heda | clexa

seventeen

"It’s going to take you undressing me fully," Clarke says.

“What? Fully? You mean- fully fully?”

“That’s what I was implying. You have my full permission. I want you to.”

Lexa nods. Her lips purse and her jaw clenches and generally, despite not displaying all too much emotion, she’s clearly more in disarray than usual.

She steps forward though and undresses the rest of Clarke, her eyes always on her feet. “Do you need help stepping into the tub?”

“I’m not going yet.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“Clarke.”

“Please.”

So Lexa looks up. She looks up, but keeps her eyes strictly on Clarke’s face, head tilted upwards slightly so she won’t catch the sight of Clarke’s body in the corner of her eye. Despite the awkward position, she can see the uncertainty behind Clarke’s eyes.

Once again, Clarke isn’t nearly as good at masking what she really thinks.

“Clarke, I don’t need to be looking at you, I can close my eyes-”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s not what this is. No. Um- can you move my hair back? Please?”

“Of course.”

“This is going to sound stupid, but can you be careful with the braids? Some are kind of fragile to touch.”

“Of course. Always.”

“Thank you.”

So Lexa moves Clarke’s hair and then steps back, looking back at her feet. “Do you need a tie for your hair?”

“No. Look at me, Lexa.”

Lexa does the same thing again, making eye contact and being careful of her range of vision. The rattling sound of chains fills the room as Clarke lifts her hands as best as she can. One of them cups Lexa’s jaw, gentle but uncoordinated, moving it down. 

“Look at me,” Clarke repeats. 

And Lexa does. 

Only this morning, she read to Clarke about how the First Woman bit into the forbidden fruit and there she is, a few hours later, looking at Clarke’s naked body.

It’s not the same though. The First Woman couldn’t have possibly desired the fruit as much as Lexa desires Clarke. The fruit couldn’t have possibly been sweeter than the look of Clarke in the candlelight.

Lexa doesn’t want to, she certainly doesn’t intend to, but she looks. She looks at Clarke's thighs and the blonde curls inbetween, she looks at Clarke’s hips and her stomach, and she looks at Clarke’s breasts. 

Her soft, full breasts and her hard, pink nipples and the curve of her collarbone above. Everything so glorious and perfect, the scars and the muscles and the softness of her curves.

Everything about Clarke is so beautiful, everything about her is so exhilarating because Lexa, of course, could never have any of it. The tattoos that Lexa would never be allowed, the battle scars that are reserved for the bravest men, the strong muscles that aren’t proper for a delicate woman, the fat that tells of an abundant food supply that Lexa could never afford.

Lexa could never have any of it, because she will never be the one to worship that body the way it deserves to be worshipped. 

Does Clarke have a boyfriend? A husband? Lexa doesn’t even know.