Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lexa steps out of the chilly night air, past the glass doors, and into the foyer of the museum. It’s nightclub-dark inside for the event, but even in just the pale moonlight the floors shine.

As other guests walk past, she pauses to check her coat, and then to admire the brickwork arches of the ceiling high above, and the marble sculptures of armor clad warriors on either side of the doors.

She already likes this place.

She heads off toward the sounds of pleasant chatter and polite laughter coming from the main hall. As she gets closer, the sounds of the crowd float around her and bounce off the high ceiling that seems to tower a mile above them, a pleasant buzz, as black vested waiters with trays aloft weave through the crowd smiling, handing out sparkling flutes of champagne.

As she takes a glass, the DJ in the corner drops a long lingering look over Lexa’s smartly tailored black tux, the white shirt cuffs and silver cufflinks peeking out of her sleeves, her strong jawline, the intricate braids on either side of her head, and the wavy brown hair with little flecks of blonde and reddish highlights that rolls down over her back. The DJ’s glitter dusted cheeks break into a smile when their eyes meet, and she shoots Lexa a nod of approval. Lexa smiles back at her and her gigantic white headphones that bob to the beat of the downbeat electronica flooding out through the speakers.

The music seems roughly timed with the light projector that was casting waves of blues, purples, and greens dancing in patterns across the crowd, and the brick walls of the building. She takes a sip of her champagne and then turns to admire the scene.

The place is gigantic. A hundred years ago, it was a power station for the city. But now, it’s a giant, open floor behemoth of a warehouse with hallways sprawling out in all directions, holding one of the city’s best modern art collections. The building doesn’t generate power anymore, it attracts it - in the form of NYC’s elites, who crowd the floor in their black tuxes and shimmering dresses. The occasional colorful pocket squares, shining silk scarves perched on shoulders, and sparkling jewelry resting on necks and earlobes a reminder that these people appreciate beauty and creativity. It is their patronage that has built the collections displayed on the walls, and their pride in the place shows.

It’s the third event that Lexa has attended in as many weeks, part of her efforts to settle into her new city and make it home. A friend who couldn’t attend had put her name on the guest list in her place, giving Lexa the simple instructions to “mingle” and “become a New Yorker,” and she had been happy to comply.

So far, along with the colorful crowd and the music, the highlight of tonight was the gourmet food trucks adorned with bubble letter graffiti that look right at home parked here and there alongside the rest of the art. It gave the event an air of whimsy that Lexa appreciated.

She steps up to the window of one and asks the owner:

“What’s good?”

He just smiles and hands her a fish taco that is so delicious she’s growling “Oh my god … ” into her first bite, the corners of her eyes crinkling in satisfaction as aoli drips down the corner of her mouth. “Best in the city,” he beams, handing her a napkin. Lexa gives him a nod and smile of agreement before stepping away.

The taco is messy but completely worth it, like so many things.

She heads away from the crowd and down a hallway with her tasty prize to explore the collection, dusting off the little bits of taco shell that pepper her black jacket as she goes, and finally tosses the empty napkin into a nearby bin and sets down her empty glass. Good food was her weakness. Well, one of her weaknesses. And it was a key selling point her friends had used to get her to move to the city, knowing that she had endured 3 years of uninspiring fare while bouncing around Europe for work. After a while, their plan to get her to NYC by bragging about the food and the city’s cultural scene finally cracked her resolve, and she found herself packing, craving the cool spice of Mexican food, and the easy friendliness of other Americans.

And now that she was here, the city was really growing on her. It had this Alice in Wonderland quality. Nights out led to chats with the city’s interesting cast of characters, conversations that might range from music to philosophy, to the dreams people were chasing that had brought them to the city. It felt like anything could happen here.

Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and feeling presentable again, she strolls along the walls, eyes exploring the works on display.

It’s a phenomenal collection really. The spartan minimalist works with their thick brush strokes give way to ornate glass sculptures, and then to more elaborate paintings with rich golds, reds, and blues that flood her senses.

She’s grateful for the break from the crowd that gives her a chance to privately revel in the works in all their quiet glory. Even in the dark they shine.

As the noise of the crowd fades behind her with each step, the place is starting to feel more and more like a shrine to beauty, and she feels her brain settling into the warmth of the champagne. The feeling spreads through her shoulders, which still ache a little from the new boxing gym she tried out this morning.

Completely absorbed with a quiet sense of appreciation, she is all the way to a dark back corner of the museum when her eyes flick to the next piece.

It’s a gigantic, 8 foot tall Walton Ford canvas, a meticulous painting of a tiger crouched over the back of a lioness. The tiger’s burning orange fur and black stripes ripple over flexed muscles, golden eyes wild and sparkling, pink gums and sharp teeth bared as she bites down into the neck of the equally ferocious looking lioness, whose golden fur shines beneath her. The lionesses’ right front paw is raised threateningly, claws out, her neck craned back into the tiger’s bite. What looks at first like a fight to the death is betrayed the small curve of the lionesses’ tail, twirled around the tigers’ back leg, holding them together.

It’s breathtaking.

In that moment, Lexa’s mask of cool reserve falls away as images of past trysts spark behind her eyes. Recollections of those kinds of moments flood her brain, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek at the recognition, a tinge of heat pushing up her neck, and a small growl escapes her lips.

It’s almost too much to look at.

As she turns away from the piece, her eyes collide with the blue gaze of a woman who is somehow standing just a step away from her, arms folded, studying her. From the sly smile on the woman’s face, Lexa can that tell that the woman has caught her expression, and the little growl.

Before Lexa can pull on her mask of cool reserve, she sees the woman’s amused eyes trail down over her face, flitting to her green eyes, her nose, her lips, the curve of her flushed cheek where it’s still pinched between her teeth, and then back up to meet her eyes again. Lexa can’t stop herself from breaking into a little grin as the woman arches an eyebrow and bites down on the inside of her own cheek, still smiling up at Lexa wryly.

Lexa gives her a little nod of acknowledgment at the subtle compliment, and the woman turns back to the painting, the corner of her smile still visible. Lexa takes the opportunity to study her back, her eyes taking in the curly blonde hair cascading down the woman’s shoulder, the scooping ruched folds of her white dress draped elegantly against her neckline, the simple silver chain sparkling against the top of her chest, and the visual feast that is the gentle arc of her soft, slightly flushed neck ...

God. The woman belongs in this museum.

Lexa can almost hear something crack open in her chest.

She swallows hard, feeling like she would do anything to get that woman’s eyes back on her, looking up at her again with that quiet intensity. And all of a sudden, an entirely new set of images flood her brain.

“Glad you like it.” The woman says, her smile still curling into her cheek, the side of her face somehow glowing in the darkness.

“Is it yours?” Lexa asks.

Still looking up at the painting, the woman sighs, “Unfortunately no …” then with a hint of pride in her voice, “But it is one of my favorites. I helped arrange the loan from the artist to bring it here.”

“So it’s yours for the night then …” Lexa smiles, unable to stop the flirtatious tease that curls around the edges of her voice.

The woman turns back to her then, almost chuckling. Her blue eyes study Lexa’s face again, like she’s checking to verify the flirtation, and sees it there in Lexa’s green eyes sparkling back at her.

She pauses for a beat, their eyes locked, then her eyes drop.

“Your tie is a little crooked there, Tiger,” she says dryly, a soft little chide, but the smile never leaves her face as she steps forward, closing the space between them, her hands reaching up to adjust Lexa’s black tie. She feels the muscles of Lexa’s neck twitch against the backs of her fingers as the fabric of the collar shifts against skin. Her hands pause on Lexa’s shoulders for just a moment, and then slowly, her fingers gently hook under the edges of Lexa’s slim lapels and glide down them lightly, a flutter of a touch trailing against Lexa’s chest.

“I could just take it off ….” Lexa hears herself say, and the woman’s eyes lock with hers again, before she adds “…. or you could ...”

What happens next is a bit of a blur.

Lexa’s tie gets lost somewhere and somehow, they are through an exit door and many steps down an empty concrete hallway.

Lexa has the woman pressed up against the cold wall, and is slowly trailing the tip of her warm tongue up the woman’s neck, breathing in the soft scent of her vanilla shampoo, sending little thrills down her spine as she nips at a sensitive spot under her ear before whispering into it “I’m Lexa”, like the woman might need to know it in just a minute.

Lexa feels the woman’s smile against her cheek, then feels her hook their ankles together just before she spins them around and Lexa’s back lands with a surprised little “Oof” against the wall. The woman’s neck arches up to deliver a searing kiss that makes Lexa groan, and sends a little jolt of pleasure rushing through her body.

The woman looks up at her then, her fists gripping Lexa’s lapels, her eyes dazzling like fireworks.

“Clarke”, she says, in a breath that tickles across Lexa’s neck.

And then they are taking turns pressing each other up against the walls. Gentle and rough kisses burning into each other’s mouths and necks like branding irons, like they mean it.

Up until tonight, Clarke wouldn’t have said that she had been feeling particularly lonely. But there was something about Lexa, and that naked look of desire on her face in front of the painting. All of a sudden it felt like a door had been kicked open somewhere inside her, and now, all she can feel is a seemingly bottomless need to have Lexa pressed against her.

Chapter Text

... Then they are walking down the corridor, through a door into a workroom filled with tables, where ancient works are propped on easels waiting to be restored.

“There’s an office,” Clarke hears herself say, gesturing toward a door across the room.

“Mmm hmm,” Lexa says noncommittally, stepping over to a sink and washing her hands.

They both know what Lexa is preparing for.

Not wanting to be outdone, Clarke does the same.

Lexa is leaning against a table when Clarke drops the paper towel she used to dry her hands into a bin with an air of finality.

Lexa tilts up her chin at Clarke and asks, “What can I do for you Clarke?,” like she’s taking Clarke’s order at a restaurant, a little smile perched on her lips, but her eyes are dark now, locked with Clarke’s. They drop to Clarke’s lips expectantly, waiting to hear what she has to say.

“I don’t know Lexa …” Clarke teases back coolly, but then with a little challenge in her voice, “What can you do for me?”

She traces her fingers down Lexa’s lapels again, sees Lexa lick her lips at the challenge, and gives her a hungry look before stepping away toward the office.

Lexa trails after her.

As the door clicks shut behind them, Clarke turns to face her, standing in front of a metal desk, her butt leaning against the edge, ankles crossed, arms folded like they might be about to have a meeting.

Clarke’s playing it cool, but this is all starting to feel very real.

Her pulse is speeding up, and she is already soaked with anticipation.

Lexa looks serious now, all business. She scans the room and walks over to an Ikea chair in the corner, picks up a throw pillow with her left hand and pulls off the chair’s cushion with her right.

She walks right up to Clarke then and Clarke’s arms unfold, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.

Lexa leans in closer to her and drops the cushion behind her on the desk. Their arms brush against each other, sending a wave of goosebumps down Clarke’s back as Lexa shifts the cushion so that it’s fully laid out across the desk behind her. Clarke feels the edge of it scoot against her ass, closes her eyes, and takes in a deep breath of the cologne on Lexa’s neck.

It’s a gentle musk with tinges of cedar and vanilla, cinnamon and amber, nutmeg and pepper. It smells so good Clarke can almost taste it.

Lexa straightens and looks Clarke right in the eye, then drops the throw pillow onto the floor at her feet, right in front of where Clarke is standing.

Clarke feels a little shiver run through her.

Lexa casts an appraising look over her then.

She knows that it’s a delicate business having sex with someone for the first time. She needs to proceed carefully here, cautiously, to make friends with this new body in front of her.

Not making eye contact, her fingers start trailing slowly across the edge of the desk toward Clarke. She brushes the back of her hand against Clarke’s fingers where they’re still gripping the edge of the desk. Her fingers touch Clarke’s wrist gingerly, then trace their way up the edge of her arm, her hand closing over Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke’s skin is buzzing at the contact, her mind reeling with what’s about the happen.

Then - even slower - Lexa’s fingers trail across Clarke’s collar bone, and then down along the edge of the fabric against her neckline. The feathery touch across the top of Clarke’s chest fills her with butterflies as her chest rises and falls beneath Lexa’s fingers.

Lexa can feel Clarke’s pulse fluttering as her fingers move up the side of her neck. Clarke leans her head over to one side and closes her eyes, exposing her neck fully, an invitation to Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa is not sure if it’s the painting or what, but she is very into Clarke’s neck right now, the softness of it under her fingers, the heat radiating off it.

She leans in to taste it, licking her way up, putting her warm palm against the other side, her fingers closing possessively over the back of it. She runs her tongue against Clarke’s sensitive collar bone, and presses her warm tongue into the little valley behind it.

Clarke moans at the sensation, her breaths becoming shallower, her brain buzzing with desire. She feels the slick warmth pooled between her legs that’s just waiting there for Lexa, wanting. Every touch is a revelation, and her nipples are straining hard against the inside of her bra.

She reaches forward to undo the button of Lexa’s jacket, reaches inside to feel Lexa’s warmth through her shirt, and runs her hands up to Lexa’s collar to pull her mouth to hers. Her kiss is needy, hungry, and Lexa pushes her tongue and its comforting strength into Clarke’s mouth. Her own tongue presses back against Lexa’s, and then she’s sucking Lexa’s tongue.

Clarke can feel the tips of Lexa’s fingers hook under the hem of her dress, sliding it up her thighs, inching the fabric higher as Lexa’s kiss utterly ruins her.

Clarke stands and Lexa’s fingers keep going, until the fabric is gathered around Clarke’s waist, over her hips. Lexa’s palm presses flat and warm against the inside of Clarke’s thigh, inches from where it needs to be.

She looks into Clarke’s eyes then, for the first time since she dropped the pillow, waiting for confirmation.

“Please …” Clarke whispers, and then turns around so her back is pressed against Lexa’s chest, her butt pressing against the front of Lexa’s pants. Standing behind her, Lexa’s left hand grips Clarke’s hip to hold her steady, in a way that will leave Clarke with five perfect little bruises from each of Lexa’s fingers tomorrow. Lexa’s head drops down to graze her teeth against the hot skin of Clarke’s neck, as the fingers of her right hand trace along the lace edge of Clarke’s underwear, just inside her thigh.

Clarke is panting now, pupils blown, her right hand reaching back, fingers tangling in Lexa’s hair. Lexa’s tongue and warm breaths tease their way up her neck.

“Please …” Clarke moans, her voice aching now.

The tips of Lexa’s fingers start tracing lazy figure eights gently across the front of Clarke’s soaked underwear, dipping low, circling higher above her clit, then dipping low again.

Clarke can feel herself starting to come from just from all of the teasing, her knees weakening, her back slipping down. But Lexa’s left hand grabs Clarke’s hip harder, pulling her back into place. Her palm presses against the front of Clarke’s wet underwear, her finger tips down low over the wettest spot, her whole hand mooshing possessively against Clarke’s pussy.

“More …” Clarke breathes.

Lexa’s hand slides under the lace of her underwear then, her fingers tracing the wet slit, sliding between Clarke’s slick folds, teasing around her clit.

Clarke is breathing much harder now.

Lexa’s left hand leaves Clarke’s hip and rests gently on the front of her throat as her fingers slide inside, pumping slowly into Clarke. Her thumb teasing Clarke’s clit, finger tips curling against the little pillow of nerves inside, Clarke’s walls fluttering around her fingers.

“Fuck,” Lexa breaths into Clarke’s ear, and it’s somewhere between an observation and a command not to stop.

Clarke nods her head, “Yeah …” knowing that she can’t stop. Knowing that there is only this, only now, only the feeling of Lexa against her and inside her, and doing whatever Lexa will have her do.

Clarke feels every muscle in her body tighten with that knowledge, panting hard as Lexa’s fingers pump into her with abandon now for what feels like an eternity, her hips pressing back into Lexa.

And then Lexa whispers “Clarke” into her ear.

The sound of Lexa saying her name breaks everything free inside her. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes hard through her body and she feels like she’s being pulled under. Every muscle collapses and Lexa’s left arm wraps around her under her chest to keep her on her feet.

Lexa’s hand is outside her underwear then, holding her securely.

Clarke closes her eyes and lets out a sigh, then turns around, wrapping her arms around Lexa and burying her face in the crook of her neck.

A wave of emotion hits her and it’s only through sheer force of will that she is not crying right now.

Lexa’s hand presses comforting circles across Clarke’s back, her lips whispering soothing things into her ear, her other hand holding the back of Clarke’s neck gently.

After a while, Lexa shifts Clarke’s head off of her shoulder and touches their foreheads together.

Clarke is still panting, but she feels the steady pattern of Lexa’s breathing and starts to follow it back to herself, feels her pulse evening out, feels her mind make a soft landing inside her body again.

“Jesus, Lexa … what are you doing to me,” Clarke hears herself say.

Lexa is smiling at her now and she is overwhelmed with the desire to kiss her …

Chapter Text

… and as soon as she does, everything inside Clarke ignites, like it’s covered in lighter fluid.

A second ago, it felt like every atom in her had split apart.

But now?

Now it feels like the particles of her have reformed into something stronger, something invincible.

The weakness she felt is being quickly replaced by a roar of desire ripping through her.

Clarke doesn’t recognize the feeling. It’s almost like rage.

There is no other option. She must have Lexa.

She doesn’t want to tease this woman, or be chased by her. She wants to fucking worship her, and maybe to fight her a little (it’s not exactly clear). But what is clear is that she wants that to start right fucking now.

In an instant, her gentle kisses with Lexa morph into something more aggressive. Something dangerous.

She’s biting at Lexa’s lips now, pushes her hard against the door, her fingers making quick work of Lexa’s buttons as she burns kiss after searing kiss into Lexa’s mouth and neck.

And Lexa is more than keeping up.

Her hands fly down Clarke’s back, unzipping her, pulling her dress off in one quick motion. She spins them around and pushes Clarke against the door.

Clarke’s angry at this little turn of events. She wants to have Lexa, not the other way around.

Clarke pulls off Lexa’s jacket, pulls back her collar and bites into the curve of Lexa’s neck as she whips off her belt, drops her pants, and presses herself between Clarke’s thighs to soothe her, pushing into Clarke with a relentless rhythm.

Clarke is beside herself now, her eyes glazed over with lust as Lexa pulls down the top of her bra and grips her breast. Clarke gives in and wraps a leg around Lexa’s waist, and Lexa thrusts into her approvingly. She grips the back of Lexa’s neck as she climaxes, growling into Lexa’s ear.

And after she does everything stops.

Clarke’s breaths are ragged now, but she stands up firm on both feet. Lexa is shaking her head, looking a little dazed, and Clarke takes that moment to grab Lexa by her shirt and push her back against the door hard. Her warm body presses firm against Lexa’s chest, pressing her into the door as she kisses her, her hands holding Lexa’s hips, letting her know not to pull that little switcharoo again, every part of her telling Lexa to stay put against the door.

Then Clarke drops to her knees.

She looks up at Lexa then, Lexa’s chest heaving with each breath, her open shirt fluttering against her skin, her eyes wild with wanting.

And then Clarke pulls down her underwear and buries her face in Lexa, her tongue lapping against her hungrily to taste her desire. She feels Lexa shuddering against her tongue, her hand on the back of Clarke’s head, the smell of sweat and insanity rolling off her.

When Lexa comes it is glorious. Every muscle in her arching as she groans through her release, and Clarke laps up every bit of it.

When she finally stands up again, Clarke feels Lexa’s hands slip under her ass, lifting her, taking her over to the desk and laying her down on the cushion.

Lexa looks down at Clarke then, her half lidded eyes looking up at her, her body laid out before her on the desk, her skin glistening with sweat, her chest rising and falling under her bra, her soaked underwear, her open legs.

Lexa presses herself between Clarke’s thighs and runs her strong hands down Clarke’s sides possessively. She trails her lips and hot breath over Clarke’s hips, nipping and licking just above the line of her underwear. Clarke’s fingers are in her hair as she slides her tongue up Clarke’s stomach muscles, pulls down one of the lace cups of Clarke’s bra and licks and sucks hungrily against Clarke’s chest. She puts her hand firmly over Clarke’s breast, kneading it as she pulls down the cup on the other side and does it again. Clarke’s back is arched, her head rolling back as she pants.

Clarke feels Lexa’s hand on her underwear then, feels the comforting touch of Lexa’s warm hand pressing against her, and then hears the fabric being ripped open.

Lexa’s knees hit the throw pillow in front of the desk and Clarke feels the cushion she’s on being dragged to the edge, her thighs being pulled over Lexa’s shoulders.

Lexa’s tongue laps against her hungrily, steadily, moving through her, teasing against her clit, then direct pressure. Clarke’s hips buck as time and space just seem to melt away, as she feels Lexa pull every last orgasm she has to give out of her, until she’s breathless and helpless on the desk.

Lexa stays in place, licking more tenderly now, lovingly, carefully over the sensitive spots, cleaning up the total mess she made of Clarke.

After a moment, Lexa stands and lays down on the desk next to her, draping an arm over Clarke’s middle to ground her, to help her find her way back to herself.

*******************

They’re both standing now, getting dressed, smoothing themselves out.

Clarke’s mind is lost in a dreamy haze. Her hands work automatically, going through the motions of fixing her clothes and hair, but everything about this feels so surreal.

She steps over to help Lexa re-affix one of her cufflinks, but when that’s done, her hand just stays there in Lexa’s palm.

“Do you … make a habit of this?” Lexa asks delicately.

The soft look on her face and curiosity in her voice makes it clear that it’s a genuine question, completely devoid of judgment.

Clarke shakes her head and smiles, “Never ...” and then she takes a moment and looks at Lexa more softly, “… but I think I could make a habit out of you.”

It’s hard to look at Lexa right now, but Clarke does it anyway, as her unspoken question just floats there in the air between them:

Will I ever see you again?

Lexa breaks contact and grabs a slip of paper off the desk, neatly scrawls out her phone number and presses the note into Clarke’s hand.

“Then for both our sakes, please call me. Call even if you just want to talk, or go for a walk, or grab dinner. Whatever you want …”

“Who are you?” Clarke grins back at her, taking the note, a pinch of disbelief furrowing her brow that any of this just happened, and that the woman standing before her is real.

“Who knows. Maybe I’m just a nicely dressed waiter,” Lexa teases.

Clarke just laughs and shakes her head.

“From what I’ve seen, I don’t think you’re someone who waits.”

“I guess you’ll just have to call me and find out …,” Lexa winks, “But maybe don’t make me wait too long …” and she leans in to brush a small kiss on Clarke’s cheek, only to find herself being pulled by the collar into a much deeper, longer kiss that seems hell bent on removing any doubt.

“I won’t.” Clarke growls into her ear, “You can count on it.”

Clarke is still leaning against the edge of the desk, turning the paper over and over in her fingers when Lexa turns back to smile at her one last time from the doorway, before stepping out.

Chapter Text

The next day Lexa is back at the museum at lunch time, standing in line at the bag check to pick up the coat she had completely forgotten about the night before.

The place is now fully alive and bustling with tourists.

While she waits, she spots Clarke talking to a group of people further down the main hall. She is dazzling in a conservative gray suit and a blue button down shirt that set off her eyes. Her golden locks are held together by a little braid over each ear, her hair flowing down over her back like a mane.

Hmm … were the braids a little like the ones Lexa had been wearing last night?

“I don’t own the concept of braids” Lexa chides herself. But still, she wonders …

Regardless, what is true is that Clarke is practically glowing today.

Her expression is happy and animated as she smiles and gestures the group’s attention toward one of the paintings on the wall.

Lexa feels a spark of pride at the sight of her and takes a deep breath, her shoulders falling back a little as she stands up a little taller.

In that moment, Clarke catches her gaze, and Lexa can’t seem to look away or hide her smile as Clarke excuses herself from the group and starts making her way over.

Clarke’s steps seem slow and deliberate. Her face drops that open expression of happiness, replacing it with just the slightest curves of a smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes sparkling wildly with that knowing look from last night, not looking away as she gets closer.

It’s Lexa who finally breaks their gaze when she turns to hand the attendant her ticket.

As she reaches out for her coat, she feels Clarke standing beside her. Like, feels the woman’s presence in her bones. And when she turns, Clarke is right next to her with that look on her face. The one that makes Lexa want to growl, that sly smile that’s just for her.

“Looks like you really couldn’t wait long at all …” Clarke teases. As they step away from the counter, she wraps her right arm around Lexa’s left in a gesture that feels both formal, but also completely intimate and gently possessive. Lexa finds herself leaning into it a little as they stroll through the tourists streaming into lobby, both looking straight ahead.

“Well … “ Lexa starts matter of factly, “it appears that something short-circuited my brain last night, and it decided I didn’t need a coat to keep warm anymore.” Her tone making it sound like it’s an amusing, but still unsolved mystery she is investigating.

“Art appreciation can do that to a person …,” Clark replies evenly, as if the museum has claimed yet another hapless victim, but there is a hint of pride mixed into her voice as well.

Still looking ahead, Clarke leans in a bit and adds slowly:

“You know … I have something that belongs to you ….”

There’s something about the way she says it that sends an actual, physical shudder through Lexa’s body. Clarke must have felt it, because she chooses that moment to start running her thumb in little circles over the back of Lexa’s thumb, in a way that is both soothing and maddening.

“It’ll be in the back, on the desk …” Clarke says.

Lexa has to stop and close her eyes for a beat then to try and tame the smile that is threatening to completely take over her face, her cheek muscles sting with the effort, and her pupils are so blown out she is having trouble focusing her eyes.

Clarke takes a step ahead of her then and turns to face her, the briefest of self-satisfied grins flashing across her face as she sees that she has short-circuited Lexa’s brain yet again.

Clarke’s voice and expression shift mercifully then to a mask of casual indifference for the benefit of the passersby, as she adds:

“Do you want it?”

Clarke’s voice raises at the end to indicate a question, but Lexa can see from Clarke’s molten gaze that it’s really more of a challenge.

“I think you know the answer ….” Lexa teases back lightly, but her green eyes are already blazing at Clarke, her fingers itching to reach out as Clarke’s words tingle in her ears.

Clarke shoots her a dazzling smile and turns away, calling out “Come with me …” over her shoulder.

Lexa just follows helplessly, legs somehow still working, and she looks up through the ceiling at God or whoever is up there and sighs with a look of “give me the strength for this.”

********************

Then they are down the concrete hallway, through the empty workroom, and back in the office again. The door clicks shut behind Lexa and she clicks the button to lock it, just in case. Clarke slides open a desk drawer and pulls out Lexa’s tie, stepping back to her holding it out.

Lexa steps forward to take it, but her hand hesitates, “I almost feel like you should keep it.”

“Hmm … a trophy … ” Clarke muses, considering.

“More like a reminder ...” Lexa corrects her, her hand closing over Clarke’s, her fingers pushing the black silk into her palm. Sparks shoot between their fingers as their hands drop down together.

“I … think I’d rather have you remind me,” Clarke says, stepping forward.

And in a beat they are in each other’s arms, kissing desperately, like they haven’t seen each other in ages.

“We don’t have much time,” Lexa whispers in her ear.

“I’m ready now,” Clarke breathes back.

Lexa arches an eyebrow, “… We’d have to be very quiet Clarke, are you sure?”

Clarke can’t even fathom saying ‘no’ to that question. Everything in her is aching for Lexa. If she doesn’t get to feel her right now, she’s pretty sure she will lose her mind.

Then she’s undoing Lexa’s pants as she kisses her, opening her shirt, sliding her hands under it and pulling it off, until Lexa is standing there in nothing but her black underwear, a little out of breath, chest rising and falling.

Clarke steps back and looks Lexa straight in the eyes. She drops her jacket on the floor. Unbuttons her shirt. Slowly takes off her pants to show Lexa everything.

Her eyes scan Lexa’s body then, the muscles of her calves, her strong thighs, the black cotton boy shorts she’s wearing, the curve of her hips where they roll into her waist, the way her brown hair is softly cascading over her left shoulder today, and then to her burning green eyes.

It’s a lot to take in, and Clarke’s eyes flutter at the sight of her. In a flash Lexa has her pinned against the wall opposite the door. Clarke’s arms wrap around the back of Lexa’s shoulders and her legs wrap around Lexa’s hips as they buck into her, chasing Clarke’s release. Lexa’s left hand is in Clarke’s hair, her right hand under Clarke’s ass, only the pressure of her body against Clarke and the friction of Clarke’s back against the wall keeping her up. Lexa’s hand grazes the braid over Clarke’s ear and Clarke whispers, “The braids are for you …”

And that’s all it takes for both of them to unravel, Clarke’s open admission of having been thinking about Lexa, and the thrill of possesorship sending them both crashing over the edge.

A moment later, Lexa is between Clarke’s legs with her tongue, working away to clean up the mess she has made of Clarke, but it’s a Sisyphean task. She stands and leans into Clarke’s ear to whisper breathlessly, “Try to think of something not hot,” and then gets back down to it. But Clarke can’t think of anything but Lexa.

************

The lunch hour is ending as they finish getting dressed. Lexa can hear the voices of people behind the door trickling back into the workroom from lunch to resume their tasks.

“Will I get you in trouble, being back here?” Lexa asks with a little note of concern.

“Oh, they would never suspect,” Clarke says, shaking her head, “They’ll just think you’re an interested collector.”

Lexa sighs a little, and then looks at Clarke with a soft smile, “I am definitely interested, Clarke.”

At this, Clarke closes her eyes and Lexa can see that she has managed to short-circuit the woman’s brain a little too.

“You know how to reach me when you want me,” Lexa adds.

When. Not if.

It’s almost as if she knows that Clarke has had the note with Lexa’s number in her pocket all morning, where it has been burning a hole.

Lexa winks and walks out, spending the next 5 minutes lost in the back corridors of the museum in a dreamy haze before she finally finds her way back out onto the street. As the exit door closes behind her, she feels her phone buzz in her pocket.

Clarke: What are you doing tonight?

“You, hopefully?” Lexa thinks to herself, and then types back:

Lexa: My place is in walking distance of the museum if you want to come by after work. There are a ton of restaurants on my street if you want dinner.

Clarke: 6?

Lexa: Sure

And she texts Clarke the address.

Chapter Text

Clarke is standing in front of Lexa’s building at 5:55, feeling more than a little nervous.

How is this gonna go?

She knows next to nothing about this woman, this stranger really, who she has somehow already had sex with multiple times in the last 24 hours.

Are they now going to sit across a table from one another making awkward dinner conversation? Is Lexa going to ask her “getting to know you” questions when she has already seen Clarke splayed across a desk naked, writhing with desire?

Part of her just wants to just hop into a cab and run away now, to preserve the perfect memory of it all.

“Lexa …” She mumbles to herself, and just saying the name makes Clarke’s thighs clench.

No. She’s not leaving. Whatever this is, she wants it.

She presses the intercom button, and then is taking an elevator up to the 5th floor.

Standing in front of Lexa’s door, she feels the worries start to creep in again.

“Come on now,” she tells herself, “It’s dinner. You’ve had dinners before …”

But before she can continue, the door swings open and Lexa is there. She’s in a black button down, her green eyes sparkling, her teasing smile somehow radiant, and all the worries in Clarke’s head are immediately silenced.

Clarke takes a step inside, but doesn’t really see anything of the place, because she turns right around and pushes Lexa against the door to kiss her.

It’s a devastating kiss.

All need and hunger. She’d be a little embarrassed with herself if she could think about anything other than the way Lexa’s body feels pressed against hers, the way Lexa’s hands are pressed against the small of her back, pulling her in tighter.

Lexa spins them around and presses Clarke’s back against the door, kissing her way up her neck, delivering little bites along the underside of her jaw.

“So, dinner?” Clarke pants, her brain reeling and barely able to form words.

Lexa pulls back a little at that to face her, eyebrow raised questioningly, but her eyes are still soft and dreamy.

“Clarke …” she says a little stiffly, “Do you know that I can feel how hard your nipples are right now, through your bra, through your shirt, through my shirt?”

Clarke shifts against the door. Oh fuck. She hadn’t realized that until this moment. Her body has completely given her away yet again.

Lexa’s fingers trail down her neck.

“Can you feel how tense you are? These muscles right here?” she says, her fingers pressing soft little circles into the tender spot where Clarke’s neck and shoulder meet, making Clarke groan and her eyes flutter.

Then Lexa leans in so her lips are right next to Clarke’s ear and whispers, “And if I were to slide my hand into your pants right now, would what I find there tell me that what you want most in the world right now is dinner?”

Clarke’s eyes are closed at the thought of it, the warm wetness pooling between her legs.

And then Lexa moves in to get her answer.

Clarke’s legs are practically shaking as Lexa unhooks the button of her pants, as her hand slides down. She feels the backs of Lexa’s knuckles teasing against the soft fabric of her soaked underwear, feels Lexa’s fingers tracing along the seam where they meet her thigh. She feels the tip of Lexa’s finger dip under the soft fabric, creating just enough space for her to feel the warm sticky mess of her own desire sliding against herself as Lexa’s finger runs along the inside edge.

And then she feels Lexa’s fingers gently slide between her soft folds to confirm what they both already knew.

******************

“So, are you always this good at getting pretty girls to kiss you?” Clarke teases, wiggling her eyebrows at Lexa and smugly taking a very satisfying bite of cheesecake.

She’s wrapped in a sheet across from Lexa, takeout containers splayed out on the bed between them.

“Ok, first off,” Lexa is wearing a mask of feigned disapproval now that is completely undercut by the twinkle in her eye, “I’m not out there …” her fork does a little twirl of a gesture to the world outside her apartment … “kissing ‘girls’.”

“And second, calling you ‘pretty’ is such an absurd understatement that the police might just break in here and throw you in jail for life.”

“Would you come visit me?” Clarke smiles back at her, taking another bite.

“Nope.”

Clarke frowns.

“I’d break you out and we’d go on the run.”

“Where would we go?” Clarke is smiling again.

“Well …” Lexa starts thoughtfully, “We’d probably have to join the underworld to survive. I could probably do day labor … get paid under the table. And maybe we could find a drug kingpin with an art collection you could consult for.”

“I have other skills you know,” Clarke raises an eyebrow suggestively.

“Oh I’m well aware …,” the corner of Lexa’s mouth curves into a smile, but then her forehead crinkles in annoyance at the idea, “… but I’m giving up my whole life for you Clarke. The least you can do is let me have you all to myself.”

“Jesus Lexa … not that,” Clarke laughs, and kicks at Lexa under the sheet.

“We could become art thieves,” Clarke teases.

“Hmm … like Oceans 8,” Lexa considers.

“I’d get to see you in that tux a lot more … ” Clarke says, grinning into her next bite at that idea.

“Lots of black catsuits as well …” Lexa mumbles as she chews.

“Ok, this is starting to sound better than my actual life. When do we get to start this life of crime?”

Lexa leans over to trail her fingers down Clarke’s smooth calves.

“We already have.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Clarke pulls open the door of her favorite diner for her standing brunch appointment with her friends.

She is already feeling a creeping sense of dread.

She has been so wildly impulsive over the last few days. Having sex with a stranger she just met, having sex in the office, the ferocious wanting she feels whenever Lexa is nearby. It is all very out of character for Clarke. And she is definitely not ready to talk about any part of it. Not ready to lay it out in the harsh light of day under the scrutinizing gaze of her friends. Not when she herself has barely had time to process the last 48 hours.

“You have the right to remain silent,” she tells to herself, steeling herself for what’s ahead.

She spots Raven and Octavia already at a table in the back, laughing as they try to steal forkfuls of pancakes off each other’s plates.

“Hey you!” Raven chirps as Clarke plops down opposite them in the booth.

“Hey …” Clarke says back, as nonchalantly as humanly possible.

“You’re late,” Octavia chides, looking at Clarke with eyes that are way too perceptive, and that make Clarke want to sink through the floor.

“Yeah …” Clarke starts again.

Raven is now looking at her more carefully too.

“Is that a hickey on your neck?!?” Raven says through a mouthful of pancake, nodding at the mark that Clarke had covered with makeup this morning and was 1000% certain would be completely hidden by her collar.

“Umm ………. yeah … I’m … seeing someone? I guess?”

The words feel strange, even to her own ears.

Raven’s chewing slows.

“Since when?!” Octavia barks out, incredulous.

“Since … two days ago? … I guess?”

Raven and Octavia exchange a look.

“Who?” Raven asks, her face pinched, her mind flipping wildly through the list of names of every single person Clarke knows or has ever mentioned.

“Lexa … something?” She says, grabbing her napkin and dabbing it at a non-existent speck of dust on the table that requires all of her attention right now.

“Bitch, is her last name Something??” Raven pushes further, the little name cards she has been flitting through in her mind exploding like confetti.

“No … I … don’t know …” Now something about the salt shaker requires immediate repositioning.

“Can I get you something to drink?” A chipper waiter magically appears at the table.

“Mimosa please” Clarke says, looking at him desperately and blinking out the code for SOS, wondering if this is one of those establishments where you can tip off the servers when someone is harassing you and the employees will sneak you out through the kitchen so you can make your escape.

The waiter just nods and disappears, oblivious to Clarke’s distress.

“Two days ago …” Octavia muses. Clarke can see the wheels in her friend’s mind turning and she wants more that anything for them to grind to a halt.

Just thinking about any part of the last two days will send her brain spiraling down a rabbit hole of memories which her expressions (which she is already trying real hard to suppress) will no doubt broadcast loud and clear to her friends.

“I alone am expressionless, like an infant before it can smile …” Clarke thinks to herself, a line the from the Tao te Ching she heard in that meditation workshop she took last year. She reaches deep within herself to school her features into an expressionless mask.

“You met someone at the museum party?” Octavia continues.

Clarke’s face twitches in a way that is not lost on her audience.

“You fucked someone at the party!?!” Raven throws out, like they are playing the world’s most awkward game of Pictionary and Clarke’s face is the drawing board.

She says nothing.

“Who the fuck are you, and where is Clarke?” Octavia’s voice is getting higher now.

“I … don’t know …” Clarke mumbles.

“Wait, so you met Lexa Something at a party two days ago and had sex with her that night, at the party …” Raven’s brain is trying hard to fit the pieces of this new information into her overall understanding of Clarke, but these new puzzle pieces are all smooth edges and are a totally different color than the rest.

“And yesterday …” Clarke says quietly, for no reason at all, somehow unable to stop herself.

Oh shit. Here they come … Clarke’s memories of being pushed up against Lexa’s door, and what she had whispered into Clarke’s ear about her not actually wanting to go to dinner.

“So … you like her?” Octavia’s tone is more even now as she takes another bite of pancake.

Raven takes a sip of water and nods approvingly at the question. This attempt to whittle down the edges of this new information so that it will lock into place cleanly and comprehensibly with the rest of their understanding of Clarke.

But Clarke seems stuck on the question.

‘Like’ her?

No, she thinks, doing a little involuntary head shake that she doesn’t realize she’s doing.

That’s not right.

Clarke likes pizza. Likes board games. Likes it when she gets to sleep in a half hour later in the morning.

She has already started an imaginary life of crime with Lexa. What she feels is most definitely not liking.

“Love … her?” Clarke hears herself say out loud, like a god damn moron, just before the table explodes.

Octavia is standing now, coughing desperately, trying to dislodge the bite of pancake that’s stuck in her throat. A bar tender is running over to start the Heimlich maneuver. Raven is also coughing, the table now drenched with the sip of water she spit out. Clarke feels her insides wriggling like the straw wrapper that’s currently wet and worming on the table.

Clarke just sighs and looks up at the ceiling as her own words sink into her brain. Then she thinks about how disappointed her meditation instructor would be at her complete lack of chill. While her friends asphyxiate in front of her.

“What the actual fuck Clarke?” Clarke is not sure if one of her friends said that, or if she was just thinking it to herself so hard that it just seems like someone said it.

The two women are back in their seats across from her now, catching their breathe, looking at each other a little bewildered. The server dries the table and hands Clarke her mimosa.

Clarke drinks all of it immediately.

And no, she won’t be ordering anything else.

She folds her hands on the now clean, cool surface of the table and looks at her fingers, trying to slow her breathing.

This is fine.

“Ok …” Octavia starts again, delicately, “so … you love her?”

Clarke’s forehead wrinkles as she’s realizing that she can’t deny this point blank, yes / no question.

She’s shrugging now?!

Her confused face looks to Octavia, then to Raven, but they just give her the same confused look right back.

“She’s … I … don’t know how to explain it. She’s smart, and funny, and …”

Don’t. Mention. The sex.

Clarke closes her eyes.

“I don’t know … Like everything just clicks. Like … I just know her. She has this sort of power over me ...”

“Like a cult?” Raven adds unhelpfully, “Like Scientology?”

Deep breaths. Deep. Breaths.

Every part of Clarke’s body is just begging her mouth to shut up.

“Look … I just … need her.”

There. Simple.

And true???

Raven and Octavia look at each other again.

They have never heard Clarke talk like this before. About anyone. Ever.

And this version of Clarke seems well and truly thrown off her game.

But truth be told, at this moment, Clarke doesn’t really recognize herself either, this shambles of her former self she is being right now.

Raven, in particular, is especially weirded out by this alternate reality version of the friend she has known for years.

“Can we meet Scientology?” Raven asks gently.

Clarke fucking hates that nickname. But given the recent string of brain malfunctions she has just experienced, she needs to speak carefully here, and choose her battles. And right now, the biggest threat is her friends meeting Lexa and either scaring her away with their regular shenanigans, or them scaring Lexa away with this new overprotectiveness of Clarke that is emerging given her apparently diminished mental capacities, or them scaring Lexa away by repeating a single. fucking. word. of anything Clarke has just said.

“I … don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Cults make people distance themselves from the people who care about them …” Raven mutters.

God. Fucking. Dammit. Raven. Shut up about the cult thing!

Clarke blows out a deep breath.

Octavia reaches across the table and puts her hand on Clarke’s, “Hey, we love you. We just want to make sure that Scient …”

Don’t.

“… that Lexa is a good person. That she’s good for you. That’s all. That you’re safe with her.”

“And that she’s safe with you …” Raven mumbles.

Clarke’s eyes widen in self-awareness at that idea, and then narrow - shooting daggers at Raven in a way that makes her friend lean back in her seat, and that isn’t especially helpful in conveying the idea that Clarke is harmless.

Another deep breath.

“Ok brain,” Clarke thinks to herself, “let’s show them that we’re not crazy. That everything is fine. Because everything is fine. Everything is good. Say things normal people say.”

“I just think it’s too early for that. Look, this is all brand new …”

True.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night and emotions are running high ...”

Also true, but mostly because she was thinking about Lexa.

“… it’s just too early to start introducing people.”

Yes. Good job Clarke’s brain. Use their own “too soon” logic against them.

“What if we just saw her … like, from afar …” Octavia asks, with totally infuriating reasonableness, saying exactly what Clarke would say if their roles were reversed, “Can we just see her?”

“Can anyone but you see her?” Raven gets a swift kick from Octavia under the table.

Good job Octavia.

*****************

When brunch is over and Clarke leaves the diner, she pulls out her day planner and scans it for her next commitment.

There, under “brunch” is the little note she wrote to herself this morning.

It says:

Tell them nothing.

With “nothing” bolded and underlined twice.

Chapter Text

The deal they made was that O and Raven can be at the coffee shop across the street from the bar where Clarke and Lexa are meeting to have drinks the next evening. The coffee shop with the big front window.

They may not enter the bar or be outside the bar for any reason, nor are they allowed to make contact with Lexa in any way, or have anyone else do so on their behalf until they have Clarke’s permission to do so someday way off in the future.

When that night rolls around, they see Clarke walking down the street arm in arm with Lexa.

Even from across the street, they can see that Clarke is being her normal, confident, charming self. And the cool, collected woman beside her is charming her right back, making her laugh.

Clarke looks happier than they have ever seen her.

Everything about them just seems to fit together, like they are perfectly in sync.

And there’s no mistaking the looks that are passing back and forth between Clarke and Lexa, not even from across the street.

It’s love.

*****************

After Lexa and Clarke order their drinks at the bar and settle into their little booth, Lexa tugs on Clarke’s sleeve and shoots her a questioning look.

“Clarke … What’s wrong?”

“It’s … very embarrassing …” Clarke says, her thumb picking at the lip of her glass as a little memory flashes before her eyes of the most mortifying brunch of her life.

Something she now refers to privately as “Brunch PTSD”.

But Lexa’s green eyes are still looking at her patiently.

“My friends, they are …”

Insane.

“… protective.”

She continues.

“I mentioned you to them and they … they wanted to meet you. The compromise was that they came to the coffee shop across the street … to see us walk in together.”

“Ah ...” Lexa smiles, amused, “a stakeout.”

“Yeah …” Clarke’s phone interrupts her then with two sharp pings in rapid succession.

It's 2 texts:

Octavia: We get it

Raven: Makes sense

Clarke smiles down at her phone. Relieved.

Lexa lifts her chin at Clarke, “Show me?”

Clarke hands over her phone and Lexa breaks into a grin reading it, hands it back.

“We passed the test,” Lexa says slyly.

And fuck, Clarke likes hearing Lexa say “we” in reference to the two of them together.

Lexa looks at Clarke then, her eyes narrowing in that inspecting way that seems to see right through her.

And then the look softens, Lexa’s head leans over a bit toward her shoulder, in a way that makes Clarke’s heart flutter.

“Did you tell them that you’re in love with me?”

The way she says it, the “love” part isn’t the question, the question is only whether Clarke told them or not.

But the thing is, after PTSD Brunch, Clarke cannot be rattled on this topic.

The idea of loving Lexa has already been marinating in her brain for at least 24 hours, if not longer somehow. And honestly, after she said it out loud at brunch, that idea just became the blindingly obvious truth. It feels like it had just always been true, and when she met Lexa that truth then became perceptible to her.

Chin up, the slightest curves of a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, her eyes sparkling with that knowing look, she looks Lexa dead in the eye and takes a sip of her drink.

When she sets down her glass, Lexa is leaning in to kiss her, her fingers tangling in Clarke’s hair at the back of her neck as their lips press softly but deliberately against each other.

Lexa is not afraid of who Clarke is, her passion, her heart.

Those are the things Lexa loves about Clarke.

THE EN:D