Man with everyone else, and they shout over the table, slap down coin and card. He watches them argue and laugh, smiles to himself.

He reacquaints himself with loneliness. Kirkwall seems harsher now that Hawke has gone to the Deep Roads, a little quieter, somewhat cold. A sudden realization of what her presence means. Fenris misses her most on the nights alone with himself, mind moving in torturous circles. Speaking with the others is never quite the same, they don’t listen the way she does. Her presence in his mansion has always been welcome, while others feel intrusive, a churning in his gut. She had leaned forward and smiled, put her hand over his. “Go see the others while I’m gone,” she had said, “you can’t stay cooped up in here all the time.” He does his best to honor this promise.

Merrill has found herself managing the clinic in Darktown, fielding questions of where Anders had gone. He brings her the supplies she has in her house, buys more with his own coin when she runs out. Fenris walks the late patrols with Aveline, knowing she takes the more dangerous routes. She tells him he doesn’t have to. She thanks him anyway. She tells him how proud she is of the guards in training, gives glowing admiration of the others. One in particular. He tells himself he must find a way to meet this Donnic. He helps defend Isabela from those who call her a cheat, and from behind the safety of his sword, she proudly admits it. He pulls her arm over his shoulders, walks her to her room, and puts a bucket beside her bed.  

Fenris lies in his own bed, looking through the cracks in his roof. He likes it best when it rains, falling into the buckets he carefully places. The sound of drops against tin, the fluttering moonlight that cascades into the room. He knows that Hawke is sleeping under a different sky, one of rock and stone, in a place she’d rather not be. “I’m frightened of being underground,” she had confessed, “all of that above my head… just makes me uneasy.” He lies awake and wonders if Hawke is wondering about him. Rolling over to bury his face in his pillow, shame in wanting one of his only friends. A desire that had lain dormant, feelings he didn’t know he could have. He dreams of her laughter, of blue eyes and freckles, and brushing hair behind her ear.

Bartrand returns, but she does not. His stomach rolls, knots, churns in worry. He wears a path into already worn floorboards, unable to stop pacing. He resolves to find the dwarf, ask him where Hawke is. Aveline finds him first. Asking to speak with him, sitting in the chair. Long moments spent in silence before she leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I spoke to Bartrand,” Aveline says, “They got separated. A cave-in.” Her hands tight together, fingers digging into flesh, knuckles white with the effort. “He doesn’t think they survived.” That pit falls, and Fenris sinks into the opposite chair. Hands grip the armrest, staring pointedly at the fire. Long enough until his eyes burn, blink back pain, shaking his head.

“No,” he rasps. “I will question him myself.”

“Fenris,” she says his name quietly, a warning in the syllables.

He plans to leave Kirkwall. He will book passage on a ship south, leave the Free Marches entirely. Hawke had asked him once, if he might stay. Those early conversations, getting to know one another. “Perhaps you’ll find a reason to stay,” she had said with a smile. He had taken her kindness with a measure of suspicion, hard to trust, unwilling to settle. She had slowly carved a place for herself in him, settling in locked spaces, dusty corners. He’s stayed too long. There’s nothing left keeping him in the city anymore. On the third day of the second week, he packs a bag. He takes all the things Hawke has given him, the only mementos he cares to keep. In his hands, a red scarf, soft against his skin. On the fourth day, there’s a knock at his door.

There are dark circles under her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in days. She is thinner, her hair longer, but her eyes still burn brightly blue. She stretches out her arms, steps through the doorway as she wraps them around him. Burying her face against his chest, holding him tightly. Fenris still hasn’t recovered from the shock of it, slowly lets his hands settle on Hawke’s back. “Bartrand trapped us down there. Carver caught the blight. He’s gone with the Grey Wardens and I,” her hands fist in his tunic, tremble and shake, “I missed you. This. I cried when we saw grass, can you believe it?” He can. He holds her a little tighter.

He learns how to ask. Slipping into old habits, sitting by the fire as she speaks. Listening quietly as her hands move wildly to convey every detail, from sitting hunched to sitting straight, expressions rowdy and vivid as she recounts all that happened while she was gone. They talk for hours until their voices are hoarse and the drinks are emptied, food eaten. Hawke rubs her eyes as she leans back, stifles the yawn. “Would you like to stay?” He asks, playing with the loose thread at the end of his leggings. She smiles, reaches out, touches his knee.

“I don’t want to throw you out of your own bed,” she says. Fenris shakes his head, finds the courage to rest his hand over hers.

“It’s no trouble,” he tells her. They stay there quietly, as his thumb traces over her knuckles. There’s a new scar on the back of her hand, just there, right by her pinky finger. The way she touches has always felt natural. A brush across the shoulders, hand on his arm, at his back. It’s never come easily to him. Even now he feels stiff, awkward, nervous, but still his hand remains. They both look over as a log in the fireplace cracks, breaks, warm light on their cheeks.

“Then I’ll take you up on your offer,” she says, and that smile still remains, so light on her lips. She settles into his bed, lying on her side, watching him as he tucks himself into the chair. “Fenris.” She stretches out her hand towards him. “There’s no reason we can’t share.” He can think of at least ten. Still, he finds himself walking towards her, tips of his fingers brushing against hers. He lies with his back towards her, staring at the wall. The fire burns, dies, and he stiffens when he feels her turning. Her face against his back, an arm slipping around him. Murmuring in dreaming, curling up against him. How warm it is to be held by someone. He indulges himself, lets his hand link with hers. Finger against finger, and palm against palm.

Hawke shows him first. An estate in ruin, a home she means to repair. The others help as well. Merrill worries on the ladder, cleaning the very top of the windows. Aveline is adept at repairing broken walls, cracked bannisters. Those Hawke has hired are also underfoot, but there’s only the cheerful laughter when it’s just the group of them. Isabela paints her name in a flourish before painting in earnest, while Varric buys Hawke a fine desk to sit in the front. A gold tipped quill, expensive ink. Anders has a scarf wrapped around his face as he dusts out the cobwebs, carries the spiders to the garden. There Fenris and their newest addition, Sebastian, work together. Hacking at weeds, planting new flowers.

There are days he gets lost in the labor. Leaning over in the dirt, gloves on his hands and sun beating on his back. Sweat on his brow, dripping at his temples, and he tears at stubborn root, embedded rock. His mind drifts, turns towards a different sun that used to beat upon his back. A labor that wasn’t like this, a work not the same. That was because they told him, this is because she asked and he – bats away the sudden touch, slaps away her hand. Stumbling back into the grass, and he is ready with the apology but Hawke pretends as if it didn’t happen at all.

“Did you want some water?” she asks. His hands clench into fists as his shoulders move with heavy breath, trying to steady himself in the present.

“I – yes. That would be appreciated,” he says. She extends her hands towards him once again, helps him to his feet. He follows her meekly to the kitchen, casts his gaze to the floor. She shifts, tilts, intercepts his vision until he can look naught but at her. When he finally meets her gaze, she smiles, passes him the glass.

“I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, “I should have said something first.” The condensation rolls down the glass, cold against his skin. He watches her as she walks, that easy swing of her arm over Isabela’s shoulders. The women sway and laugh together, and he wants it to be that easy for him. He longs to touch, when he’s shunned all touch before. Unwanted hands under his skin, wrapping around bone and muscle, claiming him for them. Now he wants to reach out, he wants to ask.

In the quiet when all others leave, they sit together in front of Hawke’s fireplace. The Amell sigil sits proudly above it, while the Hawke sigil rests above the door. She sits cross-legged, an elbow on her knee, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. While she is watching it burn, Fenris is watching her, the way the light flickers on her face. They pass the bottle of wine back and forth, a sort of sharing that comes naturally to them now. “I have an estate,” she says.

“Yes you do,” he says. Hawke smiles proudly, sits a little straighter, brushes hair behind her ear. It reveals the smudge of dirt on her cheek. He’s moving before he even realizes it, his thumb at the mark, brushing it away. Her face turns towards his. The dirt is gone and yet his hand remains, fingers curling at her cheek. All other sounds seem to slip away, and he can only hear the soft sound of her breathing. The way she shifts closer.

“May I kiss you?” Fenris asks it hoarsely, as though he hasn’t spoken in years, or at least never with meaning such as this. Her nod is instant, her answer voiceless. A palm pressing against stone as she leans towards him and he thinks he might count all the freckles, her stars. The brush of her nose against his. The feel of her breath on his lips. The warmth of simply being near her. Taking her face in his hands, eyes closing. She wets her lips just before, and his are maybe a little chapped, but still they fit together. He pulls her closer until she is sitting in his lap, his hands travelling the length of her back. Arms around his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” Sebastian smiles as he takes the box from Fenris, stacking it with the others in the Chantry basement. Fenris grumbles and Sebastian chuckles. “Things are going well with Hawke?” Fenris blinks, startled.

“With Hawke, I –”

“A blind man could see how you feel for her,” Sebastian tells him.

He walks with Aveline on Wednesdays. Down the twisting paths of Lowtowns, in the back alleys she does not want to send her guard. Most of it is spent in silence, some of it with Aveline asking him to train some of her guard. “There are many in this city who look up to you,” she tells him, but he finds it hard to believe. Especially difficult on the nights Fenris twists in his bed, casts the blankets to the floor. Feet hard against stone as he paces, hands pressed against his head. A voice that does not want to leave him, commands that haunt his dreams.

Fenris holds a ladder for Isabela as she climbs up to Merrill’s roof, smashes through cracked tiles with the hammer. They yell at each other, Merrill in concern and worry, Isabela wondering how anyone could live like this. Hawke wanders into the alienage in the afternoon, passes Fenris her half-eaten sandwich as she clambers up after them. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Fenris calls upwards to them. Isabela’s face appears over the edge, hair hanging down.

“Don’t you dare let go of that ladder!” She tells him. Merrill frets beside him, biting at her fingernails, waiting for them to finish. They reappear when the sun begins to set, covered in dirt and web, cuts on their hands, and more hammers than they went up with. They sit at Merrill’s small table, eat whatever she offers. Merrill seems more than happy to have them all there, pleased pink on her cheeks, squished between Isabela and Hawke.

Fenris smiles as he reaches across the table, sweeps up the hard won coin. Anders glowers at his cards before reaching for the rest, shuffling them together in an angry huff. Varric leans back in the chair, accepts graceful defeat. “You are a menace, elf. One of these days I’ll figure out your tell,” he says. Perhaps it the way his ears perk up when he sees Hawke walk into the Hanged Man, or the way he sits up a little straighter when she sits next to him. Anders is dealing the cards neatly, and Fenris keeps his close to his chest, away from Hawke’s prying eyes.

“I think he’s cheating,” Anders says, “he’s been spending too much time with Isabela.” Hawke has her elbows planted on the table, holding her face in her hands.

“Or he’s just better than you at the game,” she says. Anders rolls his eyes, feigns hurt as Varric laughs. While Anders and Varric stay late, Hawke and Fenris walk home together. They detour into Darktown, so that Fenris can fill the clinic’s donation box with the coin he won from Anders and then some. Knuckles brush against knuckles, finger against finger, and Hawke smiles under star and shafts of moonlight that streams through the cracks between buildings.

Sand underneath his feet. Salt on the wind, the hint of the sea. Long grass that sways in the breeze, under cracked cliff and wounded coast. Signs he thought he would be able to forget come rushing back. He knows this trap. Stopping and the others stop too, look over their shoulders at him. “Hunters,” Fenris says.

“You are in possession of stolen property,” says the one who dares step forward. “Back away from the slave!” It isn’t rage. It isn’t denial. All the things he thought he might feel when they finally found him, and it isn’t that. The first is fear. Fenris expects to see Danarius to step forward next. Little wolf. Kill them. He fears he will listen. Master coming to collect and he, and he –

“Fenris is a free man,” Hawke shouts as she steps in front of him, puts her hand on his chest. Aveline raises her shield beside him, and Sebastian has the arrow notched. He’s forgotten something he learned, something he taught himself. He forgot who he was, but just for a moment.

“I am not a slave!” Hawke reaches upward with fist and magic, pulls down their attackers. Fenris sprints forward, ready to face them head on. The steady sounds of Sebastian’s arrows, burying themselves into the soft spots between armor. Hawke’s magic is the warm hand at the back of his nape, a watching presence that’s a comfort and not a prison. Aveline at his side, facing faceless attackers. Cowards hidden behind metal, the flash of a sword and the Tevinter crest.

It builds with each step towards the caves. He has tried to forget it, to leave it aside. Haunting him for far too long, an anger he cannot shake. Bitter to all they robbed him of, fury to what they put inside him. An outrage that has been growing, pulled forward through the years he thought he might be free. Fenris wants to be better. More than what they made him, past all they gave him. Hadriana trembles below him and a different man might have let her go. He kills her in thinking it might kill the despair, only makes it worse. Pushing away her touch and “what has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled?” He regrets each word, calls himself a coward as he runs.

He did not face Danarius when he could have. Standing side by side with the Fog Warriors who called him friend, the taste of what life could be still fresh on his tongue. He cannot face Hawke when he should have, told her that it is not her magic he fears. That it is Fenris who is the ruin, and that she deserves better. Instead he runs, and she lets him go. Those first days all over again. He paces through the mansion, afraid the hunters are waiting in each dark corner. He cannot stay. Wandering the city until he finds himself on her doorstep.

He can hear her running down the stairs at the sound of his arrival, breathless in clothing casual, tucking hair behind her ears. She opens her mouth to speak, but closing it again as he walks towards her. Looking at the floor, her bare feet against stone, struggles to raise his gaze. “I was… not myself.” Not the man he wants to be. “I’m sorry.” Finally able to look upwards, expects the anger he knows he deserves. He doesn’t find it.

“I had no idea where you went, I was concerned,” she says softly. She crosses her arms, as though stopping herself from reaching out and touching him. He appreciates the gesture. His skin has been fire since he felt Hadriana’s heart in his hands, markings raw and sensitive, and a vulnerability he’s still trying to fix. He struggles with the explanation of it, only knowing that he wants her to know. Hadriana’s claws still at his back, Danarius’s teeth at his neck. Paltry. Lacking. He leaves in frustration, he leaves her in worry.

He decides to tell her. His regret, a shame, one action among many he wishes he could take back. Fenris goes to the wine cellar, takes the last bottle from the shelf. He knows its name, the shape of the label, the style of the cork. He knows it from it being pointed out to him. As he holds the bottle in his hand, his thumb traces over letters he cannot understand. “Today is the anniversary of my escape,” he tells her as he holds it out to her. She takes it instantly, pulls her chair forward. “Would you like to hear the story?”

“I enjoy listening to you talk,” she says. He leans forward, touches his forehead against hers.

“There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman.” Warm with wine, feeling bold, letting himself let go. Speaking the words makes them real, the truth of what he’d done. Killing those who had taken him in, who believed he deserved his freedom. He took too long to believe it as well. Ghost of shackles around his wrists, the collar around his neck. It chokes him on the days he least expects. He feels them even now, tight and cold, but Hawke reaches out, brushes her thumb against his cheek.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says softly, “I know it can’t be easy to speak about.” He misses her touch as she pulls her hand back, folding her hands in her lap. She knows and yet she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t rage at him for what he’s done. She lays acceptance at his feet, dares for him to take it. He stands on the precipice but cannot fall. Reaching for the bottle, wine rich on his tongue. A taste he was never allowed, a privilege never given, but he has taken it for himself.

“I… have never allowed anyone too close.” How many times had they been sent to his bed to tempt him? A touch was betrayal, affections were punishment. Difficult to shake such a thing. Setting the bottle on the table, hands in fists on his knees. He’s still getting used to it. The closeness. The permission to find solace in another person. The realization that Hawke is no pawn, no trap set to close around his bones. There is no rope. No chain. Naught for the one he extends to her of his own will.

He seeks her out three days later. “Command me to go and I shall.” Hands on his cheeks, her face so close to his.

“No need.”

[lurkerdelima]

ficlet: goldilocks

I randomly got the urge to write a cute little OT4 type...thing, so that's what this is. It's Silverflintmadihamilton, or whatever you'd like to call the four of them reuniting after season 4 and living happily ever after as one big slightly confusing family on a tropical island somewhere. With a cat. Nothing explicit here, just some hinting at Adult Situations. It is very sappy though, you've been warned!

It all starts when Silver gets a particularly stubborn matted spot at the back of his head right as his left shoulder has decided rather inconsiderately to lock up on him, as it sometimes does when a hurricane is imminent. He can't hold his left arm up long enough to work the mat out, and he needs both hands for it. He gets his hair wet and does what he can to wash it, then futilely tugs at it with the comb in his right hand before he quietly admits defeat. He can't just leave his hair matted, though, which means only one thing: he's going to have to ask for help.

He goes to Madi first, because she's his wife and because his hair is somewhat like hers, so he figures she'll be sympathetic to his plight and know what to do. She's braided his hair for him before, and has given him sweet-smelling oil to use on it that makes the curls more manageable. Usually.

After supper one night he eases himself to the floor in front of her chair, his back against her legs. She's due in another two months or so, and between her beautifully round belly, his hurricane shoulder, and the never-ending awkwardness of his leg, it's a bit of a challenge for them to even fit together such that she can get her hands in his hair.

He feels her long, elegant fingers in his curls and leans back, closing his eyes. This is going to work, he can tell. She's got the right touch and she knows him so well - she's the perfect person for the job.

Then she pulls at his hair with the comb, and it's - not quite so gentle, but he can stand it.

She pulls again and he hisses through clenched teeth, flinching away from her. He's rewarded with a light whack from the handle of the comb, cracking across the crown of his head.

“Stay still,” Madi scolds, “you're making it worse.”

“It hurts!” he protests, turning to look up at her. “You're pulling too hard, I can't take pain like that.”

“You're too tender-headed, I'm not pulling that hard,” she says, then turns his head back around and pulls at the knots until he can't take it anymore and begs off, fleeing from her and the comb as fast as his bad leg and stiff shoulder will take him.

The following day he pops next door and finds Thomas. They've reached a bizarre accord of sorts by now - they shout at one another often and needle each other on sensitive subjects on purpose, which drives the other two mad. But when Silver and Thomas need each other, no one else will do (and admittedly their heated arguments tend to lead to - other heated things, fairly predictably). Madi and Flint have good-naturedly given up on understanding their dynamic, and have been known to retreat to whichever household Silver and Thomas aren't having a row in to read together in peace.

“Thomas,” Silver greets him as he steps inside, then shuts the door and leans on his crutch. “I've a favor to ask of you.”

Thomas has strong, sure hands, with great capacity for gentleness - and while his own hair is straight and fine, not like Silver's at all, Silver's been given to understand that he used to wear some kind of elaborate ridiculous wig. Taking care of that had its own...challenges, Silver's certain. Maybe he'll be able to sort out the knots without practically yanking Silver's head off his neck.

“Of course,” Thomas says once Silver's explained his predicament. “Come with me,” he says, and takes Silver to the bedroom that's like a second home to him. They sit together on the bed, Silver turned away and Thomas's hands soothingly brushing Silver's hair back from his face.

“Madi pulled much too hard,” Silver murmurs as he feels Thomas's clever fingers in his hair, assessing the extent of the painful matting. It's getting worse, and Silver hopes that Thomas can solve it, because he isn't about to cut his hair.

“You do claim to have a low tolerance for pain. I had assumed it was yet another cunning gambit of yours, but I suppose there's truth to it. You speak the truth even when you think you're lying,” Thomas murmurs.

“Why would I claim to have low tolerance for pain if I don't? What kind of so-called cunning gambit would that be?” Silver gripes, helpless against the urge to bicker with Thomas. “Give me a little more credit than that.”

Thomas doesn't take the bait, for once. He works at the knots with his fingers but after close to an hour of his ineffective gentleness, Silver can take no more. Whatever Thomas is trying to do, it doesn't hurt, but it's also not solving the problem.

“You're not pulling hard enough, you'll never get anything done that way,” Silver says, pulling away from him and heaving himself up on his crutch, turning to scowl down at Thomas.

“You said our darling lady pulled too hard, and I wasn't in the mood to be shouted at if I hurt you,” Thomas says. “So what is it, then? Too much or not enough?” he asks.

“Both,” Silver says, irritable, and crutches out of the Flint-Hamilton house and back to his own.

That evening finds him and Flint doing the washing up together after supper while Madi tries to teach Thomas how to knit. He's hopeless at it, but she's a patient teacher and he keeps trying anyway, for whatever reason, even though he's obviously doomed to failure. It makes Silver smile, and when he glances over Flint is smiling, too.

Then Flint reaches out and touches the back of Silver’s head gently, making a soft ‘oh’ of sympathy.

“Your shoulder,” he says, and it isn't a question, he just knows. “Do you think--?”

“A hurricane’s coming, yes,” Silver says, pausing in drying a plate with the rag in his hand to watch a small greenish-brownish gecko skitter up the wall and out a crack in the ceiling’s timbers.

“Do you want help?” Flint asks, and Silver can feel him looking at him, appraising. He's very aware of Silver's pride, of course.

“I've already tried asking our wife and husband. Madi pulls too hard and Thomas wasn't willing to pull hard enough,” he says, disliking the slightly whining tone he can hear in his own voice.

“I'll try, if you like,” Flint offers softly. Silver accepts, naturally - he has a feeling Flint might just be the solution to his problem.

Once everything has been cleaned up, they leave Thomas and Madi to knitting and Flint gathers enough water to wash Silver's hair in a basin. Silver lets him fuss over him a little, and not-so-secretly enjoys it. When his hair is clean, they sit bare-chested on the bed together and Flint starts working the comb through Silver's curls with his right hand, the fingers of his left hand helping to sort out the tangled, snarled knots. The large black cat they all share, a chatty sort that Silver has started calling Oberon, makes his way into the room and insinuates himself on Silver's lap.

“I can see why this gave them such trouble,” Flint says softly as he works. “You should ask for help before it gets so bad next time.”

“When you say things like that, it makes me want to say ‘yes, mother’ and pull faces at you,” Silver teases quietly, idly scratching under Oberon’s chin while he purrs.

“Miscreant,” Flint says with fondness in his voice. They sit together in companionable silence as Flint works, gradually easing the matted part of Silver’s hair and eventually sorting it out such that Silver doesn't even have to entertain the idea of cutting it.

“Thank you, James,” Silver says quietly when Flint is finished. He shoos Oberon off him and the cat trots away indignantly, probably to go chase an errant yarn ball in the sitting room. Silver turns to Flint and pulls him close, kissing him heatedly, running one hand through his hair - grown out to his shoulders, now, a brilliant red-gold shot through with just a little gray here and there.

“Ah, it's like that, is it?” Flint murmurs when he pulls back.

“Isn't it always?” Silver rumbles in reply. He takes Flint in his arms and eases down onto the bed with him, kissing him sweet and slow.

Thomas and Madi find them later in the bed, curled naked around each other with Flint's head on Silver’s chest and Silver's mouth wide open in a snore. It's supposedly Madi and Silver's bed, but in practice whoever falls into it sleeps there. They share everything, so it's not like it particularly matters.

“They seem to have gotten distracted,” Thomas whispers to Madi, joking. “You can take the bed in the other house, I'll squeeze in with these two. We don't need our son getting squashed by two of his three fathers,” he says in her ear, rubbing her belly gently with one hand.

“We’re having a daughter,” Madi whispers back with surety in her voice. She kisses Thomas on the cheek and leaves, going next door with Oberon for a decent night's sleep. Thomas slides into bed with Silver and Flint, smiling to himself despite how crowded the bed is with three grown men in it.

Two months later, right on time, Madi gives birth to a baby girl with beautiful wild curls.

[catty-words]

we don’t talk very much (we just fake being nice) [5/6]

summary: Clarke’s trying to put aside her past and her anger so she can adjust to her new life. Lexa wants to help, but she has to earn Clarke’s trust back first. Set after “Ye Who Enter Here.” word count: 9,230 author’s note: happy clexa week everyone! i figured this chapter is an appropriate response to today's prompt: canon divergent/fix-it. thank you so, so much to my wonderful beta, @tkross, who made sure this was ready for today even though she has so much going on and is eternally the busiest person i know. please note i've changed the rating of this from teen to explicit...i think you know what that means! i hope you enjoy. :)

[ao3] [last chapter] [first chapter]

~~~

“Thanks again for coming on the trip with me,” Clarke says for the umpteenth time since sunrise as they put saddles on their respective horses in the Polis stables. “This is going to be fun.”

“Certainly,” Lexa says.

Things have been tense between them since their almost-kiss the night of the Azgeda coronation two weeks ago. Of course Lexa’s being gracious as ever, but her overly-polite disinterest almost makes Clarke feel worse about herself than having to face off with an angry Commander.

Her brilliant solution to this newfound stiffness is forcing Lexa to take a day off to escort her to the bay.

“And I hear the view is breathtaking,” Clarke says.

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’ll inspire me and I’ll spend some of the day drawing.”

“Perhaps.”

She’s been quite fond of one-word responses lately.

Clarke tugs the saddle’s billet strap too tight and her horse grunts in annoyance. She pats the mare’s neck apologetically before leading her out of the stall.

Lexa’s already mounted her horse and is staring off into the woods with an unreadable expression on her face.

“I, uh, packed us a picnic so we can stay out for a while.”

With a sigh, Lexa turns to her, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes guarded. “So you said.”

Three words…Clarke resigns herself to the fact that that’s the best she’s going to get for now and climbs up onto her horse.

The journey to the bay is pretty quiet. Lexa rides up ahead of Clarke, who’s too focused guiding her horse through all the underbrush to make any more forced conversation.

After a while, the trees start to thin around them and then they’re gone altogether. Clarke finds herself in a field of tall, reedy grass that tickles her calves as she rides along.

Several kilometers ahead, all Clarke can see is the unbroken blue expanse of water.

She takes a deep breath. The air feels tangy and cool in her lungs.

Off to her left, Lexa’s dismounting and leading her horse back to the tree line.

After drawing in another gulp of air, Clarke follows suit.

“Will the horses be okay here all day?” she asks.

“They’ll graze,” Lexa says. “This way.”

Frowning, Clarke follows after Lexa, who stomps through the tall grass with purpose. They walk down a gently sloped hill to where a small, pebbled beach sits at the bottom..

Clarke is immediately enamored with the smooth, vibrant stones of sage green, cloudy purple, and stormy blue. She crouches down, picks up a pink pebble that’s peppered with black blotches, and rolls it between her fingers as she scans her surroundings.

Up ahead, Lexa’s settling herself under the only tree on the stretch of shore. Clarke watches as she pulls a book out of her travel pack, and, after a second of staring off into the water, starts to read.

A little further along, a rocky edifice juts out into the bay, cutting off Clarke’s line of sight. Moss and vines cling to its side and she sees a series of dark openings along the ground—caves.

Out in front of her, the water unfolds. Waves build and crash at varying sizes and the wind off the bay whips tendrils of Clarke’s hair around her face.

After taking a moment to stare, she falls back onto her bum and tugs off her boots and socks. She shrugs off her bag with her jacket and then wiggles out of her pants—which leaves her in a simple, blue t-shirt and some scanty shorts—before scrambling to her feet and charging full-tilt for the gulf.

The water is colder than she expected, and Clarke lets out a surprised squeal as it splashes up onto her thighs, her abdomen, and in her face. Her feet sink into the grainy sand as soon as she comes to a standstill.

When she turns around to look back at the shore, she notices Lexa staring at her. She grimaces when she’s caught, but doesn’t turn away.

Clarke lifts her hand and waves.

Lexa shakes her head slowly from side to side, and Clarke can just make out the amused smile on her lips. She wants to call out to her, ask her to join, but she knows that’d be pushing things.

With a sad sigh, she pinches her nose and sinks under the water, submerging herself completely.

When she breaks the water’s surface again, she settles on her back, floating with her arms outstretched. She closes her eyes and lets the sun beat down on her.

Clarke’s not exactly sure how much time passes before she swims back to the shore, but she decides it’s time to get out of the water when some dense, gray clouds cut off her sunlight. After taking a moment to dry off and retrieve her clothes and bag from the bottom of the hill, she walks up to the tree. Lexa doesn’t say anything as Clarke sits down to her left, but she does stare at Clarke’s bare legs until Clarke clears her throat softly.

Lexa jolts and immediately focuses back on her book.

Smirking to herself, Clarke pulls her sketchpad and crayons out of her pack and starts drawing the landscape.

By the time the sun’s at the highest point in the sky—trying its hardest to break through the ever-growing haze of clouds—Clarke’s stomach is growling. She retrieves the dried meat strips, nuts, apples, and loaf of bread she brought from her pack and wordlessly passes Lexa her portion.

“Thank you,” Lexa say, just barely audible.

They eat in silence: Lexa using one hand to balance her book on her knee and turn pages while Clarke watches her.

Lexa’s hair is pulled back and off her neck, a mess of braids and curls held up by a red ribbon, so Clarke is able to study the stately line of her jaw unobstructed. She’s imagined kissing the obtuse angle where it starts slanting down toward her chin about a thousand times….

Lexa clenches her apple in her mouth to brush a stray curl behind her ear, eyes unwaveringly focused on her book. The movement makes Clarke startle, and she whips her head around so fast the muscles in her neck twinge.

Just then, a flat, blue-gray creature, the likes of which Clarke’s never seen before, scuttles by on eight legs. She instinctively reaches out for Lexa, clamping down on her forearm and gasping out loud.

“What is that?” she asks, watching with wide eyes as it glides toward the shoreline.

“A crab,” Lexa answers and then pats Clarke’s hand once.

She obediently disengages and asks, “What does it do?”

Though she doesn’t take her eyes off the crab, she can practically feel Lexa’s amused exasperation.

“Exist within the food chain.”

Clarke scoffs at her and reaches for her sketchpad. “I read enough about earth biology on the Ark to know it’s never that simple…I’m going to get a closer look.”

“Watch the pincers,” Lexa says.

Clarke laughs at the random advice but is immediately chastened when she walks up to the thing and sees its sizable claws.

She backs away several steps before sprawling out on her stomach, settling in to observe. The crab darts around and picks at the green plants growing through the pebbles for several hours, and Clarke practices sketching the outline of its body and the shape of the unnerving pincers until she gets them right.

As the day wears on, the shoreline starts to inch back further and further, and she finds another fascination: tide pools.

She’s been sitting cross-legged, leaning over a small puddle with two slender, neon-yellow fish and a handful of miniscule tadpoles for some time before Lexa crouches down beside her.

When Clarke looks up at her in shock, she shrugs. “You were barely breathing. I was worried.”

Clarke lets out a breathy laugh and pats the ground.

After a moment’s hesitation, Lexa sits.

They watch the two fish swim in circles around each other in silence.

Even though there’s plenty of awkward tension, the moment seems significant somehow—it feels like an olive branch. Maybe their relationship isn’t irreparable. Maybe Clarke can atone for her selfishness and they can go back to sharing confidences and burdens and, well, everything.

It takes her a second to work up the courage to glance over at Lexa, but once she does, she finds her already staring.

Lexa’s cheeks go pink when their eyes meet and her throat bobs with a hard swallow.

Clarke’s stomach gurgles with nerves, but she licks her lips and takes a deep breath. “Lexa, I—”

A drop of water plunks onto her forehead and dribbles down her cheek, cutting her off. Both girls look up as a few more droplets fall from the sky and hit their skin, and then, all of a sudden, it’s storming—rain and hail pelting down relentlessly.

“Jok,” Lexa hisses before scrambling to her feet and running back to the tree.

Clarke follows, scooping up her clothes and bag before shouting, “Over here!”

Her brain is in overdrive, trying to process everything at once, but she still manages to lead Lexa into the safety of a cave.

They pause in the mouth and look out at the peculiar weather. “Huh,” Clarke grunts after a moment. “Do you think our horses are okay?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Are you suggesting we go back out there?” Clarke asks, incredulous, just as a bolt of lightning streaks through the sky. It’s followed quickly by a boom of thunder so massive, it makes Clarke’s teeth chatter.

“I suppose we’ll deal with the horses once the storm clears. Till then, we should gather as much kindling as we can and start a fire.”

They find a handful of dry twigs and some not-so-dry sticks, moss, and dead leaves around the cave opening.

“Well, it’s not much,” Clarke says, “but once we get it lit, we can get a torch and cover more ground.”

“Good idea,” Lexa says. “What we have now will hardly last us.”

Clarke nods in grim agreement and fishes the book of matches out of her bag.

After a couple failed attempts to get fire to catch to the damp kindling, she pounds her fist into the ground.

“This isn’t working, and I only have so many matches.” They’re silent for a second, holding each other’s sullen stare, before Clarke snaps her fingers. “Wait, give me your book.”

Lexa’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Why?”

“Because we need something that’ll burn easily.”

Her nostrils twitch. “Clarke, do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

Clarke sighs heavily.

“You are asking me to light fire to one of the last known print books in existence. Less than a hundred tomes survived the nuclear apocalypse, and I have already subjected this one to water damage,” Lexa’s voice is low and fierce as she hugs the book to her chest. “You would have me burn it, too? Back in the days these books were written, burning texts was an affront to intellectualism, to curiosity, to the pursuit of knowledge!”

“Just let me see it, drama queen,” Clarke says, tugging the book from Lexa’s grasp.

She watches, tense and ready to snatch the hardcover back, as Clarke flips through the damp, crinkled book.

“As I suspected,” she says, turning to one of the very first pages and holding up the book with a smug smile. “A couple of them are blank.”

“By ripping those pages out you are still defacing a precious, irreplaceable artifact,” Lexa grumbles under her breath as Clarke does exactly that.

Once their meek fire is finally burning, Clarke ventures into the depths of the cave. She brings back some drier branches and dead leaves, which she sets aside for stoking.

Lexa’s sitting cross-legged, as close to the fire as she can be without getting on top of it, and running her fingers over the jagged remains of the pages Clarke ripped out of her book.

Clarke shakes her head, smiling fondly to herself, and wordlessly takes her place on the opposite side of the fire. She lets her head fall back against the cave wall and watches as the rain and hail continue to plummet down with impressive ferocity. Wind whooshes past the cave, making a low, morose howling noise echo around them.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” she asks.

“Could be hours, could be overnight,” Lexa says. She’s back to speaking to Clarke with calculated indifference, and Clarke wonders what went through her head while she’d been searching for more tinder.

Whatever it was, it’s clear Clarke missed her moment. Nature brought a flood and swept away her olive branch.

She hangs her head and fiddles with the straps of her backpack.

Except, no, she won’t accept that. Lexa deserves an apology…they’re being forced to share a small space, possibly for several hours…they’re not likely to have the privacy they do again any time soon. Clarke’s resolve strengthens.

“Listen, Lexa, about the other night in Azgeda, I—”

“Don’t, Clarke.” Lexa cuts her off right away, sounding tired. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We feel different things about each other.”

“That’s just the thing, though,” Clarke starts again.

Lexa talks over her. “I will not lie to you, say I’m fine with it. You would see through me anyhow. That’s why, as you may have noticed, I have been forcing some distance between us. I don’t want you to feel as though you owe me anything. This weakness is mine to bear, to deal with and control.”

“Dammit, Lexa, stop talking!”

Lexa’s mouth clamps shut.

“Actually listen to what I’m trying to say because you’ve got it all wrong.” Lexa looks like she’s about to protest again, so Clarke holds up her hand and continues. “I owe you more than I could ever repay, Lexa. Y-you’re the reason I’m alive right now. I owe you my sanity and the safety of my people…and an apology. I never meant to make you think my feelings for you were anything less than what you feel for me. You have to know that.”

Lexa’s nostrils flare and her eyes darken with anger—not the reaction Clarke’s expecting. “How could I, Clarke? After everything we’ve shared, you still turn away when I…,” she breaks off, shaking her head. “Your actions speak louder than any words you could offer, Clarke. We should both accept that this is not meant to work. Perhaps it’s better, more prudent for our people, that we let it go.”

“No! How could that possibly be better?” Clarke leans forward, anguish bubbling in her stomach. “You say actions speak louder than words, but you’re not paying attention to the right actions. I made you a present for Badannes Sintaim. I defended your honor in front of the council. Can’t you see how all the good things outweigh that one slip up?”

“…Can you?”

Clarke feels her cheeks burn and she ducks her head in shame. “Okay, you have me there.”

“That is not an answer, Clarke.” Lexa’s voice wavers, thick with chagrin.

She swallows and rubs at her neck. “I swear I thought I had put that night at Mount Weather behind me. I’ve been defending your decision to other people, and I know I’d have done the same thing in your position. But for some reason…”

“You cannot forgive me for the personal transgression,” Lexa concludes quietly.

Clarke nods—hates herself for nodding.

They sit in pained silence for a second.

“It’s just,” Clarke says, desperate to find the right words to explain. “I trusted you so completely. I wanted us…to triumph, I guess. Show everyone who doubted us that Sky People and Grounders could work well together and accomplish great things. And,” Clarke forces herself to look up, to find and hold Lexa’s gaze. “And I wanted a future with you. It all seemed within our grasp.”

“And then I betrayed you,” Lexa says.

“When I think about it rationally, I know it’s completely unreasonable for me to have expected you to choose a girl you knew for a handful of weeks over your people—the people you’ve sworn to lead and protect to the best of your ability. But when I’m being honest with myself, I know that I wanted…I was hoping…”

Lexa waits patiently, her chest unmoving and her eyes wide.

A tear slides down Clarke’s cheek as she says, “I was hoping you’d have chosen me.”

Lexa’s lips part and her eyes glisten with understanding. She puts her book aside and crawls over to Clarke, kneeling next to her but maintaining a few inches of distance.

Once she’s close, Clarke can see that she’s crying, too.

“I want to have chosen you. I want to be in a position where, even now, I’d be able to make that very decision.”

Clarke reaches out to cup Lexa’s cheek, and her heart swells when she doesn’t pull away. “I understand that you couldn’t.”

“The Maunon and the Reapers terrorized my people for decades. I did not think wiping them out was a possibility. It seemed wiser to ally myself with them.”

“I know.”

“Were I allowed to lead with my heart, there would have never been a question. It would have been you, Clarke.”

“I know. I know.”

“Do you really? Here?” Lexa touches two cool fingers to Clarke’s forehead. “And here?” Then her heart.

“Yes,” Clarke says, letting the last of her resentment and hurt and hesitation go so she can truly mean it. She palms at Lexa’s hip, trying to get her to come closer.

Lexa yields, but only slightly, scooting just close enough for her knee to brush against Clarke’s thigh.

“I swear I will continue to atone. I will do everything in my power to show you I—”

Clarke, impatient and greedy and ready, doesn’t let her finish. She slides the hand on Lexa’s cheek around to tangle her fingers in the soft curls at the nape of her neck and pulls her in for a kiss.

Lexa wobbles, caught off guard and a bit unsteady, before letting out a relieved sigh into Clarke’s mouth, gripping her shoulder, and pressing into the kiss.

Clarke feels like she’s being cracked wide open, brimming over with every emotion she’d stuffed down or compartmentalized in the last several months. The fear and hatred and loneliness and regret no longer fit inside her because Lexa’s compassion, Lexa’s respect, Lexa’s devotion…it’s all being poured into her, filling the empty cracks and buoying up everything that’s left—all the hope and goodness and love.

And, though the storm rages on outside, Clarke can only focus on the way Lexa pants—breathless and needy—as she uses her tongue to trace the shape of her lips, savoring the salty drops of rainwater.

Though their fire struggles to keep burning in the whistling wind, Clarke only feels the heat of Lexa’s body as, after some urging and tugging, she straddles Clarke’s lap and threads her fingers through Clarke’s hair, brushing the lobes of her ears and making her squirm.

Lexa’s hips fit perfectly into the curve of her palms and she gives a possessive squeeze. Lexa’s responding moan reverberates through her chest.

They both break away from the kiss at the same time, gasping for breath. When Clarke is ready to find Lexa’s lips again, though, Lexa ducks her head, nuzzling into the crook of Clarke’s neck.

Unfazed, Clarke pushes her fingers up under the hem of Lexa’s shirt to trace the length of her spine and sprinkles kisses along her jawline.

Lexa’s laughing breathlessly into Clarke’s ear, sending a pleasant tingle from the crown of her head to the pit of her stomach.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, lips pressed against the skin of Lexa’s cheek.

Lexa sits back and studies Clarke’s face, her eyes wide with wonder. “Nothing. There is nothing funny about this moment,” she says with a mystified smile.

“You are a very complicated woman,” Clarke says with a smirk as she slides her hands around Lexa’s body to cup her ribs, brushing her thumbs along the soft, sensitive skin just under her breasts.

The awed smile turns into a tiny ‘o’ of delight and Lexa’s eyes flutter shut.

“I’m not laughing from amusement,” she whispers, her entire body quivering as Clarke raises goosebumps on her flesh. “I simply feel…too full not to laugh.”

Clarke’s hands still.

“That sounds foolish, doesn’t it?” she asks, peeking out from under her lashes.

“No,” Clarke assures. “No. I just. I know exactly what you mean.”

“You do?”

Lexa’s eyes are bright and she looks so giddy. Clarke sees the remnants of a younger Lexa—a kid with the same innocence and idealism she had back on the Ark—and, before her mind catches up with her tongue, she whispers reverently, “I love you.”

Lexa gasps and then Clarke’s being showered with gentle-yet-purposeful kisses. “I love,” kiss…, “you,” kiss…, “too.”

With harmonious laughter, the girls slide down onto the cave floor in a tangled mass of limbs.

Outside, the storm carries on.

~~~

A few hours later, the kisses have slowed. Lexa and Clarke are curled together on the cave floor, and, though they’re not quite sleeping, they haven’t said anything since exchanging I love you’s.

All either of them has left to say is more easily communicated with a gentle caress or stolen kiss.

Sometime in the midst of the blissful haze, the storm stops.

“Lexa,” Clarke whispers into her hair, stirring from her restful trance as a symphony of crickets crescendos outside. “I think it’s safe to go back now.”

“Mmm,” she hums in agreement, tilting her head back to smile sleepily at Clarke. “I believe you’re right.”

After lingering a few minutes longer, they pack up their things and walk out onto the moonlit beach.

The ocean is memorizing, glassy in the limited light, and Clarke pauses to stare.

Lexa steps behind her and wraps her arms around her waist. “This was a truly unforgettable day,” she says, nuzzling her nose into the hollow behind Clarke’s ear.

The sensation and the words ignite a fire inside her.

“We should come back here soon, and, y’know, actually spend the day together instead of pouting at opposite ends of the beach,” Clarke says, forcing her inappropriate urges to the back of her mind.

For now, anyway.

“I’d like that,” Lexa says. After a moment, she adds, “And I was not pouting.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Whatever you say.”

Lexa huffs in her ear but doesn’t push the subject.

They stand in silence for another moment before she pulls away from the hug and slips her hand into Clarke’s. “Are you ready to go back?”

Clarke nods slowly and allows herself to be pulled along by Lexa, who is much more familiar with the path back to their horses.

The short trek tuckers her out. She’s hit with her exhaustion all at once, her mind full of half-formed and dazed thoughts, so she’s barely even fazed when there’s only one horse waiting for them.

“I imagine they were spooked by the storm,” Lexa says, approaching the remaining horse cautiously, her hand outstretched. “We’ll have to share.”

“That is the opposite of a problem,” Clarke says immediately, her tongue loose in her sleepy state. She grins suggestively before she’s overcome with a yawn.

Lexa cocks an eyebrow at her, eyes bright with amusement. “And it’s probably best if I do the navigating.”

“Fine by me.”

After tightening the saddle and bridle, Lexa hoists Clarke onto the horse’s back, unties the lead from the tree, and then pulls herself up into the leather seat. “Hang on,” she advises.

Clarke doesn’t need to be told twice. She scoots forward so that Lexa’s back is flush against her chest and wraps her arms around Lexa’s waist. The pinky of her left hand nudges under Lexa’s shirt and rubs teasing circles along the soft length of skin below her belly button.

Lexa shivers—but doesn’t ask her to stop—and clicks her tongue twice to urge the horse onward.

As they plod along the dark trail, Clarke nuzzles her face into Lexa’s shoulder, her nose nudging aside curly tendrils of hair that cling to Lexa’s neck. She smells amazing: like humidity hanging thick in the sky before it rains and smoke wafting from the tenacious embers of a slowly dying fire. It chases all thought from Clarke’s head and lulls her into a hypnotic state.

They ride in silence for a long while before Lexa asks, “What is on your mind at this very moment?”

Clarke inhales deeply and her eyelids flutter open. She’s about to answer ‘nothing at all’ when she realizes that’s not exactly true.

“Do you remember when you kissed me?” she asks.

“Of course. I’ll not be quick to forget,” Lexa says.

“I was thinking about that.”

Clarke can hear the smile in Lexa’s voice when she asks, “Any detail in particular?”

“Not really. I was mostly thinking…,” she breaks off with a quiet, self-derisive laugh.

“What?” Lexa asks quietly.

“I was thinking that, even then, I misled you…because I didn’t want to face the truth about my feelings for you.”

Lexa sits taller in the saddle and clears her throat. “Which were?”

“When I told you I wasn’t ready for you, that wasn’t right. It was more like…,” Clarke gulps, tugs Lexa even closer, and places her lips right next to her ear. “More like I was scared by how ready I was. You know?”

A soft whine rumbles up from Lexa’s chest and escapes as Clarke kisses the edge of Lexa’s jawline, right in the spot she’s always wanted to.

“I had a similar revelation, except mine spanned several days,” Lexa says, and Clarke can feel the thudding of her heart all throughout her body.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Though I’ve never lived through the experience myself, I imagine it felt quite a bit like hurdling in a dropship toward earth.”

“So…terrifying and deadly. You know, your wooing skills could use a little work.”

Lexa laughs and Clarke closes her eyes, savoring the sound.

“No, silly. I mean that it felt…inevitable.”

“Inevitable?”

“Right. It was as if the gravity of your soul was so massive, I had no control over myself. I was sucked into your orbit and that sealed my fate.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Clarke’s not really sure what to say, so she just pushes her face into Lexa’s hair and inhales.

“Falling for you was also like falling from the sky in the sense that it happened in an instant,” Lexa says after a bit. “And yet it was like time slowed to a crawl. The moment became infinite, stretching on forever in all directions. You are all-consuming, Clarke of the Sky People.”

Clarke’s cheeks burn at the comment. “You take up a fair bit of headspace yourself, Heda.”

Lexa’s silent, but Clarke can feel her gratitude and relief without needing to hear her words.

They make the rest of the journey in contented silence—earth and sky united by inevitability.

~~~

“Well, this is where I get off,” Clarke says once they reach her room.

There’s no telling how late it is, but the rest of the tower seems to be sound asleep.

Lexa bows her head. “Sleep well, Clarke.”

When she starts to walk away, Clarke scoffs and catches her by the wrist. “Are you freaking kidding me?” she asks before stealing a peck on the lips.

There’s a surprised smile on Lexa’s face when she pulls back. “Right…no need for formalities.”

“We can be as unprofessional as we want,” Clarke says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say tha—”

Clarke kisses her again before she can finish her sentence.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” she asks once the kiss has concluded.

Lexa bites her lip and stares longingly at Clarke’s mouth before nodding. “Of course.”

Once she’s inside, Clarke strips off her damp clothes and slips into a robe. Her exhaustion is coming back tenfold, but going to bed soggy and smelling of musty cave isn’t exactly appealing.

She grabs her bar of soap and a towel before padding down the hallway to the bathing chamber.

Since it’s probably the only time she’ll have the place all to herself, she dawdles soaking in the tub and letting the steamy water return her body to a normal temperature. Then she takes her time drying off and getting ready for bed.

She’s just slid under her covers—clothed in a thin long-sleeve shirt and a pair of shorts—and is about to blow out the candles around her bed when there’s a soft knock at the door.

Of course it’s Lexa, also freshly bathed. She’s wearing a nightgown Clarke’s compelled to describe as slinky and an adorably nervous smile.

Clarke can’t help it. She bursts out laughing.

Lexa’s face falls. “What?”

“It’s nothing, just…Commander Lexa, are you trying to seduce me?”

“I—I mean…that is...I would not want to…yes. Yes, I am.”

“Get your butt in here, then,” Clarke says—exhaustion forgotten—and grins so wide her cheeks pinch.

Lexa ducks her head, cheeks turning pink, and trips into the room.

“This is a bit strange,” she says, bouncing up on the balls of her feet.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Clarke says, closing the door and stepping in front of Lexa. She tangles their fingers together and rises on her tip-toes to give her forehead a kiss.

“Okay,” Lexa says, raising her head to grin impishly. “Still, there is the small matter of you derailing my plan. So, how do you wish to proceed, Clarke?”

“We could start with you coming to bed with me,” she whispers, her voice low and gravelly.

When Lexa nods, Clarke leads her backward through the room. She slides up onto her mattress without taking her eyes off Lexa and moves till she’s sitting cross-legged on the far side.

Lexa gathers her skirt into a fist—Clarke’s eyes are immediately drawn to her upper thigh—and joins her, draping the nightgown over her lap once she’s settled.

Clarke traces the valleys of skin around her exposed kneecap with one finger and quirks an eyebrow at Lexa.

“So,” she says.

“So,” Lexa responds.

“What exactly was your plan?”

Even in the soft light, Clarke can see the flush crawl up her chest. “Well first I was going to comment on the chill in the air. You know, as a way to establish that we’d be spending the night together.”

“Uh-huh. That is how the clever kids are doing things these days,” Clarke says, grinning slyly.

“Mhmm. Then, once we’d gotten comfortable, there’d be kissing.”

“Is that so?”

Lexa hums, her eyes darting down to Clarke’s lips. “Lots of kissing,” she confirms.

“And then what?”

“That’s as far as my plan goes. I was expecting things to progress naturally from there.”

“Sounds like there’s still time to execute it, then,” Clarke says, shifting so that her knees are pressing down onto the tops of Lexa’s.

Her eyelids flutter closed and her hands grip the bottoms of Clarke’s thighs. “If you’d like,” she whispers.

Clarke doesn’t bother gracing that with a response. She cups Lexa’s cheek and guides her in for a kiss.

Lexa moves at a snail’s pace, pulling away to peck Clarke’s nose every time she tries to deepen the angle or trace the curve of Lexa’s bottom lip with her tongue, and Clarke quickly gets impatient.

After allowing Lexa to play her game for a few minutes, she moves her hands to Lexa’s waist, fists her nightgown to anchor herself—unwilling to break the kiss—and wraps her legs one at a time around Lexa’s back. She hooks her feet together and scoots into Lexa’s lap with a desperate whine.

Lexa laughs into Clarke’s mouth and smooths her palms up her sides before letting them rest on Clarke’s shoulders. “Someone’s eager,” she says as Clarke places nippy kisses down the length of her jaw.

“Well duh,” Clarke says in Lexa’s ear…right before sucking on her earlobe.

With a shuddering breath, Lexa’s head falls back, granting Clarke full access to her neck, which she happily starts exploring.

As soon as Clarke teasingly traces the neckline of Lexa’s nightgown with her fingertip, though, Lexa catches her hand.

“Clarke, wait.”

“Why should I?” she asks before sucking hard on a throbbing vein.

“B-because,” Lexa starts, struggling to form words, “I want—.”

She breaks off with a moan when Clarke sinks her teeth into Lexa’s skin.

“I want, too,” Clarke says, her voice muffled around a mouthful of Lexa.

Panting, she shifts so that Clarke has to get out of her lap and kneels on the bed. “Do you trust me?”

Clarke blinks, confused. “Of course.”

“Take off your shirt and lay on your stomach in the center of the bed.”

She raises her eyebrows at the command.

“It is all part of the plan,” Lexa assures.

“I thought you didn’t have any more plan.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says.

Laughing at her whiny tone, Clarke grabs the hem of her shirt and lifts it over her head in a smooth motion.

Lexa gulps when she’s faced with Clarke’s bare chest, and Clarke’s skin tingles under the obvious desire in her stare.

“Still want me on my stomach?” she asks, cocking her head.

After a moment longer of staring, Lexa forces her eyes up to Clarke’s and nods.

Grabbing a pillow to set under her chest, she spreads out onto the bed. Lexa stands to give her room.

The mattress shifts under her as Lexa gets back on and then a weight settles over Clarke’s upper thighs.

With a gasp, Lexa ghosts her fingertips over Clarke’s lower back. “What’s this?”

It takes Clarke a long moment to realize what Lexa’s talking about. She’d all but forgotten about her tattoo.

“Oh, um,” she says, trying to turn around. Lexa places one firm palm against her back, though, and uses her other hand to trace the perimeter of the inky blotch. Clarke hugs the pillow tight and sighs. “It’s a tattoo.”

“I had figured that much on my own,” Lexa says. “When did you get it?”

“After that run-in with my fellow council members.”

Lexa lets out a soft murmur of understanding. “Is it…is it what I think it is?” she asks in awe.

“Yes,” Clarke says.

Though she’d sketched the image of the Trikru symbol created by negative space in a starry night sky hurriedly at the tattoo parlor, the woman who’d drawn it on her skin made it look exactly as it had in Clarke’s head.

“It’s magnificent—the blending of two worlds.”

Clarke’s heart thuds hard in her chest and she nods, her hair tickling her shoulders. It never ceases to amaze her how much Lexa gets without Clarke saying a single word.

Lexa shifts down her legs and plants a kiss in the center of her home clan’s icon at the base of Clarke’s spine.

Clarke shivers.

She doesn’t stop there, traveling up Clarke’s body and placing a tender kiss over every vertebrate in her spinal cord. Her fingers find the empty groves of Clarke’s rib cage and grip tight.

The moan that escapes Clarke is embarrassingly loud, though it doesn’t faze Lexa in the slightest. When she reaches the nape of Clarke’s neck, she nudges her hair over one shoulder with her nose and then nips at the skin behind Clarke’s ear.

Clarke closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of Lexa’s mouth as she spreads around wet kisses. She’s panting softly, her hot breath teasing Clarke’s every nerve ending, and Clarke’s never felt so alert and so positively disoriented at the same time.

She lets out a whine of protest when Lexa’s mouth disappears—she’s pushed herself up into a sitting position—but at the soft thud of Lexa’s nightgown hitting the floor, the whine turns into a needy groan. She tries to turn and take in the view, but Lexa’s once again insistent that Clarke stays exactly as she is.

She tuts and holds her in place with a steady palm between her shoulder blades.

“Lexaaaa,” Clarke whines.

With teasing laughter, Lexa settles herself over Clarke’s body once more. Her warm skin slides over Clarke’s own and she can feel the points of Lexa’s nipples against her back.

It suddenly feels as though molten lava has pooled between her legs.

“We have all night, Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice smooth and tantalizing, “and patience is a virtue.”

Clarke huffs, trying to mask her mind-numbing arousal as irritation, but Lexa sees right through her. She grazes one clipped nail down the length of Clarke’s spine, and Clarke can practically hear her grinning as her flesh pimples from the backs of her arms down to her buttocks.

Clasping onto Clarke’s hips for leverage, Lexa scoots down her legs. Tendrils of her hair tickle at Clarke’s skin as she leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses from the panther scratch scars on her shoulder to the dimples on her lower back. She then ghosts over the lush curve of Clarke’s bottom before tracing the hem of her shorts around her upper thighs.

Clarke squeezes her eyes shut and bites back a whimper.

“This is torture, you know.”

“I know,” Lexa says, smug as hell, and slips her fingers into Clarke’s pants to tease the skin where her ass curls over her legs. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

“I’m counting on that,” Clarke says, breathless, as Lexa sucks on a patch of ticklish skin along the inside of her thigh into her mouth.

Clarke lets her make several more circuits up and down the length of her body, covering her with well-placed kisses.

By the time she stops her, Clarke simply can’t take the teasing anymore. She feels as though her very bones are trembling.

“Lexa,” she says, trying to flip onto her back.

“Clarke,” Lexa replies, a warning in her voice.

“You’ve had your fun,” Clarke says. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Oh?” She gets off Clarke’s thighs and folds herself into a sitting position next to her, letting Clarke move off her stomach. Finally.

She takes a moment to stretch and appreciate Lexa topless. She’s lean with sinewy muscles in her arms and stomach and thighs, and—much to Clarke’s exasperation—she’s still wearing a modest pair of shorts.

There’s a raised, long-healed scar that cuts across her bellybutton, but other than that, her skin looks indulgently soft.

“Yeah,” she says, licking her lips and meeting Lexa’s amused gaze. “I’ve picked up on the rules of your game and I wanna try my hand.”

“No cheating,” Lexa says, grinning.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Clarke says, smirking back and moving to the edge of the bed.

With one last pointed raise of her brow, Lexa takes Clarke’s place.

Clarke straddles her ass and looks down upon the expanse of Lexa’s back as her lips part in awe.

“Pretty,” she says, almost to herself, and traces the tattoo that tumbles down the length of Lexa’s spine with one fingertip.

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers.

“What is it?”

Lexa silent for so long that Clarke assumes she’s not going to answer.

“It’s a reminder,” she says at last. “A reminder that the path to power is not traveled alone. Many lives must collide to make you who you are.”

“That’s a hefty reminder for a bunch of little circles,” Clarke says, smiling to herself as she traces the two smallest ones where they sit in the dip at the base of Lexa’s backbone.

Lexa doesn’t answer.

After taking another moment to admire the landscape, Clarke gathers Lexa’s hair in her fist and gives a sudden tug.

Lexa arches off the bed with a gasp and Clarke leans into her, licking the shell of her ear and teasing her teeth along her earlobe.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice caught somewhere between a reprimand and a moan.

“Sha, Heda?”

Lexa’s eyes flutter closed and she swallows hard.

Clarke watches her throat bob with a satisfied smile.

“What did I say about cheating?” she manages to say in a breathless voice.

“I’m not cheating,” Clarke says, kissing her way down a vein in Lexa’s neck. “I’m simply putting my own spin on the rules.”

She hums, clearly not convinced.

“Was I wrong in assuming there’d be bonus points for the most creative use of tongue?” Clarke asks, low and seductive, right in Lexa’s ear.

Her lips part and she exhales with a shudder.

“Well?”

“Proceed,” Lexa mouths.

“Sha, Heda.”

Clarke releases Lexa’s hair from her grasp and gives her a second to shift back into a comfortable position before raking her nails down Lexa’s back and raising puffy red lines on her skin.

Lexa cries out in stunned pain, but, given the way her hips jerk under Clarke, she’s pretty sure it’s also a cry of pleasure.

With a grin, Clarke leans over her and blows cool, soothing air on the scratches.

Lexa squirms.

“Not so fun on the other side, is it?” Clarke asks.

“I’m enjoying myself plenty,” Lexa responds through gritted teeth.

Clarke laughs and then pushes her hand into the hair at the nape of Lexa’s neck, cupping Lexa’s skull as she scatters sloppy, tongue-heavy kisses around her muscular shoulders.

She’s not nearly as gentle as Lexa had been. Instead of soft caresses and sensual kisses, Clarke grips Lexa so tight her fingers leave behind indentations and she uses her teeth as much as her lips to tease at her skin.

By the time Clarke’s tasted every visible inch of Lexa’s back, she has the Commander quivering and whimpering beneath her.

“Clarke,” Lexa gasps, finally breaking.

“Yes?” Clarke asks, skimming her nose along the waistband of Lexa’s shorts.

“I would like to have you inside of me now.”

Clarke pauses and grins. “That can be arranged.”

Before Clarke realizes what’s happening, Lexa’s flipped her onto her back and is hovering over her, fierce determination in her eyes.

“I love you,” she says, eyebrows knit together and a small frown of concentration on her face.

Clarke runs a finger along her cheekbone and leans up to kiss her nose.

Her face relaxes.

“I love you, too.”

Lexa’s responding smile is reverent, and Clarke’s heartrate accelerates. She doesn’t think she’ll ever feel deserving of her Commander’s veneration, but it’s comforting to know she has it anyway.

Her heart feels achingly full as she tilts her head back so that their lips lock together.

Though all they’ve done with their night together is simmer in lust, they take their time with this kiss. Lexa cups Clarke’s cheek and then gradually pushes her hand into her hair, while Clarke’s hands settle on Lexa’s hips, thumbs rubbing up and down the soft curve of her skin.

While kissing soft and slow, they take turns slipping out of their shorts, and then their bodies lock together—free from barriers.

They gasp at the same time and it’s like someone drops a lit match into a puddle of gasoline. Clarke’s skin is ablaze and her only focus is to consume, consume, consume.

Lexa must feel it, too, because her patient stroking turns to desperate clutching and she mewls into Clarke’s mouth. “Nau. Beja, Clarke.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Clarke says, a wicked grin on her face as the fingers of her left hand dance down Lexa’s lower stomach. She works her hand between their bodies and cups Lexa for the first time.

Her skin is searing hot and slick to the touch. Clarke can’t help the growl that rumbles in the back of her throat.

Lexa shakes above her, pushing herself ever-so-lightly into the curve of Clarke’s palm. “Mou,” she says, her voice a cracked whisper.

Clarke nods and spends just a moment indulging in exploration before she pushes inside. She watches Lexa’s face intently as her eyes squeeze shut and her jaw slackens.

“Will you look at me?” she asks, pumping slowly and curling deeper and deeper into Lexa with every pass.

With a whimper, Lexa forces her eyes open and finds Clarke’s stare.

Clarke’s breath catches at what she finds there: eyes dark as a forest canopy just before a thunderstorm.

Nostrils flared and eyes lidded, Lexa starts moving in rhythm with her thrusts, making Clarke moan appreciatively. She builds to a new pace until she’s driving her fingers into Lexa.

With each thrust, she clenches around Clarke, her entire body quivering with the effort it’s taking to hold herself up. When Clarke brushes her clit with her thumb, Lexa comes undone with a spasm and a rush of wetness before collapsing on top of Clarke.

Since her arm is trapped anyway, she lingers and continues to gently stroke Lexa’s clit with her thumb, smiling at the way her body jolts. When Lexa whines, Clarke kisses the top of her head.

It only takes her a few moments to recover from the orgasm, and then she’s nuzzling into Clarke’s neck, leaving a trail of soft, chaste pecks as she shimmies down Clarke’s body.

“It is your turn,” she says huskily, before settling between Clarke’s legs.

The look Lexa gives her from that position is enough to have Clarke canting off the bed in desperation, and it takes all her strength not to come as soon as Lexa drags her tongue over Clarke’s folds.

“Oh…fuck. Yes,” Clarke says. Her hands find the top of Lexa’s head and her fingers dig into her scalp.

In response, Lexa sucks Clarke’s clit into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the nub, and Clarke loses her grip on coherent thought.

Lexa continues working her over, massaging and sucking and nudging Clarke over the edge into bliss, until there are beads of sweat covering Clarke’s body and she’s throbbing and overstimulated.

They trade places several times before the fire inside Clarke dwindles. By the time they’re both satiated and exhausted, the first light of the morning is trickling into her room.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then kisses her way up from her place between Lexa’s thighs, stopping to pay special attention to the belly button scar as she has all other times she’s found herself in this position.

“I got that during the first battle of the Azwor,” Lexa says, gently pushing some hair off Clarke’s forehead. “I was fifteen…I remember because I was visiting Tondc for the first time since I’d been sent to Polis as a nightblood.”

“What happened?”

“Nia had just been denied the request to expand Azgeda territory, and her responding plan was to take more land by force. She started with Tondc because of its political importance. To command Trigeda would mean major bargaining power.”

“You stopped her, right?” Clarke asks, resting her chin on Lexa’s stomach.

“Not right away, no,” Lexa says, and then pauses to yawn. “Nia’s soldiers executed their sneak attack expertly. We never had the chance to gather the supplies for a proper defense.”

“Oh my god.”

“The territory changed command for three days, at which point the commander of the time’s army arrived. They executed all the members of the Azgeda infantry. In the nick of time, I might add.”

Clarke gives the wound another kiss and then flops down onto the bed next to Lexa. “What do you mean by that?”

“My public death by a thousand cuts for being a traitor was just getting underway,” she says, running a finger along the length of her scar. When Clarke gasps in understanding, Lexa meets her concerned gaze and tries to smooth the wrinkles in her forehead with her thumb. “I would not swear allegiance to Nia, so they were going to make an example out of me.”

She says it so plainly, so matter-of-fact. As if the information that Lexa’s probably suffered a hundred near-deaths Clarke doesn’t know about is something easily shrugged off.

“What?” Lexa asks in response to Clarke’s pained expression. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke shakes her head. “I…I think it just occurred to me how easily I could lose you.”

“Ah,” Lexa says, nodding solemnly. “If only we could immortalize each other through the power of love alone. Unfortunately, I believe our mortality is something we are simply going to have to live with.”

“Funny,” Clarke says with a wry chuckle before kissing Lexa’s forehead.

Lexa stays silent, stroking Clarke’s cheek.

Suddenly, her sleepy smile is overcome by another yawn.

“We should rest,” Clarke says.

With a nod, Lexa rolls over and Clarke wastes no time scooting behind her so that their bodies are flush.

Within moments, Lexa’s breathing becomes deep and even.

Clarke tightens her grip around her waist and is about to topple over the edge of consciousness herself when there’s a loud knock at her door.

“Bandrona Griffin!” Titus’s worried voice reverberates through the room. “Are you there? We can’t find Heda!”

She groans and lifts her head from her pillow. “Lexa?” she whispers.

“Bandrona Griffin?” Titus repeats, knocking louder.

“Lexa?” Clarke asks again, shaking her gently.

When that doesn’t stir the Commander, Clarke slips out of bed and wraps a sheet around her body.

“Good morning, Titus,” Clarke says with forced enthusiasm, cracking open the door. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you not hear me? The Commander is missing! Her guards found her room empty this morning and we’ve been combing the tower but there’s been no sign of her. Have you heard from her? Do you know where she might have gone?”

“Relax,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes and letting the door fall open a little wider. “Heda is safe and sound, if a bit indisposed at the moment.”

Titus gapes, glancing between Clarke and Clarke’s bed.

“She’s pretty tuckered out, and I’d hate to think how angry she’d be if you woke her right now. I’ll tell her you stopped by, though,” Clarke says, chipper as can be.

He sputters, indignant.

Clarke lets the door fall closed in his face.

As she’s getting back in bed, Lexa stirs. “Who was that?” she mumbles.

“No one important,” Clarke assures her. “Go back to sleep.”

They’re both asleep within seconds.