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This was not supposed to happen. Clarke had only planned to slip into Lexa’s changing room for a second to congratulate her on her win over Nia and on finally securing the title of Bantamweight champion. Nothing else. Clarke knows that it is a mistake, that there is no chance it’ll end any other way than messy. Even so, she is helpless to do anything but lean back against the smooth wall, chilly against her over-heated skin, her breathing heavy and loud as Lexa’s warm mouth presses kisses against her lower stomach where she has Clarke’s pushed up shirt up while her long, clever fingers busy themselves unbuttoning Clarke’s pants. Her breath sears hot over Clarke’s skin and as Lexa palms her jeans-covered cunt, fingertips pressing hard against her, Clarke can only groan, canting her hips forward in invitation.

Her zipper is pulled down with a sharp sound and Lexa’s mouth delves deeper, lingers against the edge of her underwear and the way she just stops to breathe Clarke in, forehead pressed against her lower stomch, fingers idling against her hipbones, is so undeniably erotic that Clarke fucking aches with it. Then, suddenly, from somewhere far away outside the changing room, a door slams shut, jerking her out of the tide of arousal like a shot, back to some semblance of reality.

“Lexa,” she says, using the hand fisted in Lexa’s thick hair to pull her back. Her stomach is slick with saliva from Lexa’s tongue, trails of wetness that sends chills down her spine in the cool air. Lexa’s lips are puffy from kissing, her pupils blown and her breathing as rough as Clarke’s. Her hands rest imploringly on Clarke’s hips, fingers teasing in soft caresses against her skin beneath the waistband of her pants. “I…” Clarke blinks in a desperate attemt to clear her head.

Lexa has no interest in helping; instead she ducks down, sucks a mark in the dip right beside Clarke’s hipbone. “Shut up and let me eat you out,” she says in a low, gravelly voice and all that keeps Clarke’s legs from buckling beneath her weight is Lexa’s steady grip on her.

God,” she sighs, head dropping back against the wall. This is good, she thinks to herself as Lexa carelessly shoves her jeans and panties down her legs, throwing them aside somewhere. This is sex, nothing else. This is just two bodies needing release. Sexual tension that’s finally resolved.

She doesn’t know if it is the cold air in the changing room or Lexa’s nose stroking softly against her inner thigh that sends goose bumps breaking out across her legs, but it is the sensation of Lexa’s breath brushing delicately across the folds of her cunt that makes her arch her back and writhe against the wall, seeking to chase the sensation in need of something more substantial.

She expect Lexa to keep teasing her, to draw it out until Clarke is a begging mess, but she deftly curls a hand under Clarke’s knee, pulls her leg across the width of shoulder and leans in, taking her wet cunt into a rough, filthy kiss that makes Clarke’s toes curl. Strong hands grab her thighs, moving them further apart, and Clarke cries out as Lexa’s tongue easily part her labia and sets out to seek out her clit deliberately slow. Licking her way up Clarke’s count and making a sound that Clarke more feels than hear at the taste, she finally closes her lips around it gently only to start sucking at it mercilessly.

When Clarke had fantasized about this, she had thought that Lexa would fuck the way she fights and trains: with silent, whole-hearted intent and dedication to making the best job imaginable. Instead, she eats pussy messily, enthusiastically, making appreciative noises and letting her tongue take winding detours to explore and taste every inch of Clarke. It doesn’t take long until she has Clarke outright panting, too worked up already and desperate from it, hands going up to fist in Lexa’s hair again, begging wordlessly for more.

Lexa lets her thigh go with one hand, moves it up to cup her cunt, thumb stroking low against her labia, where she’s so slick she almost feels like she’s dripping, and the soft touch is almost a shock next to the rough pressure of Lexa’s hungry, skillful mouth.

Clarke groans at the loss when Lexa pulls back slightly, powerful jawline working as she swallows heavily. Storm-grey eyes catches Clarke’s as Lexa licks her lips. “The way you taste,” she says, voice hoarse. “Could do this forever.” She presses her face back to Clarke’s cunt, two fingers stealing into her like it’s nothing, pressing up against the right spot almost too quickly, too easily. Clarke’s hand slams against the wall.

Hitching Clarke’s leg higher up on her shoulder, Lexa presses even closer, hand setting up a slow, punishing rhythm in conjunction with the hard suction of her mouth on her clit. Dazedly and under half-closed eyelids, Clarke watches the bounce and flex of Lexa’s arm as she fucks her, the effort and the dim lighting pronouncing the cut of the muscle.

She comes harder than she ever has in her life, banging the back of her head on the wall. She doesn’t care, can barely feel it, but Lexa puts her down immediately and cradles her head in one palm while gently kissing her forehead like it’s a magical cure-all for potential head injuries.

When she realizes that Clarke is fine, she pushes her back up against the wall, hand still protectively in place, and kisses her, slow and dirty, and Clarke is almost dizzy with, wants her back between her legs, wants to pull of Lexa’s tight shorts and finger her, eat her out, feel those powerful thighs contract around her. Wants to push her down and map out every last one of her tattoos, tasting every inch of ink with her tongue. Her hands fall unbidden to Lexa’s hips, eliciting an encouraging sound from low in her throat and Clarke presses her mouth to her neck, works her way upward kiss by kiss, nose pressing against Lexa’s jaw as she breathes in…

The sound of an impatient knock followed by the door opening turns her inhale into something more along an embarrassing squeak.

“Lexa? You’re needed back outside.” It’s the gruff, slightly impatient voice of Lexa’s trainer, Gustus. Clarke blinks. She had forgotten all about it: Lexa’s fight, her victory, the press conference that waits, and the party to celebrate Lexa’s new title.

Lexa sighs heavily, breath spreading across Clarke’s face, and steps back, grabbing a pair of sweatpants with her sponsor’s logos on from the bench that she puts on while Clarke frantically struggles to get her own clothes in order. Lexa is already at the door, pulling a thick hoodie over her sports bra and winding her hair into a messy ponytail. She says something to Gustus and, with a long backward look at Clarke, she leaves.

Clarke, her cheeks blossoming red as she nears Gustus, tugs at her collar, vainly trying to hide any eventual love bites as if he doesn’t already know exactly what they’ve been doing in here. She suddenly has the hysterical notion that he’s going to go all protective bodyguard on her and tell her that she can never say a word about this to anyone or expect anything from Lexa. It’s ridiculous – Lexa is her friend (or, well, Octavia’s friend, at least), not some celebrity into whose pants Clarke has managed to get. She’s not even actually famous, not really. Not outside MMA-circles, anyway.

Gustus just looks at her impassively. “Lexa said to bring you to the after party,” he says. “I’ll have someone put you in a cab.”

Oh. “Okay,” is all Clarke says in reply, but follows him easily has he leads her outside.

 

Clarke wakes alone, covered in love-bites and a stickiness between her thighs that tells of last night’s pleasures but is starting to verge on uncomfortable. She’s sore in all the right places – and some not so right places. She’s definitely feeling that wall she was pressed up against now. But it was worth it. So, so worth it.

She groans and rakes a hand across her face. She wasn’t supposed to fall asleep, but somewhere after the fourth round she must have passed out, defying all proper one-night stand etiquette. She wonders if Lexa has left her apartment too make it less awkward and if it’s okay or not for her to borrow Lexa’s shower before she leaves.

She opens her eyes, looking right at the bookcase in a corner of Lexa’s bedroom, filled with books and assorted knick-knacks, a chair with a pair of sweatpants thrown across the arm right next to it. Apart from that, the room is unassuming and neat and clean, just like the rest of Lexa’s apartment. Clarke’s been here before, but never in this room. It’s weird, as if some irreversible boundary has been crossed.

Deciding that the matter of the shower is better left some ways into the future, she rolls over and thankfully catches sight of her jeans on the floor. Her phone is still safe in the pocket and she fishes it out. She’s received a couple of snapchats and messages during the night, but nothing that’s particularly important. Octavia, Anya, Indra, Lincoln and Monroe have all shared a link to some MMA-magazine writing about last nights fight on Facebook. “Lexa ‘The Commander’ Wood topples Nia ‘Ice Queen’ Quinn – Becomes New Women’s Bantamweight Champion,” the title says, accompanied of a picture of Lexa and Nia locked together and grappling on the floor of the cage. “Great win for Gym Grounded,” Anya’s written. “Coming for you Lexa!!!” is Octavia’s comment. Clarke smiles to herself and quickly scrolls through the rest of her feed to see if anything interesting’s happened before putting the phone down.

She has just talked herself into getting up and taking that shower without making a thing out of it – even gotten as far as leaning down to fish for her underwear on the floor – when the door opens and Lexa steps inside the room. She looks unaccustomedly soft and approachable in a black tank top and flannels, hair tied back in a loose braid lying across one shoulder. There is a faint bruise on her jaw, and Clarke wonders if that is from the fight, or her. She can’t remember.

“Morning,” Lexa says, mouth curled into a faint smile. She looks tired, but also relaxed. Probably the result of seeing months of intensive, hard work culminating in her big win.

“Morning,” Clarke replies. “Congratulations. You’re the champion now.” That’s what she ways supposed to say last night, before Lexa distracted her. With her mouth. She gets a bit lost in the memory of Lexa grabbing her and kissing the living hell out of her for a moment before she suddenly, with a feeling like ice dropping into her stomach, wonders if it was all post-fight adrenaline, if Lexa is regretting last night now.

Lexa snorts and looks down on the floor, but can’t quite hide her small, pleased grin. There is another bruise swelling on one of Lexa’s knuckles as well, Clarke notices as she follows Lexa’s gaze, and without thinking she reaches out, catches her hand and presses a kiss to the mark. It is a bad idea and Clarke knows it – knew it already last night, but even more so now in the bright light of day.

But she can’t resist Lexa like this, all soft and languid from the fight and a night of sex, can’t do anything but eagerly reach for her as she climbs into bed with Clarke, shedding her top as she goes. All Clarke can do is spread her hand across Lexa’s warm side and the splash of black ink there and return her slow kisses, welcoming the warm weight of her as she moves on top of Clarke, blanketing her with her strong, solid body.

 

When she finally comes home to the apartment she shares with Raven, she finds her roomate at the kitchen table, looking over some sort of complicated-looking project design. When Clarke first met Raven during her final year in collage after she had learned that she was the other woman to Raven and Finn’s relationship she had hardly imagined that they would become best friends, much less share an apartment together during grad school.

“Hi,” Clarke says as she passes by, heading for the coffee-maker. Lexa is strictly a tea-drinker, but Clarke needs sterner stuff. “What are you doing?”

“Stuff,” Raven says, a teasing glint in her eyes, “that’s much less interesting than where you’ve been all night. Were did you disappear to after the match?”

Still facing the coffee maker and intent on measuring up the ground beans, Clarke shrugs and, aiming for nonchalant, says, “I hooked up with someone.”

“Oh my god!” Raven exclaims, throwing something at Clarke’s back that turns out to be a sharpie Clake sees as it clatter to the floor. “I know you were at Lexa’s, you idiot. Don’t even try to lie to me, Griffin. Was she good? I’m betting she is. You look like someone who got laid disgustingly good.”

“She was good,” Clarke admits, unable to keep a note of smug awe out of her tone as she finally pours herself a cup of heavenly, hot, good-smelling coffee, and feels a ridiculous smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah, it was good,” she restates, trying for neutral. “And she made me breakfast. Protein pancakes and egg white omelet.” It turned out to be a lot better than Clarke expected.

“Did she smile?” Raven asks, only half teasing. “Like, did she make an actual human smile?”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “You have seen her smile, Raven.”

“Not, like, really smiling,” Raven insists. “But if you got her stone-face to smile, you better keep fucking her, Clarke. I think I would like a human Lexa.”

Clarke finishes her coffee with a sigh and immediately pours herself a new cup. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “She’s still at least half grumpy robot.” Then she grows serious. “Besides, it was a one-time thing.”

Raven raises an eyebrow. “Was it really?” she asks, voice dripping with innuendo.

“Shut up,” Clarke says, ignoring Raven’s leer. “I’m gonna go shower and then watch some Netflix in bed.”

“You do that,” Raven sing-songs behind her and Clarke snags the sharpie off the floor as she passes and aims it at Raven, making a face at her when she catches it in the air with a triumphant smile.

 

It isn’t a one-time thing, of course. But, Clarke realizes a couple of weeks into whatever it is, it isn’t a bad idea. Not at all. She’s been hung up on the way her relationship with Finn ended and on the idea of what a fucking jerk he turned out to be for far too long and it’s good finally getting beyond that. For months she’s been denying her growing attraction to Lexa and it’s a relief to give in to it instead of constantly fighting it down. A friends with benefits-relationship with Lexa is the perfect solution: she gets to stop pretending that the mere sight of the other woman doesn’t turn her on, while simultaneously avoiding the entanglements of an actual relationship. It’s perfect.

Plus, Lexa is not only amazing in bed but also careful about not in any way ruin the tentative friendship between the two of them, very committed to send Clarke cute pictures of her cat, and one hundred percent willing to order Clarke pizza when they’re done and recuperating so she won’t have to eat Lexa’s boring healthy diet crap.

“That’s what got me these,” Lexa teases, flexing her arm playfully even though she knows exactly what that does to Clarke.

However, Clarke, with her mouth full of delicious pepperoni pizza, just rolls her eyes and pokes Lexa in the stomach with her foot.

“Those too,” Lexa says and Clarke rolls her eyes harder, pokes at her again. Lexa laughs and does the same.

Usually, Clarke would feel self-conscious about it, about the softness of her belly and about her appetite, especially compared to Lexa’s rock-hard abs and iron discipline, but the thing about Lexa is that she never has felt the need to pretend that she is something she’s not when around her. They don’t always come along and they did grate a lot against each other when Octavia first started at Grounded Gym and introduced them, but there has never been any judgment between them.

Clarke polishes off the rest of the pizza and puts her plate down on the coffee table next to Lexa’s. She shuffles a little, moving until she’s managed to lie down on the couch without kicking Lexa and sighs blissfully, ready to get caught up in whatever crappy sit-com show that’s running on the TV. The sound turns into a groan of protest as the couch dips when Lexa too starts moving around, sliding up behind Clarke, pulling her to her chest and putting an arm across her waist.

Clarke groans again and Lexa stiffens behind her. “I’ve just eaten,” Clarke whines, mock-annoyed. “No sex for at least thirty minutes or I’m gonna cramp.”

“That’s swimming, you idiot,” Lexa huffs and she almost sounds fond as she says it. “And it’s not a thing anyway.” She doesn’t move away, however, and noses gently against Clarke’s neck, but keeps from trying anything further.

 

“Ugh, there is no way this is gonna end any other way than ugly,” Octavia says disapprovingly.

Clarke’s attention snaps from where she was watching Lexa hard at work on a punching bag, a thin sheen of sweat making her body shine in the overhead lights at the gym and the muscles and her back and arms ripple in fascinating ways. “What?” she says, not having heard a word Octavia’s said.

Octavia, sweaty and red-faced from her own workout, tilts her head to Lexa and roughly wipes a towel across her face. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“What,” Clarke says again, guiltily. Apart from Raven with whom Clarke has cheerfully been sharing every detail of her buddy-fucking relationship with Lexa, they’ve been keeping it on the down low. She can’t say she’s that surprised that Octavia has picked-up on it, though. They may not have been as subtle as they’d like to think.

Octavia shrugs. “Do whatever you like,” she says, sounding like she means the exact opposite. “I won’t be here to clean up any messes.”

“Hey,” Clarke says, a little sharply. She loves Octavia with all her heart, but she is, in fact, and adult that can be trusted to make her own decisions concerning her sex life. “I’m not asking you to.” Octavia came to her, not the other way around.

“I know,” Octavia says enigmatically and heads for the showers before Clarke has a chance to reply or ask what she meant by that.

It’s kind of late and a Saturday night which means that except for Octavia, Clarke and Lexa are the only ones left in the gym. Lexa has stopped punching the bag and is taking long, deep gulps from a water bottle with her head thrown back, drops of sweat or water running down her exposed neck, like she’s practicing for the center spread of Ultimate MMA or something. Panting, she puts the bottle back down on the floor and shakes her arms a little to get the blood to flow into her well-used muscles.

She talks over to Clarke, ripping one grappling glove open with her teeth and pulling the other off with her newly-freed hand. Just the sight of her – small shorts and sports bra putting Lexa’s everything on display – is enough to make the low-key arousal that’s been simmering inside Clarke ever since she got here erupt and make her acutely, embarrassingly wet.

Lexa doesn’t help by bending down to grab the back of the chair Clarke’s sitting on with one hand and get all up in her business, mouth wet and rough as she kisses Clarke wonderfully nasty and deep, her lips salty with fresh sweat. She bites down on Clarke’s bottom lip, letting it go slowly as she draws back a little, her cheeks flush from exertion and eyes lit up with adrenaline.

With a flirty flick of an eyebrows she says, “You want to go a round in the ring?”

No,” Clarke says immediately, because she emphatically does not. There’s a reason she’s not an MMA-fighter or a person who works out regularly or even takes long walks if she can avoid it – she enjoys sitting on her ass.

Lexa smiles before delving in for another kiss and the sheer happiness on her face makes something inside Clarke’s heart clench for a second.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Lexa promises with a dangerous and wholly unconvincing glint in her eye.

“Or,” Clarke says, pulling Lexa in by her hips, “we could go take a shower.” Digging her nails into Lexa’s skin and with a ridiculous attempt at being flirty, she adds, “If you know what I mean.”

She grins victoriously to herself as Lexa hoists her up and drags her along to the changing rooms – Lexa is so incredibly easy.

 

Clarke has a standing coffee date with Raven and Octavia under the excuse of studying together every week and somehow, Lexa’s managed to wrangle herself an invitation this particular Monday. She’s a little late and bursts through the doors with a gym bag slung across her shoulder, hair still damp, just seconds after they have finally finished their drinks and actually opened their books.

“Sorry,” she says in reply to their chorus of greetings, dumping her bag right by the one empty chair. “Indra made me stay behind and help train the juniors.” She gives Clarke a quick flash of smile and disappears towards the counter.

“Look who’s all joined at the hip,” Raven mumbles, peering at Clarke over her physics textbook with a teasing smile. “Isn’t it cute.”

“I know,” Clarke mutters, because it is getting ridiculous. She knew from the beginning that Lexa is overall pretty intense and all, but holy hell, she’s everywhere lately. Last night when Clarke was about to get up and go home, she grumbled so much that Clarke decided to just sleep over. When they woke, Lexa fingered her lazily for ages until she came so hard she saw stars, so it’s not like it’s a problem, except Clarke’s already getting dangerously conditioned to being close to Lexa. Can’t sleep as well unless she’s there, gets cranky unless Lexa fucks her at least once every second day.

Octavia and Raven both send her odd looks, but before they can say anything, Lexa is back.

“Here,” she says, sliding over a mug topped with an obscene amount of cream towards Clarke before sitting down and taking a sip of her own drink – green herbal tea. Ugh, Clarke thinks to herself.

“Thanks?” Clarke says. “What do I owe you for it?”

“Nothing,” Lexa says, taking up a novel and hiding her face behind it in a clear indication that the conversation is over.

Clarke sips at the chocolate, velvety warm on her tongue, and her heart does something scarily funny in her chest.

 

Clarke is lying in Lexa’s bed, curled up on her side trying to catch up with the reading for her art history class, with Lexa next to her languidly running a hand down her side while typing on her phone with the other. Lexa laughs quietly and Clarke looks over shoulder at her.

“Sorry,” Lexa says, leaning over to give Clarke a brief kiss. “Bellamy sent me a cat video.”

Raising her eyebrows, Clarke says, “Bellamy? Since when do you two stand each other?”

Lexa averts her eyes. “Since always,” she hedges.

Clarke snorts. “You trying to steal my friends, huh,” she says, amused.

“Like you haven’t stolen mine. I know all about how you and Lincoln get together and paint and your and Anya’s secret coffee dates,” Lexa says, but her cheeks grow deliciously pink. She is so cute and Clarke just has to put her mouth on her, press a brief, warm kiss against her lips, before turning back to her book. She still has a hundred pages to go before Monday and it’s a slow read. And Lexa, her hand stealing inside Clarke’s shirt to cup Clarke’s breast and toy with her nipple, is decidedly not helping.

“Stop that,” she says distractedly, turning a page.

“I like your breasts,” Lexa says into her ear, like she’s trying to seduce her or something.

“I know,” Clarke says, because does she ever. She’s seventy five percent sure that anyone with boobs could convince Lexa to jump off a cliff.

Lexa doesn’t remove her wandering hands.

“I need to read,” Clarke sighs petulantly.

Lexa kisses her shoulder, her throat. Breathes hotly against her skin. “I’ll come say hi to your professor,” Lexa mumbles. “Tell her to give you an A or else.”

“You gonna threaten my teacher with bodily harm to get me good grades?” Clarke says, leaning into Lexa’s touch despite herself. Who is she kidding, is not like she wasn’t planning on skimming the remainder of the chapters an hour before the class, anyway.

“Mm,” Lexa says, biting at Clarke’s neck. “I’m a MMA-champion, after all.”

“That so?” Clarke says with a malicious grin and twists, rolling on top of Lexa before she has a chance to stop her. She drops the book on the floor and grins down at Lexa as she sits up, straddling her. “For a champion, you’re pretty easy to get on your back.”

Lexa just laughs and her hands are warm and welcome as they steal under the hem of Clarke’s shirt, dragging them slowly up her sides, before grabbing the shirt and simply pulling it over her head. Clarke shifts a little, deliberately grinding down against Lexa, making her breasts bounce with the motion as Lexa watches her, entranced. But as she reaches up, Clarke captures her hands and kisses both of Lexa’s palms, each in turn. She presses her arms into the bedding and slithers down Lexa’s body until they’re face to face, Lexa’s stormcloud eyes intently fastened on hers.

Clarke kisses her, wet and messy, and Lexa makes that small, low noise in her throat that Clarke finds so fucking hot, and she groans in turn, kissing Lexa all the harder for it. She pulls away and presses her face to Lexa’s arm, to the armband tattoo gracing her impressive bicep. She loves Lexa’s ink: the arm, the thick black lines running down and across her spine, the intricate linework framing her abs, the snake-like design on her left thigh.

What she loves even more is moment like this, when Lexa lets her hold her down, as if she couldn’t dislodge her grip in half a second flat, and trace every angle of her body, every line of ink with her fingers and tongue. Clarke is stupidly, irrevocably addicted to being carefully manhandled by Lexa, on having her mouth between her thighs or fucking her like there’s no tomorrow, but there is a special magic to this as well. Lexa always gets so still and wide-eyed when Clarke’s on top and she come so hard and quietly, like she’s afraid of shattering apart from Clarke’s touch.

 

“Rice or couscous?” Lexa asks.

Clarke makes a grimace.

“Baked yams?”

“Acceptable,” Clarke says. It no fries, but at least it’s edible. “God, I don’t understand how you can stand being on a diet all the time.”

“I get cheat meals,” Lexa says.

“Yeah?” Clarke says, taking the yams Lexa’s handing her and dumping them in the sink to scrub. “When?” She’s seen Lexa eat a piece of cake once and that was at Lincoln’s birthday party when his six-year-old niece basically force-fed it to her.

“You,” Lexa says, dropping a kiss on Clarke’s shoulder lightning fast before dancing out of reach of Clarke’s elbows. She has to settle for waving a half-peeled yam at her threateningly and Lexa laughs.

Clarke’s phone dings and she looks at the screen. It’s from Octavia. She dries her hand on her pants and grabs it, slides her thumb across the screen to unlock it. Me, B and Lincoln are thinking about catching a movie. Wanna come? the text says. As Clarke reads it, another one arrives: Liked it better when B couldn’t stand L. Their bromance is sickning. Come save me pls.

Clarke laughs. Sorry, she types. At Lexa’s.

Ok, Octavia replies. When u 2 are done, wash off and meet us up for dinner?

Clarke snaps a photo of the yams, angling it so she catches Lexa dicing chicken at the counter. Eating here, she writes.

Fine whatever, is what she gets back. Say hi to ur girlfriend.

WE’RE NOT A COUPLE.

All Octavia sends in reply is a selfie of herself looking judgmental.

“Who was that?” Lexa asks, using the handle of the knife to scratch at her forehead.

“Octavia. She, Lincoln and Bellamy is heading for the movies,” Clarke says.

Lexa hums. “What are they watching?”

“Dunno.” Clarke grabs Lexa’s second cutting board, starts slicing up the yams and preparing them to go into the oven. “You got any olive oil?”

Lexa nods to the shelf above where she’s standing and Clarke leans over and reaches up on tiptoes to get it.

It’s quick work getting the yams in the oven and the chicken sizzling in a pan on the stove and as they wait, Lexa presses her up against the counter and kisses her sweetly for a long while.

“Let’s watch Face-Off,” Lexa says as they carry their plates into the living room to eat in front of the TV.

“But I thought that very important match between what’s his face and that other dude was on tonight,” Clarke says. She can’t remember their names, but she has learned that it is a very monumental match.

“That’s fine,” Lexa says. “I can watch it later. It isn’t like it won’t be on youtube like five seconds after its finished. I’m more interested in technique than who wins anyway.”

“Nerd,” Clarke says and it comes out dangerously, sickeningly fond. Lexa doesn’t seem to notice though, just puts Face-Off on. “Thanks,” Clarke says, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

 

Fuck, Clarke,” Lexa groans, burying her face into Clarke’s hair as if she is the one being broken apart by this unbelievable, unbearable pleasure as she shifts her hips, moving inside of Clarke with deep, forceful thrusts that sends the headboard knocking against the wall and blood pounding in Clarke’s ears in time with her rough, heavy breathes that seems to swallow everything else.

The harness clinks gently as Lexa shifts in attempt to anchor her knees against the mattress to get more leverage, but Clarke’s arms refuses to let go of their grip around her and a short laugh rushes out of Lexa even as it’s turned into a moan as she starts moving again, thrusting forward. Her hand goes up to brush away the mess of hair from Clarke’s sweaty face and her mouth finds Clarke’s, kissing her as she rolls her hips into her, pulling out as far as she can get and back inside slowly and deeply enough that it makes Clarke’s toes curl and her spine bend.

“Fuck,” she says, echoing it back to Lexa. She squeezes her eyes shut and throws her head back as Lexa finds the right angle and just nails it, Clarke’s hands digging into her back in a desperate attempt to hold on. “Fuck, Lexa, fuck! Lexa, I love you.”

She comes, hard enough that every joint in her body locks and her mind goes blank as she cries out hoarsely, and it’s not until much later, when Lexa is nestled up against her, their warm and sated bodies curled securely around each other, and Lexa, reaching out her hand to stroke Clarke’s face, softly says, “I love you, too” that Clarke remembers what she did, what she just blurted out.

For a second, all she feels is bright, sharp panic strong enough to almost make her nauseous, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. But she is so warm and sated and comfortable in Lexa’s arms that maybe, she thinks with her next breath, it was exactly what was supposed to happen.