#let's write more about wanheda dagger i suppose

[owl127]

Can youuuu…mayyybe…please write something containing a 🗡️ character and a jockstrap. Ugh something about jockstraps, mouth guards, and feminine girls doing masculine things is so hot🥵

read on Ao3

Reading @lexa-griffins talk about wanheda’s dagger got me inspired, so… *throws confetti in the air*

Lexa’s boots kicked dirty on her way to the bus stop.

“Lexa!” The cries behind her continued, along with the annoying click of cleats against asphalt. “Lexa, wait!”

Ignoring the girl running after her, Lexa climbed onto the bus without looking back. The driver looked her pursuer and rolled her eyes, signaling for the dirty athlete to hop into the campus bus.

“Thanks, Carla!” Lexa heard, and of course she would be friends with the bus drivers, because apparently, Clarke Griffin is very friendly with people. Girls in particular.

Lexa looked straight ahead as Clarke Griffin, captain of the soccer team, president of the debate club, LGBTQ+ alliance vice-president, and a fucking player sat next to her. Clarke swore at the mud tracks following her and lowered her socks with a long sigh.

“Lexa—” Clarke tried, but Lexa mmf-ed and turned her back to the alpha. “Okay, this is getting ridiculous.”

“You’re the one tracking mud on school property.”

“Brittany is like, nothing, she’s—”

“Have you slept with her?” Lexa turned to look into Clarke’s eyes, searching for honesty, trust, anything that would make the last three months she dedicated to this woman worth it. She found honesty, yes, but regretted it immediately.

“Not recently!” Clarke defended. “She likes to cheer in every game, and she keeps saying we’re seeing each other, but Lex, I haven’t been with her since before I met you!”

Lexa squinted her eyes, watching a bead of sweat forming on Clarke’s forehead.

“Okay, maybe once after we met, but we weren’t exclusive back then!”

The logic part of Lexa’s brain argued that Clarke had a point, and even Lexa had been on a fruitless date after she met Clarke. Had she thought about Clarke all the time? Totally. Did it in the end it help her see she was actually into the charming athlete? Yes, but irrelevant at the moment, since now the unreasonable part of Lexa’s brain kept replaying Brittany’s voice: “And that’s Clarke, number 10. She’s the captain. She’s also delicious.” A pink tongue over lipstick gloss had accompanied that statement, and a graphic image of that girl on her knees for Clarke had made Lexa escape the match as soon as she could.

Clarke had seen the iteration from the sidelines and had abandoned the bench in obvious pursuit.

“Are we exclusive?” Clarke asked when Lexa refrained from commenting. “I… I thought we were.” The girl swallowed, setting her face in the same hard angles as when she kicked a penalty. “I want us to be,” she said, extending a hand between them.

Lexa signed and took the offered hand in hers, feeling how warm it was, despite the fall leaves rushing past the bus window. She loved how warm Clarke’s hands were, a dichotomy to her always freezing extremities. Lexa mumbled something, and Clarke leaned closer, asking, “what was that?”

“Maybe I overreacted,” Lexa confessed, the almost empty bus a witness to the fact. “I hated seeing that girl talking about your dick like she owned it.”

Red crept into Clarke’s cheeks, making its way to her ears. “Well… she doesn’t,” Clarke said, one hand around Lexa’s waist. “You do,” she whispered, and Lexa’s face flushed with heat. “I want to be exclusive. If there’s any girl out there bragging about my dick, I want it to be you.”

“How romantic.”

“You’re into it,” Clarke argued, her bright eyes following Lexa’s scarf until it hid inside her jacket.

Logic once more piped up in Lexa’s mind that the girl had a point. The thong she had worn to celebrate Clarke’s game dampened with proof.

“You didn’t bring your phone or anything?” Lexa asked. “You just ran after me?”

“Of course. I couldn’t let you go looking pissed like that! And Octavia will pick up my shit.”

“So it’s not the first time you abandon your team celebration to pursue a girl?”

Panic flashed in Clarke’s eyes and Lexa felt merciful. “I guess from now on you’ll only be doing this for me.”

“Yeah.” Clarke kissed Lexa’s cheeks, sighing in relief. “My apartment is not far from here,” she said, the kiss lingering. “And I’m in desperate need of a shower.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s heart picked up, her cold hands warming up in her fingerless gloves. “If it’s out of desperation, we need to stop.”

“You’re so kind.”

With Octavia and the rest of the team still back at the football complex, there was no reservation for stripping as soon as they stumbled into Clarke’s apartment. The spare key with her neighbor was worth it (the assistant professor had looked the couple up and down and threw the key in their direction before closing the door and turning her TV colossally loud). Clarke’s shirt and cleats didn’t make it to the hallway, and Lexa’s pants puddled by the bathroom’s door. Lexa pulled the athletic shorts down and met the hard resistance of a jockstrap cup.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” she asked, drumming her fingers on top of the hard carbon fiber.

“Right now it’s pretty uncomfortable.” Clarke chuckled and kissed Lexa’s neck hard enough to bruise. “But that’s your fault.”

Lexa focused on Clarke’s high ponytail next, letting the blonde tresses free under the white light. “Yeah,” Lexa said, “it is.”

“Feeling possessive, huh?” Clarke nipped at the soft skin under Lexa’s chin while stepping out of her shorts, completely nude. Clarke moaned at the hands exploring her broad shoulders, digging into her trapezius, and scratching her deltoids. Lexa admired Clarke’s curves, but she salivated at her muscles.

A moan froze in a gasp as Lexa felt for Clarke’s erection, now free from the confines of jock straps and tight, athletic shorts. “Very possessive,” Lexa said, moving her hand in deliberate slowness, pushing eager hips back when Clarke tried to increase the pace. “You can be the leader of your team, but here” — a strong squeeze that made Clarke whine — “I’m captain.” The exhale on Lexa’s shoulder was nothing but a moan.

“Fuck,” Clarke said, her head surrendering to Lexa’s biceps as she mercifully started moving her hand.

Clarke smelled like sweat, and heat, and vetiver, and Lexa had it all for herself. She inhaled deeply, her brain creating a new pathway for that scent of love, need, and lust. Lexa prided herself on being an omega in full authority of her body and desires, but as Clarke groaned on her neck, Lexa surrendered to the primal need of control.

“Come for me, babe,” she said, softly albeit with a command, and poor Clarke followed like a trained puppy.

Lexa held her close as Clarke trembled, expending the last of her strength over Lexa’s olive skin. When Clarke’s knee threatened to buckle, Lexa guided the exhausted girl under the hot shower stream.

“I’m sorry.” Clarke mumbled as water covered her mouth. Lexa distracted herself with shampooing Clarke’s hair, and the fresh scent of mint and vetiver filled the fogging air.

“About what?”

Clarke turned to look Lexa in the eyes, all half-lidded and yawning. “I’m sorry for not being clear about being exclusive before. I was afraid.”

Lexa nuzzled the shampoo suds away from Clarke’s cheek. “Afraid?” she asked.

Clarke hugged her under the water, their wet bodies molding together. The water soothed Lexa’s skin, but Clarke remained her major source of warmth. “I was afraid you’d say no.”

“How could I not?” Lexa kissed her girlfriend — seemed safe to call her that way — until they were out of breath. “I hate sports, and you got me outside in a chilly morning just to watch you kicking some balls.”

“It’s one ball.”

“Whatever. Come here.”

Clarke obeyed, her hand sliding down beautiful curves to elicit a moan from Lexa. She responded in kind, hardening between them.

Octavia was pissed when she arrived home from their game and there was no hot water.

#ask the owl #clexa #abo #little smut #jock clarke #poor octavia #let's write more about wanheda dagger i suppose #drabble #i also love when feminine characters do something like this #like fuck in a shower #or when a cute girl puts her hair up and its an undercut #DEAD #i'm currently trying to convince my girlfriend to get an undercut #a lot of strategies are being implemented wish me luck

[ofseaandsky]

Fic: Rain

So I wrote a thing. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt a really strong desire to write anything that isn’t my current HP Marauders WIP so I embraced it and went with it. It’s rough and I’m the only one who has read through it. I wasn’t going to post it, but I’m trying this new “being courageous” thing so I thought it was worth a go!

It’s mainly a response for my nerves in anticipation of Roan’s fate I think. I would say it’s mainly introspective Clarke, but with a RoanxClarke pairing.

The usual disclaimers apply: Nothing is mine.

Rain

1.

Clarke Griffin was born in space. In the metallic, climate-controlled, dry world of artificial gravity and the constant dull hum of a massive engine working its hardest to keep a desperate few alive despite all odds against them. Every day follows a similar pattern to the one before; deviations were small and rarely unexpected. Every part of her life was regulated. What she ate, what she wore, what she read, what she learned. Sure, there was an illusion of freedom to be had on the Ark. You were free to love and laugh and bond with friends. There were movies and books and games carefully preserved and somewhat surreal memories of a world they would never know to be their own.

One day she discovered an old fragmented file of books which were nothing near educational or supposedly worth her time while searching the archives for a text on regional botany. It was not Ovid, Shakespeare, Rowling or King. It was a collection of romance novels which were apparently kept for the simple reason that it was important to keep every part of life Before. She read through them with an appetite she had never known she was capable of. The books were horrible, clichéd and nothing but endless cotton candy for her overly scientific mind. If her mother found her reading one of them she would have been furious. But they made her dream. Until she fell to earth, it was the only taste of rebellious freedom she had had.

The first time she felt rain was the moment a new part of her came alive. It was only a few nights after their explosive arrival onto the ground. The delinquents were busy setting up camp but had abandoned efforts for a few hours of rest. Clarke couldn’t sleep. She hated being inside the metal walls now that the world was so full of life and noise and clean fresh air that no book could have prepared her for.

She had noticed a change in the weight of the air around her that afternoon, but so much was new that it was hard to understand its significance. It smelled heady and more pronounced. She gave up her battle to sleep before it started and sat near the fire pit watching sparks chase each other through the flames when the first drop of rain hit her nose.

The slow pitter-patter amazed her. Showers heavily regulated on the Ark. There was not enough provision for water to be used for such mundane reasons. Every drop was accounted for and recycled. But Clarke had treasured every second of her three-minute time slot under the rush of water every other day. And she should have recognized the meaning of the small droplet on the tip of her nose. It was horribly stereotypical after all.

The blonde peered up into the darkness above her and startled as another drop fell on her forehead. It was soon followed by a steady pitter-patter of drops that quickly turned into a deluge of water pouring from the sky. And Clarke, born in dry, empty space, sat smiling madly up, eyes closed as tiny rivers flowed down her cheeks, soaking through her hair and clothes making her so deliciously and thoroughly wet.

She stretched out her hands, palms up, capturing the water as it fell in glorious abundance from the sky and reveled a feeling she couldn’t name. She was home.

She opened her eyes when she sensed the heat of another person next to her; it was amazing how in tune she was to the differences in temperature around her here on earth. Bellamy Blake loomed over her, dark eyes painted with an unreadable expression that was far from hostile.

“It’s raining,” Clarke smiled widely up at him in awe, too wrapped up in how amazing it was feeling the drops hitting her skin was to worry about the moody older boy.

She closed her eyes again, allowing the sensation setting her skin and heart to life to engulf her once again. She heard him huff out a nonverbal reply and the rustle of fabric moving as he shifted beside her. When she glanced over at her silent companion, she saw that he too had turned his face up toward the rain, allowing the cool beads to slip down the angular planes of his face. His lips were turned up in a soft smile.

It was a moment Clarke carried with her for many years to come, to remind herself of the simple joy of being on earth. How much potential was held in the cleansing drops that fell from the sky and nourished the earth below their feet.

 2.

The gag in her mouth rubbed against her dry lips, causing the already cracked skin to burn. She glared daggers into the back of her captor’s head as he tugged her along behind him. She would find a way to escape him. To get away from the man whose sharp eyes saw too much and glinted with dangerous knowledge.

“You could read the weight of a man through his eyes if he lets you, Clarke,” her father had once told her. “It will do you good to learn to be wary of those who choose hide too much or nothing at all.” A week later he was dead and the lesson was forever ingrained in her.

As they trudged through the fields towards a destination only her captor knew, the sky above them changed from blue to pewter, dark clouds gathering quickly and heavily above. She had learned in her short time down on earth it signaled an imminent, and often violent, storm. Her captor seemed aware as well as he searched for shelter, the first few heavy drops of rain smattering down on the ground around them. A dense copse of trees seemed to serve his purpose as he pulled Clarke in close beneath the canopy as the full weight of the rainstorm unleashed itself.

Rain poured down in sheets, obscuring the view of the area around them, dampening the noises of the forest in the dull roar that came with it. It would mask the steps of anyone fleeing or attempting to come up behind them. Clarke threw a calculating look at the man beside her.

“You don’t stand a chance,” he said, those haunted pale eyes scanning the world around them beyond their sanctuary from the worst of the storm.

Clarke shook her head in denial, not giving voice to her disagreement, but knowing that he was right. She stared at him a moment longer, annoyed when he refused to spare her a glance, before she settled with her back against the tree. They would wait here until the worst of the rain was over, of that she was certain.

Clarke’s attention then focused on the rain instead. She allowed the noise to fill her mind and leave her with a pleasant buzz of empty thought, her mind a little quieter, less filled to the brim with the screams of the people who suffered under her command.

Wanheda.

Commander of Death.

What a title to be bestowed. She felt the bubble of sick rise in her throat as it always did after hearing it. The screams of the dying echoing in her mind as images of bodies distorted and burned as they melted in the radiation flickered behind her unseeing eyes. She shifted forward and stretched her bound hands out to the edge of the tree line, where fats drops were steadily dripping in, catching the stray beams of light enough to fill them with life for the second before they slipped and shattered on the ground below.

If that wasn’t a metaphor for herself and all the children of the stars she didn’t know what would be. If she was honest with herself, she was the one who deserved the soul-shattering impact the most. To fall apart into molecular pieces of stardust, lost to this harsh and all-consuming land below her feet. Left to feed the world around them and become a whisper of memory on the breeze.

“Heavy thoughts, Wanheda?” the low, deep rumble of her captor’s voice startled her out of her own mind and back into her body where her outstretched fingers were decorated in a myriad of tiny raindrops, creating a path down her arm and to the ground in a steady drip.

She glared at him, refusing to talk when she was gagged, which caused a smile to crack the scarred and sharp face, surprisingly wide and full of mirth. She had thought him utterly incapable of it. Deft fingers dug into the back of her gag and released her mouth to grant him an answer. She stayed quiet for a long time after the gag was removed, watching the rain.

“The first time it rained after we came to earth,” Clarke started, breaking the silence that had again settled over the pair, ignoring his initial inquiry. “I stayed out all night. I knew I would probably get sick, and I did, but I couldn’t bear to stay inside when I was finally experiencing something I had dreamed about since I first heard about it.”

She didn’t expect him to respond. He had turned hard eyes toward her when she spoke, one eyebrow arched.

“I can’t imagine life without it,” Roan said, the smallest hint of astonishment in his voice. He pulled a bag of dried meat from his pocket and started eating. Clarke glared as he continued, “Or snow, or wind, or even blistering heat. A life without would seem empty.”

“It was,” Clarke confirmed. “I didn’t know it until I experienced the earth. But it was. The ship was just metal and cold. Nothing felt like it had life. But one minute on the ground was all it took to see that this is what life was always supposed to be. We were never meant to live in space. To run and hide like cowards.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched her closely with sharp, calculating eyes. When she met his gaze and refused to back down, he grinned again, eyes softening a little before he leaned back against the tree to ride out the storm. He took another piece of meat from the pouch and tossed the rest to her. She wanted to ignore the offer but her stomach growled rather loudly so she warily chewed a piece of the offered meat. She still didn’t trust him not to poison her, but she was starving.

When the rain cleared hours later he didn’t gag her again until they reached the gates of Polis.

 3.

Clarke was watching the rain outside fall steadily from the doors leading to the balcony. She was back in Polis. Back under Lexa’s watchful eye. To what purpose she was unsure, and she was equally uncertain how she felt about it at the moment. Part of her felt the thrill of attraction and all it carried with it, but another part was wary of the sudden and overpowering interest the young woman had in her.

“Is this something common to you on rainy days?” Roan’s deep rumble started her from her thoughts, and she watched him approach. He looked from her out to the storm outside as if it made his question any clearer.

“It helps clear the mind I find,” she replied evasively. “I used to read about it in meditation journals and I’ll admit I often borrowed the audio files on the Arc.”

“Do you miss it?” he asked, leaning against the windowpane next to her, eyes on the storm outside. He wore a fur vest over a tight fitting shirt, accentuating his lean musculature. Clarke couldn’t help but notice when she had become acquainted with just what the warrior prince hid under all those layers after witnessing his somewhat savage form of personal first aid.

“The Ark?” Clare asked, frowning. He didn’t confirm or deny so she continued. “I don’t miss space, but I miss reading. I miss game nights, school and movies. My father. And knowing I was safe when I came home at night. When life was more simple, I guess.”

He hummed a reply of sorts, ever enigmatic but his eyes appeared a little farther away, lost to his own recollections.

“Do you miss home?” she asked, tracing the paths the rain made on the window. She didn’t think he would answer; he was always the stoic during her time in his company. She assumed a heavy sigh was his way of not answering, so when he spoke up again next to her it surprised her into meeting his gaze.

“Sometimes,” he acknowledged, eyes flicking back outside. “Like you I miss the things a child misses about their home. And I miss my people.”

Clarke nodded, but she didn’t think he saw the motion, lost in contemplation. She eyed the door to the balcony and was suddenly overcome with the need to be out in the heart of the chaotic wind and rain. She smiled and made her decision, quickly taking a few long strides to the door and pulling it open with a little too much glee.

The wind was bracing as high up as she was and the rain was icy cold and felt like needles against her exposed skin and face. But she raised her eyes up to the heavens and spread her arms wide, allowing the falling water to cascade around her. The laughter that bubbled through her may have had a maniacal edge to it, but it released a knot of tension buried in her chest.

She was soaked through by the time she came back inside, having forgotten about her captor turned ally for a few moments. Roan was leaning against the glass, eyes glittering with suppressed mirth when she shook her heavy hair out of her face. She felt a blush warm her frozen cheeks, but couldn’t help the smile that stole across her features.

As he straightened to his full height and walked toward her, he reminded her of the great cats that prowled through the forests around Polis. Dangerous and deadly when they caught sight of their prey.

“You look like a drowned cat,“ he said as he held out a length of material toward her with a shake of his head. She was oddly touched at the gesture.

“What’s the point in growing up if you can’t act a bit childish sometimes?” Clarke said, quoting one of her father’s fictional heroes. When Roan laughed in surprise she joined him, grabbing the towel from him. She didn’t stop smiling until after she had changed out of her wet clothes and into dry ones, and long after her shivers have finally subsided.

4.

The acrid smell of the black rain reminds her a little of the metallic smell the Arc had. It brings back memories of isolation and entrapment as it coats the back of her throat. Of tight, enclosed spaces without the wide sky overhead. A sky she has learned to love and rely on to keep her breathing slow and steady as waves of panic crash over her when she faces mortality and certain destruction again.

Clarke thinks back on the last few weeks of her short and tumultuous life on earth. The king of Azgeda sits heavily on a weathered throne, a very tenuous grip on the reigns of control. Chaos hangs heavily in the air all around her. So many will die. And soon. This time, destruction is bound to be even more all encompassing. Humanity will struggle harder against destruction once more. There is one bunker, one treatment, one hope. She desperately wants to save everyone, not just her own.

The weight of expectation settles in the bitter air as she watches the rain from windows that seem to strain under the assault. The storms are getting wilder, the rain more destructive, the panic more deeply engrained in the populace. Clarke feels herself starting to struggle under the weight of it all. She is no Atlas.

“Not going to laugh your heart out at the powers that be today, Wanheda?” Roan. Of course, it’s Roan. The monarch seems as much of a constant in her life as any she has had since crashing into this unforgiving rock. The fresh scar on the palm of her hand itches. She feels so much older than she was that day on the balcony.

“I don’t imagine it would be quite as uplifting this time,” she murmurs, not turning to face him, though she hears his footsteps as they approach her. He walks heavier since taking the crown, whether it is with purpose or burden is not clear. The sound of the rain and wind drown out the ambient noise around the two warriors.

“Indeed,” he agrees and Clarke turns her head slightly, catching his grim profile in her periphery. He looks tired. Heavy lays the head and all that. She understands. Maybe his bones feel heavier too, the way hers do. Her skin doesn’t seem to settle and stretch the way it should any longer.

“Will you be able to stay underground for so long?” Roan asks after a moment’s silence.

“I have survived longer without the sky,” she answers, surprised at the question. But she’s unsure if she believes her own words. The sky is as necessary to her now as breathing. As the ground beneath her feet and the falling rain. She thinks she understands why mountains try so hard to reach the heavens now.

“There will be no rain in your future, Clarke,” he murmurs, watching her face intently as he steps closer, crowding her personal space a little. “At least not until we are free again. And I do not believe any of your audio files survived the crash.”

Clarke’s breath catches, panic gripping a bit tighter around her throat, making her breathing quicken, chest straining slightly against the laces of her shirt that suddenly feels too tight. Her eyes still fixed on the acid rain, not willing to show any more signs of the fear settling like bile in the back of her throat. The panic could swallow her whole if she allowed it.

She meets the king’s pale eyes after a calming breath. There is a storm brewing within them, one she didn’t see coming and she doesn’t know if she understands.

She has never truly noted the colour of Roan’s eyes before. If asked she would have said they were blue, but now she sees the bursts of grey and dark indigo that gives them depth.  They are a calming shade, but there is a danger in them that reminds her of the sky before it rains. She finds her breathing easing once more as they flicker down to her lips.

She doesn’t feel him move toward her, but the last thing she thinks about is how the rain feels against her skin under the wide-open sky. His lips are warm and firm against her own and softer than she imagined they would be. Her worries and fears melt and run down her body, into the ground like the trails left behind the errant drops on the window, feeding the ground and giving life where there was none before. Clarke allows herself a little bit of hope.

5.

Showers in the bunker become sacred. Not only for Clarke, she’s sure that everyone else treasures their own bi-weekly timed cleansing ritual, but for her, it is a treasured release. The filtration systems in the bunker are amazing and cater to the needs of the 1200 assembled remnants of the Azgeda, Trikru, and Skaikru alliance. The people designated to survive the end of things by the conclave after her attempt to take the role of commander. Time gives you perspective, even on naïve decisions, no matter how well intentioned. 

In the end there were three. The champions for Skaikru, Trikru and Azgeda faced off while nervous clansmen watched. She was the one who threw herself between the remaining trio of Octavia, Indra and the king of Azgeda in the hope to prevent more death. Blood bonds were not binding to Skaikru she knew, but she couldn’t watch Roan’s flow into the dirt. Or Indra’s after they had gone through so much together. Few understood, but it didn’t matter to Clarke.

Humanity needed genetic diversity if it were to survive. That was the argument she had prepared frantically as the nominated champions for each clan fell. So to the remaining three clans, there was now an often-shaky alliance. Old hatred festered and poisoned minds, but they seemed to be working through it. They would not be able to spare a life come their reentry into the world.

Marcus led her people, along with Indra and Roan as representatives of the old clans. New blood allegiances were sworn and respected. Integration was slowly succeeding. Tensions often ran high in the tight confines, but it seemed even some of the most hardened warriors were slowly accepting that they may be the last hope.

Grabbing her necessities and a fresh set of clothing, Clarke makes the trek down to the laundry and shower facilities. Everything in the bunker was very utilitarian and the shower rooms are open and facilitate four individuals at once. There was no separation between the sexes which caused uproar at the beginning with some of the elder Skaikru who had held onto the importance of modesty on the Arc and subsequently the ground. But the grounder clans held no such scruples and the few who objected were free to schedule their shower time as they preferred.

“Hey Clarke,” Miller nods in greeting as she enters the locker room adjacent to the shower stalls. He grins and tugs a shirt over his head, beard still glittering with remnants of water.

“Miller,” she returns his smile and busies herself stripping down to her underwear.

“You’ll come round tonight, won’t you?” he asks, sitting down to slip his boots back on. When she throws a glance at him over her shoulder, she meets his hopeful gaze. She had been avoiding her friends lately, feeling more claustrophobic than usual over the last couple of weeks.

“Yeah, of course,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Miller sees right through her, as he always seems to, but smiles and nods.

“See you in a bit then, yeah? I’ll be back after my shift finishes at seven,” he confirms as he backs quickly toward the exit, probably in an attempt to stop her from coming up with a plausible excuse.

She nods and turns back to the open locker to slip off her last two scraps of clothing. She may not be a leader any longer, but many of the grounder survivors are still happier to liaise with her than any other Skaikru, so she often helps negotiate disputes between individuals and help them bring queries to the council. She has a reputation for not taking no for an answer, one she’s happy not to oppose. But between her training in medicine with her mother and the grounder healers, and her semi-diplomatic role, she has little time for herself these days and it wears on her.

She wraps a length of cloth around her body and walks into the empty shower bay. She frowns, a bit surprised to find it empty, but is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth as she hastily hangs her towel on a hook near the entry and turns on the hot water.

Closing her eyes she stretches her fingers out to the spray and for a second she can pretend she’s outside and the heavens have opened above her before the water heats up enough to be comfortable. She keeps her eyes closed as she steps under the spray, letting the water saturate her hair and run down the valley between her breasts. As the warm water streams through her hair and scalp her skin erupts in goose bumps, causing a delightful shiver to race up her spine. At least she has these moments where she can at least pretend to still have the sky.

She sets about lathering shampoo through her long hair and throws a glance over her shoulder when she hears movement behind her. When she meets the eyes of the newest occupant she’s immediately reminded of oncoming storms. Roan enters, his eyes betraying a little surprise and quickly look around the room, finding it empty. Clarke’s eyes flicker quickly down the naked planes of his chest and when they meet his own once more she sees the small smirk on his lips. She huffs annoyed and turns back to her lathering.

Since their kiss before the conclave and in the six months underground there hasn’t been any other advances made. Roan would look at her in a way that makes her whole body shiver and run hot, but though they spend a lot of time together attempting to keep the peace between the clans, they have rarely been alone. Until now.

“Enjoying yourself, Wanheda?” Roan’s voice rumbles as he turns on the showerhead next to her own, a hint of teasing in his tone.

“How does that even come close to being an appropriate question when I’m naked in the shower, Roan?” Clarke bites back, feeling a bit embarrassed and shy though she has shared this space with plenty of men in their first half year below ground. And it’s not as if she hasn’t seen this particular man in question in all his glory before, on more than one occasion. But never alone.

He laughs, and the sound is rich and deep, echoing off the tiled walls.

“Is it not an entirely appropriate question when naked?” he asks, and she opens her eyes to glare over at him. He is leaning his head under the spray of the water, a look of intense pleasure over his features, one that does strange things to the butterflies who took up residence in her stomach with his arrival.

She huffs a laugh and massages some conditioner it into the ends of her curls in favour of a response. She runs fingers through the ends, loosening the tangles as much as she can, keeping her eyes firmly away from the man beside her. She remembers the intricate web of scars over his back and desperately wants to examine them again, commit them to paper, trace their raised ridges with the sensitive pads of her fingers. She feels the butterflies in her belly respond as her thoughts lead her down a dangerous path and reaches blindly for the soap dispenser to derail her thoughts.

As her finger brush against another’s, rather than the dispenser as she expected, her eyes open and she looks up to meet Roan’s. He’s smirking at her again, a knowing look over his sharp features, his eyes darker than normal. The storms she dreams about so often are brewing in them again. She blushes and looks down only to look right back up again when she realized where her eyes strayed in an attempt to break eye contact. Her eyes widen comically and shoot back up to meet Roan’s.

“I’ve never known you to be so shy, Clarke,” Roan says with a laugh at her flush, a glint of mischief in his storm cloud eyes. “Maybe I should ask you to scrub my back?”

Clarke inhales sharply, the joking suggestion skating too closely to her fantasy. She’s sure she looks more alarmed than is warranted as he frowns a little before shaking his head muttering about body taboos and breaking their eye contact to reach for the shampoo, running strong fingers through his scalp to distribute the suds evenly.

“Only if you return the favour,” she challenges with false bravado before she even realizes what she’s saying. She sees his eyes open in surprise, but the smirk he turns her way can only be called predatory.

“Really now?” he rumbles, the deep baritone rousing the butterflies in her belly to fly into riot. He stares at her for a long moment, assessing her, eyes flicking down to her chest briefly, where she’s crossed her arms out of habit.

He takes hold of her hand and tugs it toward the spout dispensing a measure of soap into her small hand and closes her fingers over the liquid before cocking his head at her. He then turns his back to her, presenting her with the scar-covered canvas of his back. He’s not a particularly large man, but he is solid and still towers over her short stature. Long, lean bands of muscle are evident in the wide planes of his shoulders. The months below the surface have not affected his musculature it would seem.

Clarke has never backed down from a challenge so she steps closer, reaching her filled palm up toward the crest of his right shoulder, his dark hair hanging down in a wet sheet. He hisses in a breath at the first touch of her hands and leans into them as she spreads the soap down one shoulder and across to the other. She feels the ridges of muscles and scars, the detail disappearing and reappearing as the soapsuds slide down and collect at the base of his spine. She presses her fingers into the tense muscles of his back, causing a low groan to rumble out of him and she can’t resist repeating the motion. By the time she is finished she has massaged his back, feeling out the hard knots between his shoulder blades with medical precision and catalogued each of the intricate scars in the process.

When Roan turns around to face her once again, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide and the way he looks at her makes her nipples tighten in response. He looks down her naked body leisurely, halting briefly at her chest and lips before he meets her eyes once more. He seems to be more in control again and he smiles slowly at her.

“You turn, Wanheda,” the title a caress, rather than a curse. He uses his fingers to indicate she turn her back toward him, and with a last look at his eyes she turns her back to him, feeling oddly vulnerable.

She hears the soft click of the dispenser and then the muted sound of his palms rubbing together as she listens closely to the water rushing around them. At the first touch of his palms on her shoulders, she inhales sharply, echoing his earlier actions. His palms are rough, calluses earned from hard work and decades of fighting for survival in a hard land. Strong fingers skate along her skin deliciously, and she bites down hard on her lower lip to suppress the moan that is fighting its way to escape.

When Roan starts kneading her shoulders and along her spine, hitting all the spots in need of attention she can’t keep the sound in any longer. As he expertly manipulates the sore muscles she finds herself leaning closer to him, chasing his touch and the heat radiating from him. His hands slide down her spine to rest at the soft flare of her hips and she feels his breath as he leans down to place a soft kiss on her shoulder. This is what she needs right now. A way to release all that built up tension. And she knows he would be more than willing to oblige her.

With that thought she leans back against him, his ever-present stubble abrading her shoulder softly, the firm and obvious indication of her effect on him, hard against her lower back. His hands slide forward to meet on her belly as they hear the door to the locker room slam before laughter erupts in its awake.

“Fuck!” Clarke swears and laughs when the king behind her echoes the same curse. She disentangles herself from him, ducking back under her own showerhead to rinse off, watching Roan face the wall with a frustrated sigh, hands fisted against the tile.

“Are you busy now?” she asks him boldly, his eyes curious and hopeful when they meet hers.

“I had planned to be before we were so rudely interrupted,” he teased, an edge of frustration running through his tone.

“Well I hear the king of Azgeda has his own quarters down here,” she smiled cheekily as she turned off the water and walked over and grabbed her towel, wrapping it snugly around herself.

Roan’s eyes lit up with the almost feline look he had earlier. A great cat sensing prey is near. He quickly rinsed off, and she couldn’t help notice the bob of his arousal as it jutted out before him. She heard the sound of lockers banging shut in the room next door and tossed the towel hanging next to hers at the advancing man.

“That he does,” he confirmed as he wrapped the length of cloth around trip hips. “Care to investigate them with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Clarke replied with a wide grin before turning and rushing to dress.

#muse fic #Roarke #clarke x roan