Curiosity and Consequences
Clarke wasn’t proud of what happened.
In her defense, it was an accident.
Mostly.
Lexa had let her read a few pages of her manuscript before. It had taken weeks of persistent prodding on Clarke’s part to get Lexa to share even that much. But the parts Lexa had allowed her to see were serious—beautifully written, brimming with deep emotions, layered with intricate storytelling.
Clarke had assumed the entire manuscript was like that.
She had assumed wrong.
“You mind grabbing my phone?” Lexa asked casually, glancing up from the kitchen where she was fixing their coffee.
“Sure,” Clarke said, already heading toward Lexa’s bedroom.
It was medium sized room, neatly kept, a desk and chair sitting in the far corner—her little office space. Clarke had been in there a few times, never snooping, just observing. The place was so distinctly Lexa—organized, minimal, and somehow still incredibly warm.
She spotted the phone easily.
It was on top of a stack of papers, balanced a little too precariously.
And that was her first mistake—grabbing the phone too quickly.
The moment she lifted it, the papers beneath slid free and scattered to the floor.
“Shit,” Clarke cursed under her breath, quickly crouching down to collect them.
Thankfully, the pages were numbered.
She hurriedly began rearranging them, trying to put everything back the way it was—
Until her eyes landed on something unexpected.
A scene.
A very intimate written scene.
Clarke froze.
Her brain lagged as her eyes moved over the words, trying to process what she was reading.
This wasn’t just romantic. It wasn’t just passionate.
It was explicit.
And incredibly well-written.
Holy shit.
Lexa hadn’t just written a serious romance novel—she had written a novel with seriously heat-inducing scenes.
Clarke should have stopped reading.
That would have been the smart thing to do.
But she didn’t.
That was her second mistake.
She kept flipping through the pages, utterly captivated, heart hammering in her chest as she took in every carefully crafted word. It was intense, beautifully descriptive, and impossibly alluring.
Lexa’s prose was artistic, elegant yet dangerously detailed, making Clarke feel like she was intruding on something private—but she couldn’t look away.
It was unfair how good this was.
The slow build of tension. The breathless anticipation woven into every line. The raw, unfiltered emotion mixed with undeniable heat.
Fuck.
Her face burned.
Her whole body felt too warm.
And just as she was fully spiraling, Lexa’s voice rang out from the kitchen.
“Did you find it?”
Clarke jolted so hard she nearly dropped the papers again.
Shit.
She frantically shoved the manuscript back into a stack, pages no longer perfectly aligned, her hands shaking as she grabbed the phone.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm the blush that absolutely refused to leave her face.
“Yeah—just found it!” she called back, voice pitched way too high.
She needed to leave. Now.
Clarke all but sprinted out of the room and shoved the phone into Lexa’s hand.
Then, in a move she would later cringe about for hours, she blurted out the first excuse she could think of.
“I need to pee.”
Lexa blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… okay?”
Without waiting for a response, Clarke escaped to the bathroom, locked the door behind her, and leaned heavily against it.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
Her face was so red it was almost criminal.
She ran cold water over her wrists, trying to cool down, trying to banish the images now permanently seared into her brain.
What the hell just happened?
Lexa had let her read the “normal” parts of the manuscript before. The safe ones.
But this? This was something else entirely.
She could barely look Lexa in the eye when she left the bathroom.
Lexa, blissfully unaware of what just happened, simply pocketed her phone and went back to making coffee, humming to herself. She seemed completely at ease.
Because, of course, she had no idea what Clarke had just stumbled upon.
---
Later that night, Clarke didn’t go to the bar with Raven and Octavia.
Lexa had offered to drive her home before heading to her shift, and Clarke had agreed—mostly because she needed distance.
The moment she got back to her apartment, she collapsed onto her couch and groaned into a pillow.
But then—
She grabbed her sketchbook.
And that was her worst mistake.
Because instead of trying to forget what she had read, Clarke put it to paper.
Every detail she had envisioned.
The intensity, the entwined bodies, the way Lexa’s words had crafted something both sinful and stunning.
It was—
Beautifully sinful.
When she finally sat back and looked at her work, she covered her face with both hands.
“Oh, I’m so screwed.”
The days that followed were a blur.
Surgeries. Emergencies. Long shifts that bled into one another.
Clarke barely had time to think about anything beyond the relentless pace of the hospital. Pediatrics was her specialty, but she often found herself in the ER—patching up kids who had taken falls, swallowed something they shouldn’t have, or, on the worse days, suffering from more serious conditions.
She barely had time to breathe, let alone dwell on that manuscript.
But when she did—
She wasn’t flustered anymore.
At least, not in the same way.
She had gone from scandalized to… intrigued.
Maybe even a little inspired.
Because instead of shoving the memory away, Clarke embraced it—letting herself explore the artistic potential in what she had read.
Had she enjoyed that scene?
Absolutely.
She was a normal, bisexual woman with a deep appreciation for beautiful things—and Lexa’s writing was beautiful.
The words had been so stunningly crafted, woven together in a way that felt both intimate and visceral.
Clarke had felt every slow-burning moment in those pages, every unspoken tension, every deliberate, aching pause—
And that was worth capturing in art.
So, in the stolen moments between shifts, she sketched.
She let her pencil trace the emotions Lexa had built with words—raw, breathtaking, and dangerously sensual.
She wasn’t just drawing bodies.
She was drawing emotion.
Connection.
Every line, every shade, every detail was an attempt to match the quality of Lexa’s prose.
She told herself it was just artistic admiration.
Nothing more.
The bar was buzzing with energy, the low hum of music underscoring the rhythmic clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter. It was a busy night, but Lexa had mastered control over her domain.
She adjusted the folded cuffs of her crisp white dress shirt, the suspenders snug against her shoulders, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with practiced ease. The bartenders here prided themselves on their polished, old-world style—gentlemen’s attire, waistcoats, tailored pants, the occasional pocket watch for flair. It was part of the charm.
And, of course, Lexa owned it.
She was in her element—composed, untouchable, exuding cool sophistication.
Until Clarke Griffin walked in.
Lexa straightened instinctively, her eyes flickering to the entrance just in time to catch Clarke stepping inside, Octavia at her side.
And fuck.
Tank top. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Ankle boots.
Clarke didn’t just walk into a room—she commanded it. She looked like trouble, and Lexa found herself eager to play the game.
“Doctor,” Lexa greeted smoothly, barely suppressing a smirk as Clarke approached the bar.
“Bartender,” Clarke shot back, sliding onto a stool. There was something playful in her tone, something that made Lexa’s fingers twitch around the glass she was drying.
And then Clarke did something unexpected.
She ordered a tequila shot.
Lexa arched a brow, and Octavia actually choked on her drink.
Clarke? Drinking tequila? She had not done shots in a long time since officially done her residency. This was gonna be gold!
Lexa set the shot glass in front of her, watching closely as Clarke picked it up—no hesitation, no second-guessing—tilted her head back and downed it like water.
No flinch. No chaser.
Lexa exhaled slowly.
Tonight was going to be interesting.
The night moved quickly, and Lexa, ever the professional, tended to patrons while keeping one eye on Clarke.
Tonight, she was buzzed but not sloppy, her confidence amplified by alcohol. Clarke flirted easily with the women at the bar—nothing serious, just smirks, teasing comments, casual touches.
Lexa told herself she didn’t care.
Then Luna happened.
Lexa saw her approach from the corner of her vision.
Luna was a regular—charming, smooth, and a certified player. She was harmless in the way a storm was harmless—until you were caught in it.
Lexa tensed before she could stop herself.
Clarke and Luna hit it off instantly, laughter spilling between them. Luna gestured to the pool table, and Clarke, grinning, followed her without hesitation.
Lexa’s grip tightened around a cocktail shaker.
It was fine.
Clarke was not hers.
She had no right to be jealous.
And yet—
Lexa found herself gritting her teeth, watching from behind the bar as Clarke bent over the pool table, lining up a shot.
Luna leaned in, murmuring something close to her ear.
Lexa’s jaw locked.
She wanted to be the one playing with Clarke.
She wanted Clarke’s teasing smirks and sly glances only aimed at her, not some charismatic flirt who thought they stood a chance.
But her shift wasn’t over, and she had work to do.
She turned away, willing herself to focus on the task at hand.
It was fine.
It was—
“She’s good at pool,” a voice remarked beside her.
Lexa startled slightly.
Anya.
Her sister was leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, looking far too entertained.
Lexa exhaled. “How long have you been standing there?”
Anya smirked. “Long enough to see you suffering.”
Lexa scowled. “I’m not suffering.”
Anya’s grin widened. “Sure. And I’m a nun.”
Lexa rolled her eyes, but Anya was already moving, sauntering toward the pool section with mischief in her step.
Lexa braced herself.
Because Anya was about to make things worse.
Lexa was seething.
Not that she’d ever let it show—her carefully honed mask of indifference was firmly in place. But beneath the surface, a storm raged as she watched Clarke play pool with Luna, their easy banter and exchanged smirks sending something dark and possessive curling in Lexa’s chest.
It was fine.
Clarke wasn’t hers.
And yet, every instinct in Lexa’s body screamed otherwise.
She was still gripping the bar too tightly when Raven arrived, sliding in next to her with a knowing smirk.
"Anya’s got it covered," Raven murmured, tossing her leather jacket onto the back of a chair. "Go get your girl before Luna steals her."
Lexa scoffed, adjusting her cuffs. "Clarke isn't—"
Raven arched a brow.
Lexa exhaled sharply. "Fine."
Across the room, Anya leaned close to Clarke, whispering something. Whatever she said had Clarke sobering instantly, though the smirk on her lips was anything but innocent.
Lexa braced herself.
Anya returned to the bar, smacking Lexa lightly on the shoulder. "Your turn, little sister."
Lexa shot her a look but didn’t hesitate, undoing her vest buttons and rolling her sleeves up just enough to be dangerous.
Behind the bar, Raven took her place—already facing Anya, her girlfriend, her target. And oh, she looked stunning tonight, something Raven was clearly very aware of as she let her hands linger on Anya’s waist.
Lexa didn’t have time to roll her eyes before Luna’s mocking sigh drew her attention.
"Finally," Luna drawled as Lexa approached the pool table, chalking the cue stick lazily. "Took you long enough, bartender."
Lexa arched a brow, feigning boredom. "I have a job, Luna. Unlike you."
Luna smirked, stepping back as Lexa slid in beside Clarke—deliberately close.
Clarke was watching her now.
Good.
"Care for a game?" Lexa murmured, reaching past Clarke to grab a cue. Her voice was low, smooth, just enough to make Clarke’s breath hitch.
Lexa smirked.
Game on.
Lexa played to win.
Her shots were effortless, each stroke calculated, her body moving with an ease that commanded attention.
Clarke watched her, eyes dark, lips parted.
Lexa felt the heat of her gaze, reveling in it.
"You’re good," Clarke admitted, lining up her next shot. "But you’re not the only one who knows how to play."
Lexa smirked, watching as Clarke sank another ball with precision.
"Oh, I know."
Luna, of course, rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, we get it. You’re both good."
Lexa finally allowed herself a smug smirk, rolling the cue between her fingers. "Good? I’m flawless."
Luna snorted, shaking her head before leaning toward Clarke, whispering, "You see what I mean? Just kiss her already."
Lexa glared at Luna, but there was no real heat behind it.
Luna just smirked, giving Lexa a knowing look before walking off.
Lexa exhaled slowly.
And then, in a moment of reckless honesty, she turned to Clarke, stepping closer until there was barely a breath between them.
Her voice was low, intimate. Dangerous.
"You had me right in front of you," she murmured, "yet you still looked at other women, you naughty girl."
Clarke swallowed hard.
Lexa tilted her head, gaze burning into Clarke’s. "From now on, only look at me. Got it?"
There was a promise in her words, a heat Clarke clearly felt, because her face flushed deep red, her pupils blown wide.
She didn’t speak. She just nodded.
Lexa smirked, satisfied, before taking her hand and guiding her back to the bar.
And as she did, she told herself Clarke would forget this happened.
She hoped.
Because across the room, Anya was smirking—her evil ‘i know what you did’ smirk—and Lexa suddenly regretted everything.
---
Clarke had always been good at games.
Pool? She was damn good at it.
She lined up her shot, eyes sharp, fingers steady as she angled the cue stick just right. The bar lights reflected off the polished surface of the table, casting a soft glow over the scattered billiard balls.
With a smooth, practiced motion, she took the shot. The cue ball spun, kissed the edge of the eight-ball, and sent it sinking effortlessly into the corner pocket.
Luna, leaning against the opposite side of the table, let out a low whistle. "Impressive," she mused, swirling the last of her whiskey in her glass.
Clarke smirked, leaning casually against the table. "I don’t play unless I win."
Luna chuckled. "I can see that. But you know what you’re not winning at?"
Clarke raised a brow. "Oh? Do tell."
Luna’s grin turned positively wolfish. "This little game you’re playing with Lexa."
Clarke blinked, her smirk faltering for half a second.
Luna tilted her head toward the bar. "You keep looking at her. And she’s absolutely looking back."
Clarke rolled her eyes, but she didn’t deny it. "She flirts with everyone. It’s part of her job."
Luna snorted. "Sweetheart, that is not how she flirts with everyone else."
Clarke opened her mouth to argue, but—damn it.
Because the way Lexa looked at her sometimes—the way her voice dropped just for her, the way her smirks were a little too pleased when Clarke was around—felt different.
Still.
"You’re messing with me," Clarke said, shaking her head as she chose her next shot.
Luna just smiled, amused. "Sure, Clarke. Whatever you say."
And then, before Clarke could fully process that, another voice cut in.
"She’s not wrong, you know."
Clarke turned to see Anya standing beside her, arms crossed, looking smug as hell.
"Oh, and brace yourself, Lexa is coming over," Anya said before going back to the bar.
And—holy shit.
Lexa was coming over.
And she looked like she meant business.
Lexa dominated the table.
Clarke had been winning all night—but Lexa was on another level.
Her shots were clean, calculated, devastatingly smooth.
And Clarke?
Clarke was watching her like a hawk.
Because the way Lexa moved, the way her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose, the way her sleeves were rolled up just enough to showcase the sharp lines of her forearms—it was almost distracting.
Almost.
Clarke wasn’t about to go down easy.
"You’re good," Clarke admitted, lining up her next shot. "But you’re not the only one who knows how to play."
Lexa smirked, watching as Clarke sank another ball with precision.
"Oh, I know."
Clarke’s grip on her cue stick tightened just slightly.
Luna, of course, rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, we get it. You’re both good."
Lexa finally allowed herself a smug smirk, rolling the cue between her fingers. "Good? I’m flawless."
Luna snorted, shaking her head before leaning toward Clarke, whispering, "You see what I mean? Just kiss her already."
Luna just smirked, giving Lexa a knowing look before walking off.
Lexa exhaled slowly.
And then, before Clarke could recover, Lexa leaned in close—too close—her voice a low murmur at Clarke’s ear.
"You had me right in front of you," she whispered, voice like velvet and whiskey. "Yet you still looked at other women, you naughty girl."
Clarke’s brain stuttered.
Lexa’s scent—dark, rich, intoxicating—wrapped around her, clouding the last bit of clarity she had.
Lexa’s lips brushed dangerously close to her ear.
"From now on, only look at me. Got it?"
Clarke’s fingers nearly slipped off her cue stick.
She nodded—because words? Yeah, she didn’t have them anymore.
Lexa smirked, pleased, and took her hand—guiding her away from the table, back toward the bar.
And Clarke followed.
Clarke sat at the bar, still processing what the hell just happened, her mind an absolute wreck.
Across from her, Raven had a shit-eating grin.
Next to her, Octavia leaned in, whisper-singing under her breath, just loud enough for both Raven and Clarke to hear—
"Clarke is sooo whipped."
Raven snorted, holding up a hand.
Octavia high-fived her, grinning.
Clarke groaned, dropping her head against the counter.
Because—yeah.
She really, really was.
And she didn't know that it was not one sided.