Hi darling

clarke not wanting bell and making excuses to escape consummating their marriage. clarke leaving her bedchambers at night to take walks to clear her head, getting lost and running into lexa. getting escorted back to the castle by her and not being able to stop thinking about her face and lips and arms. seeking lexa constantly and not understanding why she’s craving her so. exploring herself at night to the thought of lexa’s serious gaze and the bob of her throat when she swallows at the attention her queen is giving her.

lexa is not stupid. she notices clarke’s constant presence. she sees the way her queen looks at her, peering at her from under those lashes, eyes alight with curious hunger. lexa is no stranger to a love like this. but this is madness. her, with the queen - it’s impossible. the king will have her head.

the king, busy with royal affairs, actually asks lexa to accompany the queen wherever and whenever she wishes to, noticing clarke’s affinity for lexa, but attributing it to her longing for a platonic companion. never has king bellamy been more wrong.

first time it happens, neither of them are prepared. clarke is tending to lexa’s wound after a tournament; the kiss catches them both by surprise. the queen can’t believe she leaned in and captured those full lips with her own, but then the commander lets out a deep, shuddering breath, and the wound is the furthest thing on their minds. first time it happens, they are impatient and rough and frustrated, and it ends far too quickly than any of them imagined. clarke leaves lexa with her taste on her lips and an unspoken promise of coming back.

it keeps happening and lexa can’t do anything but let it happen.

at first, it’s purely physical. it’s always been physical right from the start, because clarke wasn’t thinking of lexa’s favorite flowers when she let her hand end up in the most private of places at night, and lexa didn’t care for clarke’s political views as she kept bedding blondes with blue eyes over and over. it was always physical, until it wasn’t; until clarke began showing up to king’s meetings with lexa and opposed bellamy’s views, unknowingly supporting the commander’s; until lexa stood up with her chin jutted high and spoke quietly that she will do as the queen wishes; until they exchanged laughter under the stairs and kisses that made their lungs burn and their lips swell.

just, the two of them going to town together and walking just a hairs bredth too close.

clarke standing and screaming when lexa is knocked from her horse during a joust and oh. thats when the illusion and the trickery starts to fall apart. that’s when the king starts to suspect.

lexa coming back from war with new scars and new burdens. falling to her knees in front of clarke as they finally, finally get the chance to be alone, and pressing desperate kisses to her stomach, whispering how sorry she is over and over. clarke wades her fingers through her hair, not caring about the braids. “it was his,” she spits, practically, urging lexa to stand up. but she remains on her knees, tears unshed. “it was yours, too.” clarke finally getting to grief properly, then, crumbling in lexa’s arms. why do I keep doing this to myself but moving on.

oh but the king finding out. he can’t kill lexa, since he can’t let it be known that his wife chose a female commander over him. but he can make her suffer. he can make both of them suffer. so he sends lexa to yet another war. and another. and another. not understanding that as long as she’s got clarke waiting for her, she will always come back to her, ride, walk, crawl, not stopping until she’s back in her arms.

Can anyone please *starts crying*

WRITE THIS FIC?! *offers unborn child to satan*