#clexaweek23

[talktomeinclexa]

Alpha Your Way Into My Heart

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Status: WIP

Summary: One moment of distraction is all it takes for Clarke to accidentally send a text admitting how much Lexa’s scent affects her to the wrong addressee. Lexa. Her Alpha roommate on the cusp of her rut. The situation would be only slightly mortifying and complicated if Clarke wasn’t also an Alpha. In a world where biology and prejudices often go hand-in-hand, will the two women get their happy ending?

***

Chapter 7: Caught Red-Handed

Despite having woken up early only to find the lecture hall closed and her first lesson of the day canceled, Lexa couldn’t help but smile. Clarke started late that day, and they would have more time to cuddle before trivial matters like her perfect attendance record forced Lexa out of her arms for the second time that day.

She jumped over the first step of the second flight of stairs, which creaked any time someone pressed a toe on it. Hopefully, the super would fix it before they graduated.

The building she and Clarke had moved in at the beginning of the new school year didn’t look like much from the outside, but the apartments were surprisingly homey, and it had the advantage of being only a few minutes away from campus on foot. Luckily, it had been easy to convince their parents that staying together so they could afford the rent made sense since their cohabitation during sophomore year had gone well.

Lexa tiptoed inside the apartment, clenching her keys to prevent them from jiggling in case Clarke had fallen back to sleep. She changed back into lounging clothes in the bathroom and nudged the bedroom door open, only to freeze in the doorway, her eyes bulging out in surprise.

Clarke lay atop the blanket, with her head tilted back into the pillow and her throat exposed. She had shed her sleeping boy shorts to be more comfortable, and the sight of her hand between her pale thighs elicited fireworks in Lexa’s mind and a sudden rush of blood to another area. Until she noticed the toy protruding from her folds.

“Lexa,” Clarke squeaked, alerted by Lexa’s pheromones. She pulled the toy out of herself so fast it couldn’t have been pleasant and reflexively tried to hide under the blanket. Only it was trapped under her body, and she only managed to hide her lower half. “What… I thought you had classes?”

“The first one has been canceled. I don’t have to go back till ten.” Lexa’s voice sounded husky even to her own ears. She cleared her throat before awkwardly saying, “Do you want some privacy?”

The blush spreading on Clarke’s cheeks had more to do with embarrassment than pleasure. Lexa should have known not to count her out too quickly, though. With a smirk, she coyly removed the corner of the blanket hiding her body.

“Or you could join me.”

Keep reading on Ao3

[butmakeitgayblog]

Medusa and the Blind Woman

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come to me, my love

Across fields full of lilies at night

The stars shining overhead 

Are witnesses to our love 

As bright as the sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Coming sorta soon to an AO3 tab near you)

She crashes in on an easterly wave. 

One that threatens the bare spindles of a long dead port. The wind bites at stilts gnarled by sea salt and the negligence of time, threads of frayed twine whipping in retaliating lashes against the onslaught versus sturdy grecian wood. 

Lexa watches from on high, eyes on mastheads and white sails in the distance when she takes a moment to admire her only non-hissing companion, the sea. She stands an eagle in her nest of serpentine thorns, as the speck of a sailor draws near from the horizon, boat marching on the back of winds that carry it onward. The ocean howls of intruders long before they arrive, the swishing churn of embattled rip tides announcing the threat among rustled gusts and spits of algae foam. 

It's all become so painfully predictable. 

Lexa sighs at the sight of them marching on toward her fortress. 

A sinking weight floods her stomach, weary resignation presses heavy against her throat.

The grip of her spade tightens as she reminds herself they mean nothing to her morning, to her schedule, that must be kept. What with the chill slipping through the cracks of a waning afternoon sun setting quick on the intruder's horizon. 

She doesn't bother to watch their approach further, instead keeping her thoughts to steady hands that churn earth and crumble stone, driving her blade against charcoal and turning it to soot. She checks her moorings to the west and fells a few fresh saplings for kindling. Nuisances in that particular corner of her nest of thorns, ones she's been waging a losing battle with for ages.

Her thoughts scatter like the seed and silt that pour through the calloused cracks of her fingers, wondering—

A sharp whine fills the air below, followed by a screech and crash of splintering wood. A thunderous boom echoes along the rockside loud enough to shake the very gravel under her feet followed by a full chested bellow.

"Gods damn it all!"

Lexa straightens from her work at the cry of anger, loud enough to have her dropping her tools where she stands. Loud enough to send a shiver across her scalp that hisses and spits its welcome in return. 

She slips past brambles and thickets of overgrowth. Moves between boulders and shrugging aside the hang of vine, winding her way to the edge of her oasis. The sweet scent of honeysuckle mixes with sea water as she moves close to the rocky ledge of the cliff shore. 

Careful to stay hidden, tucked neatly in the shadows, she lifts a few leaves on the tips of her finger to see her would be… captors…

Or. Captor.

The waters are littered with floating bits of dock and warped wood, now useless and broken into a thousand tiny shards that bob their way back out into the wild. 

In its place is a boat. 

A rather meager boat, Lexa notes to herself at the feel of a nose nudging her cheek. A vessel of one lonely single seat, barely a rod for a mast, with two matching oars on each side. 

The very sight of its paltry build makes her frown. Her lips drop open shock as she looks past the debris of the wreckage to the fleeing white sails receding into the burgeoning twilight distance. 

Another screeched caw from a circling bird above makes Lexa jump, ignoring the snap and hiss in her ear at the same time the air fills with a strained, "Oh shut up!"

Well.

This is certainly not what she had expected. 

Because…

She's blonde. 

Her apparent assassin is… blonde.

And decidedly less muscular than she'd become accustomed to. Not the type bearing rippling muscles, or the thuggish brawn born of beating one's own chest.

This assassin is downright… dainty. 

Dressed in a simple white shift in place of the bronze and pounded silver chest plate that Lexa is used to, stands a woman with sun laden ribbons of spun gold hair, bare of the usual swords and shield expected of such a journey and instead grasping a rather pathetic looking stick. Her face is cloaked in a curtain of wispy strands of gold, darkened by sea spray and the looming cliffs above as she fiddles with a satchel tied to her hip. She tussles with the strings, fingers awkward as she struggles to keep hold of the long spindle stick while fighting a losing battle with a knot that ignores her angered muttering. 

Lexa watches from the safety of the shadow's edge as the intruder goes about her various tasks. She watches her reach out and smack the end of the stick in her hand along the ground in sweeping thunks. Watches her do a slow sort of pirouette, a kind of turn here and there as she taps each stone and rock around her in a series of dull clicks. Her steps seem timid, calculated in the way they shuffle and pause and then go again, as her head twists slightly at every creak of the trees that bend toward the skyline, every crash of the tide, every chirp of a bird that follows. 

She watches the woman zigzag a line away from the wreckage of splintered wood and sails, weaving her way in measured footsteps and the incessant tapping of her stick. 

Lexa glances toward the two beady eyes staring at her and gives an equally mystified shrug. 

It's only when she comes close, dangerously close to the ridge cut in the cliff face that leads to the well worn path inland that Lexa finally finds her voice. 

"Who are you?"

The peculiar tapping stops on the sharp cut of a startled scream. "Hades in hell!" 

The hand not brandishing the stick clutches at her chest as she takes a half spin, the stick coming up in a wild arch like a sword apparently ready to slice the air in battle. 

Lexa frowns from the safety of her shadowed nook at the ridiculous display below. "If you wish to keep your life, turn back. Now."

The woman makes another half turn in her direction, face lifted and eyes screwed shut. "Where are you? This place is like an amphitheater."

"Your search is in vain! I said—"

"Give me a left or right, lady," she cuts her off impatiently, the stick shaking but still held vaguely menacingly aloft. "Clap or something so I at least know I'm not talking to a tree."

"Leave," Lexa booms with all the might of her weary bones, feeling her words reverberate against the stone embankment and echo into her chest. Power courses through her as she watches her idiotic, would-be killer startle and stumble back… only to right herself and throw her hands up in a huff. 

"Fine! I'll just shout at whatever, since apparently that's what you do here!" The stranger slams the stick down on its point, burying it deep into the sand and leans her weight against it, wobbling only slightly with a heaving sigh. "Listen. Just relax a minute and listen to me."

Only the crashing waves and panting drags of her breath echoes in the silence.

"Alright," she says as Lexa seethes and looks on. "My name is Clarke. I'm not… one hundred percent sure where I am, but if I am where I should be, I need you to know that I was sent here by my people, okay? I didn't choose to be here—"

"That does not matter!"

"I know that!" this woman, this Clarke, snaps right back. "I know you're pissed, you've made that abundantly clear, but what I'm saying is, whatever you think I'm here to do, believe me when I say, I am not."

"I think you're here to kill me," Lexa says in all but a growl.

Clarke throws the arm she's not leaning on into the air. "Then it's a wonderful thing we're having this chat, because I'm not."

Lexa's jaw aches with how hard she grits her teeth at the snark soaked rebuttal. "Then what are you here for?"

"I already said I didn't have a choice. I was just shipped off here and told to—." Lexa watches the woman swallow down the rest of her words, blonde hair swaying with the shake of her head. "Look, it doesn't matter what I was told to do. I'm not interested in fighting anyone else's battles right now. All I plan to do is squat here for a few weeks, work on my tan, fix my gods forsaken boat, and get out of your hair… Or uh, not your— The, with the— I'm assuming, if you are— If you're —"

"Why shouldn't I strike you down where you stand?" Lexa calls over the pathetic bumbling of the woman below. "I stay to the shadows for your safety, grace you with an opportunity to flee for your life. Why should I not step forward and let you see the face of your end?"

All Clarke does is snort. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Fingernails digging into the weathered bark of the tree does nothing to soothe the surge of anger that rises in Lexa's chest. She watches as the stranger seems to sigh to herself. The stick gets yanked from where it'd been buried in the sand and shook off.

And then the damn tapping starts again.

"What is that you are doing?" Lexa calls in a huff.

The woman flops a careless hand in her general direction as she calls back, "Playing a real fun game called trying to not break my neck. You can't tell?" and taps the stick against a hip sized boulder along its side and up the top, and then moves on to it's sister to the right in a few series of clicks. 

Lexa watches her repeat this process several times over, wandering in short bursts until finding another object of interest before starting the process all over. She watches that face turn up, eyes still shut tight, pausing and leaning and listening to every roll of the waves, every rustle of wind, every minute chirp of birds.

It's only when a head butts her temple and black beady eyes slip closed and stay closed, when the tip of Clarke's stick finds the gnarled roots of an upended tree and the woman chances a feel with her hands along the rough bark that it all finally makes sense.

"You're blind."

She says it more to herself than anyone, long since used to the lack of audience that can talk back, but the astute observation still earns her laugh. One topped with a tired smile from that unseeing face as she eases down onto the overturned tree for a rest. 

"Whew. Nothin' gets past you."

[mozz14]

Survivor moodboard dimensions fixed!

Worked out what I was doing wrong (ok, I didn't, but the very talented @thecrimsonknight who made it did

Chapter 7 is up (but you know that already)

This is one of my Clexaweek23 entries (final chapter back from my legendary beta Shalli yesterday). Even better, tonight I'll be uploading my Clexaweek24 submission!

Clexa forever!

[thecrimsonknight]

"Let's runaway, somewhere we don't have to hide."

Clexaweek23: Day 2- Secret Relationship

[femininenachos]

I’ve Got News For You

(Or the 80s rival TV newscasters AU no one asked for…)

It’s 1987, and Lexa Woods is a serious, austere news anchor, always delivering the news with smooth, measured gravitas. Nicknamed “the perfumed menace” she’s renowned for being a tough and exacting interviewer, a household name with the plaudits to back it up. Meanwhile, Clarke Griffin is a plucky reporter on the ground with a megawatt smile and disarming manner, who’s carved a niche for herself with frivolous, crowd-pleasing fluff pieces and lighthearted human-interest/animal segments. Lexa doesn’t hide her disdain for the rival outlet’s content and tone, yet it consistently beats her own channel in the ratings, to her supreme annoyance.

So she’s furious and indignant when station manager Indra tells her they’re poaching Clarke from their competitor.

“I won a Peabody for my coverage of the opioid crisis in Mount Weather!”

Lexa’s rant gathers steam.

“We’re a respected news source. This,” she gestures at the freeze frame of Clarke reporting from a feline beauty pageant, “is not news.”

Lexa stabs a finger in the air, oblivious to Indra’s subtle eye roll.

“I won’t stand here and watch my reputation for high-minded broadcast journalism be washed down the drain. I’ll walk.”

She also learns they plan to bring in a male anchorman, some eye candy for the housewives. The focus groups find Lexa too severe and haughty.

“I’m the anchor. No one reads the news but me.”

“Well,” Indra tells her firmly. “Things have to change or there won’t be a show to anchor. Would you prefer they take us off the air entirely and replace us with compilations of idiotic home video mishaps? They’re cheap and everybody loves them.” (The “unlike you” goes unsaid). “I’ve heard grumblings from the board.”

Lexa stares, aghast at the notion.

It takes a lot of placating to calm her down, vague promises of a primetime special on a hard-hitting topic of her choosing. 

When she’s introduced to Clarke the following week, Lexa is frosty, aloof, giving the cold shoulder. Later that day, they butt heads during a pitch meeting. Lexa dismisses Clarke’s ideas, leaving her fuming, and everyone else stepping on eggshells.

Record scratch cut to Lexa’s dressing room...

Clarke kisses her hard, nipping sharply at Lexa’s bottom lip, an undercurrent of rebuke in her voice when she tells Lexa, “You could dial it down a notch, you know? For someone who wants to get under my skirt, you could stand to be a lot nicer.”

Lexa soothes Clarke by trailing kisses along her jaw to that spot behind her ear that makes her knees buckle slightly. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

She sucks a kiss at the top of Clarke’s neck. The pressure light, not enough to leave a mark, conscious of how that might reflect poorly on Clarke, professionally speaking. Half the station already thinks she’s a ditzy airhead (a false impression that Lexa did nothing to discourage, she acknowledges to herself with a tiny stab of guilt), and a visible hickey would only provide more fodder for snide gossip.

“Anya was in the room and I overcompensated. She’s too savvy not to be suspicious of me suddenly singing your praises.”

“Oh, yeah?” Clarke hoists an eyebrow as she leans back, out of range of Lexa’s roving mouth. “Been trash talking me to your producer?”

Lexa‘s throat bobs. “I… might have expressed some strong reservations about the new editorial direction.” For some reason her mouth keeps moving and words, the wrong ones, keep spilling forth, as though she isn’t actually someone who’s built a storied career on being an excellent communicator. “I’m just not convinced by the pivot from hard news to a magazine format, or that our two styles will successfully mesh.”

Her heart plummets as Clarke pulls away and starts to tuck in her blouse. “Well, you definitely won’t be meshing with me now.”

“Clarke, wait. Come on, can’t we talk—”

“No. You’re such an ass, Lexa. Beautiful, sexy beyond belief, but an ass all the same.” Clarke strides across the room, ignoring Lexa’s pleas, and lays her hand on the doorknob. Pauses to look over her shoulder, not fully able to mask the hurt and betrayal in her expression. “Let’s just do one another a favour and stay out of each other’s way, alright? And a word of warning: don’t try to get me fired. I will lawyer up and sue this station into oblivion.”

“I—”

Lexa stares at the empty doorway, bewildered at how a sizzling secret makeout session went so far off the rails so quickly, and left wondering how she can possibly repair the damage.

[lostwithoutclexa]

Clexaweek23 Day 7 - Free Day

✨Soft cuddles ✨

[aphrodites-law]

THE LOST QUEEN UPDATE ➼ Queen Clarke is forced to flee into the woods after a coup dethrones her. When she comes out on the other side, four hundred years have passed without her aging a day. For two years she adapts as best as she can to the modern world, but everything changes when she wanders into a museum exhibition on herself and meets the tour guide infatuated with the Lost Queen.

[commanderlexaofthegrounders]

@clexaweekofficial 23 - Day 6: Workplace Romance

ᗷᑌIᒪᗪ ᗩ ᕼOᗰE ᗯITᕼ ᗰE.

Architect Clarke Griffin finally has an opportunity to shine in a joint construction project with her design.  She has worked really hard to keep the company her father left her afloat and this construction is the result of her hard work paying off.

There is only one problem, though.

Civil engineer Lexa Woods is working on the same construction.

Clarke cannot deal with Lexa’s attitude and Lexa is already done with Clarke’s antics. They have been at odds since the first day they met and this is no exception. However, this project needs to be completed successfully and to make it happen both will have to reach a middle point.

Maybe in this journey, they will realize that together they could build not just a beautiful plaza, but a home.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 beta by dreamsaremywords

[iwabwy]

clexaweek23 day 5 - friends or foes?

clexa as rival pokémon trainers

[unchartedcloud]

Killing Strangers - Clexaweek 2023 Edition

Day 6: Workplace Romance

John Wick/Modern Assassins AU

TW: Gun violence, physical violence, minor character death (enemies)

Rating: M

"You working tonight?"

The question is in Russian – the northern dialect, to be exact – and she doesn't have to look up to know who asked it. She spotted Rafe at the taps as soon as she walked in, the only person she cared to ensure was here. His bald head gleams in one sickly yellow light fixture, and he scratches his perpetual five o'clock shadow as he regards her, waiting for an answer.

His jaw tenses as she reaches into her suit jacket. The Glock is comfortable, familiar in her hand, and she lays it on the bar with far more nonchalance than any normal person should. Grey eyes flick from her face to the gunmetal and back again, but before he can protest Lexa has withdrawn a handful of gold coins from her pocket. She stacks them – one, two, three – one on top of the other on the bar, closer to him than the gun is, and his shoulders deflate with a heavy sigh.

"Fuck," he breathes, and reaches out a hand to scoop them up.

No one else reacts to the gun.

"The usual?" Rafe asks, already pulling a bottle of Glenfarclas off the shelf.

"Triple," Lexa answers. The accent drops so easily from her tongue she hardly notices the switch. "Please."

He grunts his acknowledgement and dumps half a rock's glass worth of whisky into a cup. Without a second look at the Glock, he drops the cup in front of her and turns to help another customer.

A customer who turns out to be small man in a very wrinkled tweed blazer and a fedora, in fact – who happens to be talking to Clarke Griffin.

Lexa takes a long pull of her drink and shakes her head. How is this woman everywhere?

Read on Ao3.

[kpforpresident]

Clexaweek Day 6: workplace romance 🌱

Plant shop AU. Or, an AU of an AU. 

collab with @thecrimsonknight, the link to the beautiful moodboard that they made is here.

It had been raining all day. Fat streams of rainwater poured off of the dark green eve that sagged defeatedly under the sheer weight of rain, the tinny plink plink plink of drops hitting the metallic gutter echoing under the door frame as they soared through the humid mid-July air. Puddles splashed merrily under harried car wheels as they rushed by the street corner where Lexa’s cozy shop sat, hunched figures under black umbrellas milling about the street corners as people hastily tried to get from their point A to point B relatively dry. A city that sat nestled in the PNW, Polis was no stranger to wet, gray days or foggy cool mornings. However, this summer had been particularly rainy, long weather forecasts of dreary little clouds sitting like sullen soldiers on Lexa’s weather app no matter how often she refreshed and hoped for a crack of sunshine in the little line of weather emojis. 

Lexa fidgeted impatiently on her stool, hands clasping and unclasping in front of her and she fought the urge to reach out and straighten the spool of twine that sat primly next to her favorite gardening shears. Chancing one more glance at the slim gold watch that sat clasped around her left wrist, she sighed as she gave up and straightened from her boredom-induced slump, feeling her spine pop slightly as she unfolded from the rickety little stool to standing. 

This chick has two more minutes, and then I’m locking the door and going home to watch trash TV and eat dollar ramen noodles, Lexa thought absentmindedly as she drummed her fingers on the battered workbench, watching the secondhand slowly tick towards 4:02. This is the last fucking time you hire one of Raven’s friends- just because she’s Anya’s girlfriend doesn’t mean that you have to let this weird ass best friend nepotism stand- remember what happened when you hired Octavia’s brother to build shelving? That was an entire shitshow… Lexa snarked internally as she wandered through the rows of cut flowers, straightening a wilting tulip as her eyes darted against her will again towards the door and the unrelenting deluge outside. Blurry figures continued to rush by, heads toward the ground, shoulders hunched as they all moved in a coordinated, practiced dance borne of many, many rainy days. 

A whole sixty seconds goes by as she stares silently at the thin hand, finally letting her mouth slip into a frown when her expectant gaze darts towards the door to see….no one. Lexa finally let her shoulders slump minutely, hands dropping from where she had been fussing with an all-green bouquet arrangement. Turning the trimmed piece of eucalyptus over and over in her fingers, Lexa turned to the back of the shop and prepared to grab her coat and trudge home once again, mentally preparing for the soggy walk three blocks home to her small albeit cozy apartment. 

As she twisted the eucalyptus branch over again in her fingers, she heard the cheery tinker of her door chime, followed by the door flinging open. Lexa was turning around, warm customer service smile plastered onto her face as the human embodiment of a tsunami bounded through the glass door. 

Lexa felt the smile fall in abject horror off of her stunned face as the same whirlwind promptly swept into the shop and managed to place their foot perfectly into a plate-sized puddle just beside the door mat, arms and legs pinwheeling spectacularly as her feet skidded out from under her. 

She hit the ground with a loud whump, followed by a soft oof as the girl sat up slowly, painfully. Colorful swear words poured from her lips unceasingly as Lexa watched her flex various body parts with increasing confidence among finding the movements absent of pain, clearly going through an inventory of all of her working limbs post- tumble.  

Lexa crouched down hesitantly, trying her best to gather the pile of cream-colored papers that had flown from her hands like feathers from a split pillow as the stranger had crashed to the floor of her shop. Sheath of papers finally gathered into a messy stack, Lexa looked up, mouth opening involuntarily as she accidentally locked gazes with the bluest set of eyes she’d ever encountered. 

“I- you- you wouldn’t happen to be Clarke, would you?” Lexa managed to croak out after a long moment, where the stranger- Clarke- slowly staggered to her feet with a small wince, free hand rubbing where her hip had made contact with the concrete floor as she nodded in confirmation. Clarke’s other hand tentatively extended to take the stack of what Lexa now realized were art sketches, a small smile breaking across her face like the sun after a rainstorm as their fingers brushed slightly. Lexa absently mirrored her expression, eyes widening slightly as she did so. She flexed her hand as she retreated to behind the workbench, managing to settle onto her stool without looking like too much of a dunce. 

Raven, in typical menace fashion, had neglected to mention that her artist friend that Lexa had hired to paint a mural on the blank back wall of her studio, was shockingly, jaw droppingly attractive. Not that Lexa should’ve been surprised. Raven, with her warm brown eyes, flawless skin, and shimmering black hair, could’ve walked straight out of a playboy version of a Mechanics Monthly, even covered in car oil and grease as she usually was when she came home from work from the small shop she owned with Lincoln just outside of Polis. Lincoln’s fiance Octavia was similarly stunning, with sharp cheekbones and a muscular figure, dark eyes cunning and softened by a perfect pouting mouth. Lincoln clearly felt similarly, his gaze becoming soft and dreamy when Octavia would stride into the shop in her free time, a gym bag slung over her shoulder on her way home from the boxing studio that she co-owned with Anya. 

Lexa shouldn’t have been shocked that Clarke looked like a Botachelli angel, curves enclosed perfectly in a dark wash pair of jeans, a faded t-shirt slouching perfectly on her shorter frame, but still she floundered for words as the bright cerulean gaze met hers expectantly, Clarke hobbling forward to spread her cache of doodles across Lexa’s desk. Lexa tried not to drool obnoxiously as a pair of worn Doc Martens came into view at the bottom of her field of vision. 

Sappho, give me strength, Lexa thinks frantically, heart beating a tempo against her ribcage as her fingers tap the wooden desk nonsensically, desperately, as a wave of sweet perfume engulfs her when Clarke shifts slightly to tuck a graphite pencil behind her ear, shimmering waves of blonde hair tumbling out from a harried braid. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Clarke blurts out apologetically, tracing her finger over a smudge of charcoal in the lower corner of the topmost sketch. Lexa was already shaking her head before her brain engaged, dismissing Clarke’s wavered apology before it had fully passed her lips. 

“It’s totally fine, Clarke” Lexa soothes as she darted her gaze down to appraise the charcoal lines that Clarke had spread as a silent offering in front of her, sentence petering off slowly as she leaned closer to appreciate the drawings. ‘“These- these are amazing, Raven mentioned that you left your pre-med track to go to art school downtown after your dad died?” 

Clarke nods silently, chewing on a rose colored lip as her thumb smoothed over a sketch of an apple blossom, a feathery fern bending effortlessly in the background. Lexa notes the slight tension in her shoulders at the mention of her father and steers the conversation to safer waters, hair falling out of its tired bun as she bends over the drawings to examine them in more detail. She’s so entranced by the sketches she doesn’t see Clarke’s gaze trace over her figure, lingering on how Lexa’s lips purse in thought as she traces a reverent finger over a very realistic tulip bud. 

“I mean, I love them all,” Lexa concludes helplessly as she runs a thoughtful hand through her hair, chancing a glance up at Clarke, who happens to be gazing at Lexa from her higher vantage point at the same time. “I would love for you to paint any of them on the wall, I’d love to just let you go wild. I’m happy to pay for whatever paint you need on top of your base rate for your time, I know it’s a big wall.”

Lexa can feel her cheeks go crimson as they lock eyes again, standing awkwardly to gesture uselessly at the large white wall that borders the back of her store, decorated only by a small floral fridge on the far right side. 

“I- do you like italian food?” Clarke blurts out from somewhere behind her shoulder, Lexa turning incredulously to be met with a twin set of flaming pink cheeks. “Can I buy you dinner, and we can sketch out the mural? Is that ok? Is that breaking some sort of client contractor rule? Because I already swore to Rae that I wouldn’t fuck this up, because Anya’s essentially your sister and all–” 

“I’d love to get dinner with you, Clarke.” 

///

Four months later when Clarke finally puts the finishing touches on the mural, they celebrate with takeout Italian food and champagne on the floor of the little flower shop.

[talktomeinclexa]

The Royal Guard

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Gun violence, Blood and Injury

Status: WIP

Summary: Princess Clarke of Arkadia is kidnapped by mercenaries while on a visit to one of the kingdom's cities. Her abductors treat her well enough, but everything becomes more complicated when their client orders them to execute her. Lexa thought this was just another job. High risk, high pay. But when push comes to shove, will she betray her orders or her heart?

***

Chapter 9: King

A cruel joke. A trick from the universe. Karma balancing itself after being so good to him for decades. Jake kept looking for an explanation as to why life had gotten so complicated overnight while he tried to ignore the elephant in the room. Or, more accurately, the young woman standing at attention behind Clarke in the dining room.

There hadn’t been enough time for the tailors to make her uniform. The suit she had borrowed from Clarke, too tight around the shoulders, made her look even more awkward than the situation called for. Unless he was projecting some of his feelings, too. The black eye and bruises covering her face had him flinch surreptitiously every time his eyes landed on them.

Jake was no stranger to tough decisions. As King, he had sent troops to war knowing some of those young men and women wouldn’t make it back alive. He had occasionally been forced to negotiate unsatisfactory deals with leaders he hated in the name of peace. Some of those decisions still haunted him at night, when sleep refused to come. He rarely faced people who had been hurt on his order, though. Prisoners tortured for information and—dared he be honest—vengeance. The glares Clarke kept throwing him didn’t help either, and by the time the main dish was served, he couldn’t wait for dinner to be over. He would have excused himself earlier if Abby’s hand hadn’t rested on his, offering her quiet support against their daughter’s anger.

Keep reading on Ao3

[mozz14]

Maybe Life Should be About More Than Just Surviving?

Chapter 8 Update! Furious Clarke confronts Lexa over sending a sick Murphy back to Survivor island. The wheels fall off our fluffathon.

Love this moodboard - thank you @thecrimsonknight

[thecrimsonknight]

Clexaweek23: Day 3- Fake Dating

Clarke is the resident bad girl. Leather jacket wearing, motorcycle driving hot af baddie, who’s been seemingly IDGAF about anything since her dad died and her mom does nothing but work nonstop.

Meanwhile, Lexa is the demure, skirt-wearing, straight A class president and president of the Christian Celibacy Club (all forced to be obviously 😂). Her dad Titus is principal of the school and her parents are very religious and strict.

Something happens that makes Lexa furious enough to say fuck it, and she asks Clarke to pretend to be in a relationship with her, and Clarke accepts.

summary written by @dreamsaremywords

[ovrgrwn]

The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry.

I think about how lonely she feels with her ghosts quite often.

[bigg1999]

Clarke Griffin, a bastard born in Griffin’s Roost, is but a common whore to those around her in Kings Landing. Alexandria, heir of house Woods, is in the city to enjoy the wedding of the King and make sure Lady Sansa Stark, returns home safe after the wedding.  In the celebration before the wedding, Clarke and Lexa meet and spend some time together.  Read it here. (Knowledge of the books and the show help, but is not needed. Will not follow plot of show or books perfectly).