Chapter Text
When Clarke walks out of the train station, the familiar sight of downtown Polis greets her. No sky-scrapers here, those are on the horizon. Just old buildings and beautiful streets, painted in the orange and yellows of early fall. And obviously, the massive media hub at the end of the street, a gorgeous old theater where most of the debates would be happening.
Clarke had worked her way up the chain from classroom journalism to local news, to politics in one of the best news outlets in the country. And after a few years of toiling and pushing politicians around for answers, her boss told her this was it. She would be the one covering the debates, electoral campaigns and polls in the capital. She's pumped, to say the least. With a spring in her step, she makes her way towards the hotel she's been assigned a room in for her first trip of the campaign, and finds it to be incredibly charming. It's a very, very old building, more of a repurposed saloon, really. Grounders', established 1812. Damn. Old doesn't even cover it.
The young man behind the front desk has an easy smile and floppy hair, and he wastes no time in getting her situated. Second floor, last room on the left, at the end of the hallway. Clarke isn't usually one for old western atmosphere, but there's something warm and inviting about this place. It's cozy, she decides, and isn't overdoing it on memorabilia. Her room is nicely sized, wooden slat walls in great condition, and she even has a fairly large desk. The bathroom is sparse and not even cramped, and Clarke is feeling very pleasantly surprised. Well shit, great pick, Marcus.
Her first two days of work are a blur, and a really frustrating one at that. Thelonious Jaha and Diana Sydney, the two candidates the polls are already hailing as the only opponents that matter in the race, are both full of shit. One tries to grab at people's feelings, the other claims to offer order, and neither answers any question with substance. To top it off, Clarke's own ex-senator mother has decided to be as nosy as possible and send an overwhelming amount of texts over the course of three hours.
It's 11pm by the time Clarke makes it back to her room, she's grabbed a bite downstairs and now just feels drained. Exhausted but restless, the worst kind of mood when she has to be up in six hours. She tries to relax, tries to read, but the day's news are just stress-inducing, and there's only so much she can take of Twitter. A few risky pictures made it onto her feed, half-naked bodies contorting in the sun, somewhere. Her thighs squeeze together on their own accord, a twinge of desire low in her belly. Well, maybe she can try to get her frustration out in a different way.
She turns the light off, spreads her legs a bit, and slips a hand in her pajama shorts. For a long while, she scrolls dispassionately through pages of porn, two fingers rubbing at her clit without managing to make the frustrated need turn into anything at all. She might as well dry hump a pillow, and is starting to seriously consider it when suddenly- Oh. Oh yeah, right there.
Clarke's eyes flutter closed, suddenly finding her stride, the slow-burning pleasure building up. She wills her mind to think of nothing at all, focusing on her fingertips and how nice and oh so warm it feels. She's throbbing before long, and right when she starts aching to be filled, her orgasm takes her by surprise. It's short but powerful, over in a flash. And it feels really, really fucking good.
The tension in her body finally disappears, Clarke letting out a soft contented moan, mind clear, barely pulling her hand out of her panties before she drifts to sleep. Damn, rubbing one off hadn't felt that nice in a while.
It's been almost a week, and on her last day in Polis for the month, Clarke can't concentrate. The stupid article she's supposed to be writing is just not flowing out of her mind, words stuck somewhere in a fog. She knows what she wants to say, but can't seem to even begin. The blank page on her laptop is mocking her. Her legs are bouncing, more restless energy coursing through her, thoughts drifting to that really hot security guard who'd ushered her into the conference room this morning. Tall, nice hands, amused eyes but no-nonsense attitude.
So Clarke daydreams, of a faceless someone in front of her, trapping her in the chair and teasing until she's sopping wet. She's not sure why she's so fucking horny all of a sudden, but her hips are chasing friction on the seam of her jeans within minutes, and she can feel her underwear sticking to her pussy. She sighs, eyes closed, squeezing her breasts over her bra, legs spreading, knees resting up against the edge of the desk. Clarke unbuttons and unzips her jeans, needing release, and needing it fast.
She can almost feel a caress over her folds, can just about imagine being touched and spread open, so vividly it seems it's right there. A faint, warm touch at her entrance, like the press of something she yearns to feel pushing deep into her. She slips a finger inside, her other hand flicking her clit in quick swipes, until her mouth opens in a soundless cry, feeling her imaginary lover's touch ghosting across her inner thighs. She's panting a bit when she comes, delighting in the idea that this room really seems to bring out the best in her technique. Clarke giggles to herself, goes to wash her hands and put on fresh panties. When she gets back to work on the article, she's feeling much more calm and focused. The words form in the symphony of keyboard tapping, pages filling fast, leaving no candidate unchecked in their lies.
Behind her, the air shimmers.