Nothing Is True 042 (Patreon)

Cage Wallace had never much cared for the sound -for want of a better word- of his own doubts, and so he did his best to drown them beneath the crisp, clean confidence of a man who was destined for greater things than ekeing out a living hidden inside a mountain. The heir presumptive to the sole remaining civilized human society left on Earth. A Grand Master of an Order that had shaped the world, shaped history, shaped the face of the very planet itself.

An Order that was less than a shadow of it’s former glory, and an Order that must be restored so that he could shape the world in accordance with his vision for it. An Order that needed fresh blood, more blood, and quickly. Which was why he had summoned his lover, inductor into the Order, and closest associate to meet with him in secret.

The room he’d chosen for this particular conversation was one of the old lounges on Level Five, long since abandoned when the population of their mountain home fell below the levels needed to make it useful. Now it served a different purpose entirely: being private and forgotten, the sort of space that no one thought to monitor because no one ever really thought of it at all. Perfect for the kind of talk that couldn’t be had in the corridors, or even in his own suite. The last thing he wanted to do is look like he was planning a coup, after all.

Because he wasn’t ready for a coup, mostly. His father was still far too popular with the general public, the guards were loyal to their oaths, and -most importantly at all- because he didn’t have the manpower to exert proper control after a coup.

No, if he wanted to maintain control, control would have to come first. And control came from people. The right people, in the right places, bound to the right ideals that were personified by the right person.

The door slid open behind him with a soft hiss, and he turned to see Lorelei step through, her typical doctor’s garb exchanged for something more casual and significantly less eye-catching in the form of rather tight pants and a blouse that hugged her ample curves. It was almost enough to make him forget why they were here, and he made a mental note to make sure that this little rendezvous had multiple purposes before it ended.

Of course, the level of care she was putting into this meeting was one of the reasons that he trusted her more than anyone. She cared about him, cared about keeping their connection and their vulnerabilities a secret. Unlike the rest of the mountain’s inhabitants, they weren’t tools to one another.

“You’re looking troubled, Grand Master.” she said softly, coming up to him and wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him as she met his eyes with her own. “What can your loyal servant do to help you?”

“Help me find more recruits, before this rot that Vincent Vie is trying to spread goes too far. Even father has been talking about how ‘kindly’ Siobhan was treated, as if peace might actually be possible with those savages.” he growled in response, arms coming up to cradle her in turn, and she scoffed even as she pressed her face against his throat and kissed his carotid.

“Your father is an old man, too stuck in old ways of thinking. He can’t protect our people with dreams and moralistic fantasizing. He doesn’t understand why the world burned.” she sneered, the fingers of her left hand running through his hair and scratching at her scalp. “Besides, there could never be any kind of peace with a member of any Assassin bloodline. Their anarchic little death-cult is everything that’s wrong with an unchained humanity. It’s disgusting.”

“You’re right, of course you’re right, and that’s why we need more people.” Cage agreed, his hands tightening on her hips, holding her more firmly against him as her efforts at relaxing him started to bear fruit. “Emerson was a good start with the guard, and you’ve been making good inroads with other people in the science sections, but we need more. We need people with influence and strength, to help turn things in the direction we want them. Then, we can finally be done with these damn ‘conscientious objectors’ and remake the world in our image.”

“And we will.” Lorelei drew back just enough to meet his eyes again, her own dark and glittering with the particular kind of fervor that had drawn him to her in the first place. Not the mindless devotion of a follower, nor the calculating loyalty of a subordinate looking to advance or supplant, but genuine belief. Belief in the Order, in the cause, and -once she had drawn him into the Order- in him. “But we have to be smart about it, Cage. We can’t just grab anyone with a strong back and a willing mind. We need people who understand what’s at stake. People who see the world the way we do.”

“That’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?” He turned away from her, pacing slightly. “Everyone is still so obsessed with emulating the American Dream, remaining the ‘last bastion of freedom’. They’ll never support the Order openly, see the world we do.” he snorted. “As if they aren’t already half-way there now. As if they don’t already see the world we do, but they’re just lying to themselves every moment of every day.”

“Exactly~” his lover purred in his ear, every syllable honey-soaked. “It won’t take much to lead them to the truth, even if it has to be carefully done. Their entire world is shaped by control, resting on a foundation of order. Where they can go, how much they can eat, who they can have children with, who to sacrifice as an individual for the survival of the whole. They just haven’t had the courage to admit it, to call it what it is and fully embrace it. All we need to do is slowly pull the veil back from their eyes. With the slightest twist, they’ll be all yours. Just. Like. Me.”

Cage felt his blood heat at the promise in those words, at the way she pressed herself against him, at the way she drew herself down and in and looked up at him through her eyelashes. Always so soft, so pliant, so clever and devoted. Always giving him what he needed while helping him work towards what he wanted. Was there any doubt that she was the finest woman in the world? He certainly didn’t think so, and when he pressed his lips to hers it was as fierce as it was possessive.

“Mine.” he growled against her lips, the word thick with hunger and greed. “All of it. This mountain, this Order, this world. And you. All mine for the taking.”

“Yours.” she agreed breathlessly, and there was nothing but sweet surrender in her voice as he firmly backed her toward one of the long, dust-shrouded tables that were scattered around the room. “Always yours, Grand Master.”

He swept an arm across the surface, sending a decade’s worth of grime and abandoned detritus scattering across the floor, and then his hands were on her, fever-hot and demanding. She let him take, let him tug at the fastenings of her blouse as her own worked at the claps of his pants, gasped and moaned as his length burst free and into her hands, squealed in delight as he roughly pulled her pants down to her ankles and stepped between her wide-splayed thighs.

There was no ceremony to it, no tenderness, and Lorelei didn’t want any. She wanted him to take, to lose himself in the taking, to grow familiar and fond with taking, and so she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close as he lined himself up and pushed forward in a single, firm thrust that seated him fully within her. She gasped, arching against him, her nails biting into the meat of his shoulders as he began to move, the ancient table creaking beneath their combined weight and the harsh, punishing rhythm he set.

“Cage~!” she moaned, breathy and desperate, her voice pitched perfectly to feed the hunger she could feel building in him with every thrust, every sound she made and every bounce and sway of her breasts. It worked, of course, exactly as she’d known it would, as it always had. She could feel it in the way his fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise, in the way his breath came ragged and hot against her throat, in the way he seemed to lose a little more of himself with every stroke. He thought he was the one taking. He thought this was his doing, his conquest, his will bending the world -bending her- to his desires. He was, after all, the Grand Master, the heir presumptive, the man destined to reshape the world.

He was, in truth, exactly what she needed him to be. What she had shaped him to be.

Her head fell back, lips parted around another moan that was as calculated as it was genuine -he wasn’t incapable as a lover, and he wasn’t deficient when it came to his cock either- but even as her body shuddered around him, even as the pleasure was real enough to send genuine sparks skittering up her spine, her eyes told an entirely different story. They stared past his shoulder at the dusty ceiling, cold and clear, the pleasure that twisted her features into something rapturous never quite reaching those dark depths. There, in that place where no one ever thought to look, there was only satisfaction. And it wasn’t, entirely, the satisfaction of a woman being fucked. It wasn’t the heated, hazy look of a woman losing herself in the bliss of carnal enjoyment. No, it was the slow, cold, patient satisfaction of a woman who was watching a plan unfold precisely as she had designed it, thrust by thrust and moment by moment.

A smirk touched the corner of her mouth, there and gone in the space between one thrust and the next, but it had been there. It was always there, if one knew to look for it. And no one ever did.

He certainly didn’t. He never would.

That was the beauty of it, really. Cage Wallace fancied himself a leader, a schemer, a man who understood the levers of power and how to pull them. And in fairness, he wasn’t wrong. He was clever, in his own way. Ambitious, ruthless, willing to do what needed to be done in pursuit of his goals. But he had one fatal flaw, one that Lorelei had recognized within days of meeting him and had been exploiting ever since: he needed to believe that he was the man in charge.

Let him think that. She was happy to let him put her on her knees, use her, even breed her with a whole passel of brats. Let him establish his little dynasty, let him take the presidency and create a new world order beneath the banner of the Templars. He would sit on a throne and have the world kneeling at his feet, his children’s feet. And she would be there the entire time, the voice in his ear, the whisper in his dreams. The power behind that throne, making sure that this new world order was flawless, perfect, built up as she saw fit.

Let him be king of all the world. With a few sweet words and a tight cunt, she’d lead him around like a dog on a leash and he’d thank her for it. A puppet that adored dancing to strings he didn’t even know existed.

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Diana Sydney had always been rather fond of watching other people work, particularly when that work served her ends and none of them knew it. The fact that they were doing happily, even eagerly, and without a single complaint only made it more delicious.

From her vantage point on the observation gantry, she watched with lidded eyes and folded hands as dozens of engineers, mechanics, and volunteers swarmed over the century-old dropship like ants over a carcass. They crawled across its weather hull, hung suspended in the launch bay’s zero-gravity pockets, threaded wire and sealed seams and tested every rivet and every panel with a fervor that bordered on the religious. And why wouldn’t they? This was the vessel that would carry a hundred of their precious children to Earth. The vanguard to their entire civilization’s return home, the first wave of mankind’s salvation. How could they do anything but make sure that it was in perfect condition? How could they not pour every ounce of sweat and blood possible into making sure it was well and truly ready?

They didn’t know, of course, that they were building her a chariot. A chariot for a Triumph, and she meant that in the classical Roman sense of the word. This dropship would be the vehicle that would carry her back to Earth in victory, surrounded by the fertile, malleable young minds that would be a fine start for the army -literally speaking, if she had her way- that would deliver control over whatever society the Ark was able to build on the ground.

She let her gaze drift over to the assembled Council members standing to the side, separating themselves from her by some small distance, as if they thought that they were better than she was. In fact, they probably did think themselves superior to her, the fools. Felonious -she let her lips quirk at the childish, but clever, nickname she had given the bastard stole her rightful position- was standing the closest to the work, at the rail, with his hands folded behind his back and wearing an expression of grave expectation that he’d probably practiced in front of the damn mirror for an ungodly amount of time.

Kane and the Griffin bitch were actually doing something useful, which was consulting schematics of the finished product and figuring out the best places that supplies could be secured without getting anyone killed or losing the supplies during reentry and landing.

The others, useful fucks, were literally just standing there and watching. She couldn’t bring herself to remember their names, they were insignificant and might as well be non-entities as far as she was concerned.

And then, of course, there was Shumway.

He stood a little apart from the rest, arms crossed, that perpetually dour expression fixed on his face as he watched the proceedings with the vigilance of a man who took his duty far too seriously, just like his esteemed mentor. The Council had, in their infinite wisdom, appointed him her keeper. Her handler. The man who would accompany her to the surface and ensure that she caused no trouble, that she ‘stayed in line,’ that she did nothing to undermine the fragile new order they intended to build on the ground.

Just as the two of them had planned and hope for.

The irony was nearly as delicious as everything else. The one man that they had trusted to keep her under control had been working for her for years now. The one man that they trusted to keep the kids safe and cooperative was the leverage she’d use to first hurt them, then control them when she put a stop to his villainy. Not that he knew that part, of course, and she didn’t intend for him to figure it out until about thirty seconds before he died.

He was, as he had always been, a particularly useful idiot. A man that was just clever and ruthless enough to be a particularly useful tool to use, one that was beyond suspicion thanks to being Kane’s protégé and had connections and insights that her other ‘allies’ -being working-class people from the lesser stations, one and all- weren’t really in any position to provide. He was also, she knew, entirely oblivious to her own plans for him, thus the idiot part of her evaluations. Oblivious to the fact that she planned to use him up until there was nothing left before disposing of him in a way most useful to her, and even more pathetically, he wasn’t even planning on betraying her first!

Oh, he’d get there eventually, she was sure, if she gave him the opportunity and the means. Which she wouldn’t, of course. But the man was truly so mind-bogglingly short-sighted that it was almost awe-inspiring.

But, for the time being, he was exactly what she needed.

A stern, implacable, thoroughly trusted face that would smooth her passage down to the surface, and a knife that she could hold to the throats of a hundred terrified children without anyone ever realizing that she was the one holding it. The Council thought they were sending an ill-regarded, disgraced political opponent safely away from any potential powerbase, down to a savage and unsettled world while under guard. What they were actually doing was handing her the keys to rulership, wrapped in a bow of misplaced trust and delivered with a solemn ceremony that she would savor for the rest of her days.

She had worked so very hard for this. The whispered conversations, the carefully cultivated sense of contrition, the humble ‘attempts to demure’ the ‘honor’ that they offered her at Shumway’s recommendation. It hadn’t been easy, keeping her true thoughts to herself, and it hadn’t been easy to come up with a way for the two of them to couch the suggestion in such a way that would maintain their cover and result in the Council coming to the decision that they’d wanted.

But she had managed it, in the end. She had played her part to perfection, and they had swallowed it whole, hook and line and sinker! She had stood before them in that cramped Council chamber, head bowed, voice trembling with just the right measure of humility and resolve, and accepted herself being offered up as a sacrifice for the good of their people. She had spoken of atonement, of penance, of a desire to be useful to a society that had cast her down. She had wept, even, a few thing tears allowed to slip free at precisely the right moment, and she had watched their faces soften, watched the suspicion in their eyes give way to something closer to pity.

Pity. For her. If it hadn’t been for the fact that it was all according to her plans, she would have spat in their faces. As it was, the humiliation was just one more thing she planned to take out of their collective hides in blood when given the opportunity. As cruelly as possible, if she could manage it. She doubted that she would be able to twist all of the children so completely as to accomplish it, but she fantasized about having Clarke and Wells execute their own parents. Dreamed of the agony that would be on their fucking faces as their own children, so completely devoted to her as something like that would require, denounced them and pulled the triggers to end their lives.

Yes. That was the dream, the one she returned to in quiet moments when the mask could slip just a little and she could indulge in fantasies of revenge. But dreams were dreams, and she was, above all else, a practical woman. She would take what she could get, and what she could get was more than enough.

A hundred children. A hundred impressionable, frightened, malleable young minds, torn from the only home they had ever known and cast down onto a hostile world where the only authority, the only comfort, the only source of guidance and safety would be her. Oh, Shumway too, ostensibly, but she would see to it that his authority was...compromised, in the eyes of the children. That he became the villain of the piece and was disposed of in a suitable fashion.

Even Clarke and her two little friends would probably be desperate for a bit of support and guidance by the time the dropship landed, provided that they were even alive at that point. Support and guidance that she would be perfectly placed to provide them.

She couldn’t help it, rolling the thoughts around in her mind over and over and over again. Examining them from every angle she could imagine, every possibility, every potential issue. She couldn’t entirely predict what life would be like on the ground, of course, nor what problems would come her way during and after their arrival, but she could try and guess. After all, planning in the long-term was something of a habit for her, and…

“…to go. It looks like work is going just fine, but Jacopo is worried about us distracting people. There’s a thin line between being encouraged by the presence of your superiors and being a problem because you make them nervous, and he thinks we’re close to crossing it. So, everybody out.” The Griffin cunt’s announcement interrupted her thoughts, and even in the midst of the hate that came from the sound of her voice and the need to do as she said, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of smug amusement at the way being bossed around by his once-friend and nominal subordinate so very clearly and painfully got under Jaha’s skin.

Really, the look on his face and the uncomfortable, impotent anger in his body language was nothing short of exquisite. Mmh. She’d spend some time thinking about it later, savoring it just as much as she savored everything else in regards to her plans. For now, she had a roll to play, and that meant meekly making her way out of the room and scurrying back to her quarters like a good girl.

Which she did, trying to keep the pep from her step and the pleasure from her face.

It was hard, but somehow, that made it even sweeter.

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Baltim was cold, the way it always was, the way that Nia had come to love over the long years of her reign over the Azgeda. The kind of cold that reminded a person of their own mortality, that stripped away comfort and pretense and left only the hard, essential truths of survival. It was a fitting environment for a woman who prided herself on seeing things clearly, without the softness that so often clouded the judgment of others.

The Queen of the Ice Nation -beautiful, noble, regal, aloof- sat alone in her study, a deep and comfortable chair drawn close to the great fireplace that dominated one wall, its flames crackling and popping as they consumed the seasoned wood that was necessary to use even in the midst of summer and fall. She sat alone and she contemplated the vast quantity of knowledge that came in from her equally vast network of informants, and the knowledge that came from more official, public sources. It was a regular ritual for her, this lonely and silent contemplation, because for all that she had servants and advisors who managed to -on occasion, and rarely without guidance- make themselves useful, she preferred to rely on no one but herself for the decisions that guided her choices and her leadership.

Especially when it came to the other clans of the Coalition.

The reports on her desk were, as ever, extensive. Her spies were among the finest in the world, and she paid them well enough -in coin, in secrets, in the promise of continued life- to ensure that they remained the finest. And of late, so very much of what they brought her circled around a single, tantalizingly mysterious subject.

The blonde stranger. Klark.

Nia turned the thought, the name, over in her mind slowly, contemplatively. The way one might examine a vase or some other work of art for flaws or hidden beauty. Officially, the girl was nothing more than a guest of Heda’s, a curiosity from some distant, unnamed place that had traveled towards Polis on a pilgrimage and come across a shopkeeper that would be completely insignificant on the grand scheme of things if not for her long-time friendship with Lexa’s little Shadow.

Granted, the girl was also a curiosity that had been badly injured killing maunon, and according to Kostia, she’d saved the lives of both Kostia and the shopkeeper -Niylah, she recalled- during a Rogue Storm. Which might not be the most interesting or significant of things, and even with her physical proximity to Lexa Nia probably wouldn’t have cared about her in the least.

But more and more information had continued to arrive in regards to this mysterious beauty. Staying in the palace, permanently. Being Heda’s personal guest, repeatedly, to dinner, to the baths, to the Conclaves itself. Indeed, according to the reports Nia had, she’d spent every moment of the latest Conclave and the other celebrations that had taken place in Heda’s company, receiving instruction on how to dominate Niylah -who had given herself to Klark within days of their apparent meeting, and by all accounts was there to stay- from Lexa’s own mouth. Reports of private training in combat, by not just Lexa and Kostia, but Ontari. Her Ontari, the girl she had earmarked and prepared physically and mentally alike to kick Lexa off of her throne.

The girl that had worked hard, very hard, to say nothing at all ever since she’d given up the attempt and allowed Caris of the Sangeda to win a third Conclave and become Chosen. As a matter of fact, the chit had been stonewalling her or outright ignoring her messages, much to her mingled pride and aggravation.

Amusingly enough, it was that silence -clearly intended to keep from telling Nia anything that Lexa and the Chosen didn’t want her to know- and the reports of just how…romantically inclined the women around Klark had acted that had started to make her suspicious that the far-travelled blonde was genuinely significant. No one would work as hard as they were to keep secrets if there were no secrets, secrets of value and potency, to be found.

But what was it about the girl that made people act in such a way, she wondered? She was beautiful, by all accounts, in fact many of her spies and many of the official reports that she had at hand detailing the girl had been quite eloquent about her beauty. Likewise, she was fiercely protective of those that she cared for, kind and soft to those that hadn’t earned her ire, and apparently quite intelligent. But none of that really explained all of it. As little compliment as she liked to pay to most of those that lived in Polis, and as much as she took personal issue with the all-too-light way that the current Heda held the reins she had won, Lexa wasn’t a brainless chit who thought with her cunt. Simply being pretty and smart and nice wasn’t enough for to her to act so atypically.

No, there was something more to the girl. Something that ran rather deeper than a pretty face and a soft heart, something that made Heda and her Chosen and even that ice-blooded little spymistress of a redhead gather around her like moths around a flame. And Nia loathed, with every fiber of her being, not knowing precisely what that something was.

Then there were the newest developments, the ones that had arrived only days ago and which had done nothing but sharpen her curiosity into something closer to obsession. Two more strangers, come to Polis in the wake of Klark. Two more guests taken into the palace, tended by the healers, and swiftly drawing attention. Guests that had arrived from seemingly nowhere, not long after Heda and her Chosen -plus little Niylah, a civilian- had left the city on horses at speed. Horses that had returned, without their riders, yet those same riders had been spotted in and around the palace faster than should have been possible.

The people at large hadn’t noticed, but her agents had. They’d done the math, they’d realized that it was impossible, genuinely impossible, for those that had left to return in the time that they had. They’d not seen this ‘Raven’ or this ‘Octavia’ arrive through any of the gates, and while many people came and went without anyone taking note of them -it was the capital, after all, with many hundreds through each gate each day-, no one that was promptly welcomed into the palace as Heda’s guest would have been missed.

Which meant that they had, somehow, been brought into the city by means that circumvented every gate, every road, every watchful eye that Nia had cultivated over years and decades of patient effort. A thing that should have been impossible, and yet somehow it had happened all the same.

And then there were the names. Okteivia. Klark. Nia rolled them over her tongue, silent in the flickering firelight, testing the shape and sound of them. They were not names that belonged to any clan she knew. Not Trikru, not Azgeda, not the Floukru or the Sangeda nor anyone else she knew of. Only Reivon’s name was somewhat familiar, though not particularly common amongst the clans that actually had such birds living in their territories.

No, these were foreign names, alien to the world she had spent her entire life -girl and woman both- mastering. Unusual, unnatural, unlike anything that belonged to any people she had ever known or heard of. Which meant that they belonged to a people she did not know, a distant people at that, or she would know them. A people that produced women who could move unseen into the very heart of Polis, who caught and held the attention of Heda and her Chosen, who were guarded and welcomed and treated as though they were something important.

And not just important. Something precious. Something valuable. Something that Nia did not have, did not understand, and could not abide being ignorant of. Ignorance existed to be dispelled and problems existed to be solved. Fortunately, she had plenty of means to make inroads on doing exactly that, and one particular means had made a fine showing at her latest Conclave. Echo, young though she was, had been intended to be Ontari’s right hand woman when the older Chosen had taken over the position of Heda. With Ontari no longer pushing for the position, and Caris likely to follow her lead, the likelihood that anyone else would be able to win any Conclaves before Echo could become Chosen was…minimal.

Which meant another member of her clan would be well positioned to learn many, many things.

She set the reports aside at last, steepling her long fingers before her face, firelight dancing across her features as she stared into the fire. There were decisions to be made, now, and instructions to be issued. Instructions that would be vital to her nation, and to the Coalition, because she would not allow foolishness and soft hearts to bring to ruin everything that humanity had managed to rebuild since The Last War. Since the brainless fools that had once inhabited the world had burned that world.

Echo would be ordered to ingratiate herself to the Chosen, to these strange new guests of Heda. She would watch and report back, the instructions couched in concern for the sanctity of the Conclave and the Chosen -Echo was nothing if not dutiful, and the constant presence of non-Chosen so close to Heda’s side was a matter of concern- and she would do everything in her power to become Chosen, to win as many of these new, more-frequent Conclaves as possible.

They were on the cusp of something, she could feel it. The edge of some great change. And she was going to make sure that she wasn’t still ignorant when that change finally arrived. Ignorance was just as much a string to control as deliberate manipulations were, and whatever else she might be, Nia of the Azgeda was puppet to no one and nothing.

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The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Clarke’s suite in soft golden bands, catching on the fine fabric that Niylah was so carefully draping across her domina’s shoulders. It was a garment fit for someone far grander than a mere guest of Heda, all deep blues and silvers, embroidered with patterns that caught the light and shimmered like sunlight on water. Not so obvious as to draw questions, but fine enough to mark the wearer as someone of consequence to those who knew how to look.

And it was fitting, she thought, so very fitting that her beloved mistress would be bathed in gold on today of all days.

She smoothed the fabric with reverent hands, her palms lingering against the curve of Clarke’s shoulders through the beautiful but thin material before letting them drift lower, tracing the line of Clarke’s spine down to the small of her back. Then she leaned in, pressing a slow, worshipful kiss to the bared skin of Clarke’s throat, just above the collar of the garment, and felt her domina shiver beneath the touch.

“Niylah…” Clarke’s voice held a note of warning, low and amused, though it did little to discourage the blonde submissive from pressing another kiss just a fraction lower, this one lingering as her hands settled at Clarke’s hips.

“Mmm?” Niylah hummed against Clarke’s skin, feigning innocence even as her fingers flexed against the flare of her mistress’ hips, thumbs stroking small, deliberate circles through the fabric. “I simply want to make certain that my domina looks her very best for such an important day. Surely there’s no harm in that?”

“There’s a great deal of harm in it,” Clarke murmured, though the breathless catch in her voice rather undermined the reproach, even as it made Niylah’s lips curl up in satisfaction. “when you know full well that I have to leave in a few minutes and can’t do anything about the fact that you’re getting us both worked up. This is my first Senate meeting, Niylah. I can’t very well walk in there with my thoughts scattered and my—” she cut herself off, exhaling sharply as Niylah’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin behind her ear. “—with my composure in tatters, and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the sort, domina.” Niylah replied serenely, straightening enough to lift a finely-wrought and delicate silver necklace from the cushion nearby and fasten it around Clarke’s neck, her fingers deliberately slow as they brushed against the nape of that lovely throat. The chain settled into place and she smoothed it flat with a gentle brush of her fingertips before letting her hands fall to rest at her sides once more. “Besides, even if I did, I fail to see how it should be my problem. After all, you’re the one who has to sit through hours of dull political posturing while trying to keep your composure. I get to remain here, in comfort, where I can tend to any needs I might have as I see fit without trouble or shame.”

Clarke turned then, one golden brow arching high as she regarded her submissive with an expression caught somewhere between affectionate disbelief and exasperated amusement. Niylah met that look with one of her own, the very picture of innocence, hands folded demurely before her, though the wicked spark in eyes showed that innocence to be the lie that it was. Not that Clarke needed the help, of course.

“You really are feeling particularly impertinent this morning, aren’t you, Sunshine?” Clarke said, reaching out to catch Niylah’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting that lovely face up so that their eyes met properly. There was heat in her gaze, yes, but there was fondness too, deep and abiding, the kind that had grown steadily over months of companionship and devotion. “Sitting here, all comfortable and smug, while I have to go and pretend I have any idea what I’m doing. All the while, I’m forced to deal with what you’ve done to me.”

“I have every faith that my wise, mature, beloved mistress will conduct herself flawlessly.” Niylah replied, leaning into the touch with shameless happiness, eyes bright.

“And I have every faith,” Clarke retorted, stroking her thumb alone the line of Niylah’s jaw before releasing her. “That you will be thoroughly punished for your impertinence the moment I return. At length, Sunshine. So I wouldn’t look so pleased, because I have every intention of making sure that you’re well in hand while I’m gone, and desperate for forgiveness when I return.”

Niylah froze briefly, sensing both delight and suffering in her near future as her mistress gave her the same look she’d recieved before punishment and play in the past.

“What do you mean, domina?” she asked a bit anxiously, wondering what her creative lover had in mind. If she was hoping for the mercy of information, she was sorely disappointed.

“I mean that while Lexa, Ontari, Caris and I are off at the Senate today, you are going to be left to the tender mercies of Kostia. And she is going to have firm instructions of her own, I think, in specific regards to you. So, until she comes for you, you’re not to leave this room and you’re not to touch yourself, am I quite understood?”

“Yes, domina.” The promptly-spoken words came out slightly breathless, but there was no reluctance in them, only that familiar blend of anticipation and submission that had become as natural to Niylah as breathing. Her thighs pressed together instinctively at the very thought of what awaited her, of being left aching and untouched, only for Kostia to arrive with whatever devious instructions Clarke provided with her. “Though I confess, I don’t know whether to be frightened or thrilled.”

“Both, I should think.” Clarke smiled, warm and lazy and unmistakably loving even through the promise of retribution that was most assuredly present. “She’s been Lexa’s thrallina for a very long time, I can only imagine the sorts of creative things that they’ve done together, including what are probably the most spectacular methods of edging. Now, behave yourself while I’m gone.”

“I always do, domina.” Niylah replied, the wicked glint not entirely gone from her eyes, and Clarke let out a soft, disbelieving huff of laughter at the blatant, shameless lie.

“You most certainly do not.” she countered fondly, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Niylah’s ear before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. “But that’s part of why I love you so much, isn’t it? You keep me on my toes, Sunshine. Even on days when I could do with a little less...encouragement.”

Niylah caught Clarke’s hand as it began to slip away, pressing one final, lingering kiss to the knuckles before allowing her mistress to withdraw. She rose then, sinking into a graceful, practiced bow that flaunted the swell of her breasts and the valley between them, the very picture of genuine -if teasing- devotion.

“Go, domina.” she murmured, straightening only enough to catch Clarke’s gaze once more. “Go and learn, and know that I will be thinking of you the entire time. Aching for you, longing for you, and no doubt suffering terribly beneath Kostia’s attentions, waiting for you to save me.”

“And you’ll suffer beautifully, I’m sure, every moment of it.” Clarke laughed, low and warm, shaking her head as she moved toward the door. “I’ll be counting on it, in fact. Something to imagine, to look forward to while I’m listening to people argue about food stores and border disputes and trade agreements.”

“Then I shall do my very best to make it worth the anticipation, domina.” Niylah promised, and there was such shameless, wicked satisfaction in the words that Clarke very nearly turned back around then and there, propriety and schedules be damned.

She resisted the urge, even if it wasn’t easy, and made her way towards the door as quickly as she could without looking like she was fleeing outright.

Only when she reached the threshold did she pause, one hand resting against the cool wood of the door frame, and glance back over her shoulder at the woman standing in front of the tumbled furs and cushions of their bed. Niylah remained where she was, poised and patient, watching her with a look of such open, unguarded adoration that Clarke felt her breath catch somewhere in her chest.

Niylah, for her part, did not move to rise, nor did she look away. She simply watched, drinking in the sight of Clarke standing there in the doorway, bathed in the golden morning light that spilled through the tall windows. She was so proud of the young woman that called her her own, so proud of how hard she’d worked and how far she’d come. She was, as she had been since the moment they met and continued to be, the most beautiful thing that Niylah had ever seen.

And as she truly crossed the threshold, turned away for the last time and made her way into her future, Niylah for a moment didn’t see a young woman taking tentative steps towards learning. She saw an adult. A magnificent, powerful adult taking confident strides towards ruling.

She saw a queen.

The Queen of All Mankind.