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kpforpresident · 4 months ago

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cruel intentions anon here 🥹 can u share something with us? like a small snippet or a scene you've scraped or idk just some ideas? I've read the fic twice but I fear I'm fr addicted to them 😭

Well I'll admit I don't have too much since I've started focusing on only one project at a time, but I have a bit of a oneshot that goes with this pic

Set a few weeks after the, ahem, conclusion of The Bet. Nothing smutty posted here unfortunately, but it will be. Oh it will be smutty. Clarke does not leave Lexa looking like that for no reason 😌

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You're whistling.

Honest to God, actually whistling.

A jaunty little tune devoid of melody and structure. Nothing more than a slow sling of notes that doesn't really have any direction in particular, because the point isn't the song itself.

It's the mood.

And that mood is… happy.

So, so fucking happy.

Terrifyingly, unmitigatedly, euphorically fucking happy.

It's weird and you hate it, and it's embarrassing to even think about, but you wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

And really, who could blame you. Not when life has never been this good. All rose colored glasses and kiss-filled memories that dance like bubbly champagne around the empty space in your head.

You genuinely don't think anyone has ever been as blissful in the existence of the world as you are right now when the doors of the elevator slide open, and you swagger your exceptional ass into your penthouse's bottom floor.

You drop your purse on the bench and toss your keys on the countertop, praying it leaves a scratch for your stepmother to have a stroke over. Just for the hell of it. You undo the clip and feel your hair untwist in tousled ringlets draped sensually across your shoulders.

You whistle a few more notes, and contemplate grabbing something to eat, before deciding there's nothing else in the world that you need.

Because you're in love.

And it's that love that keeps you smiling as you walk down the hall, adding an extra click in your steps just to hear the crispness reverberate off the walls you don't pay for. It's that same love that makes your heart race as you slam the antique handles down and throw open the parlor doors with a flourish, lightheaded and so goddamn euphoric you would fucking hate the chipperness for them if it were anyone else.

It's that love that makes you so stupid that you don't even bother to look around before your eyes land on her. Beautiful and formidable as she stands behind the bar. Her lips purse at the shotgun bang of the doors, but she doesn't even jump, and her control next to your chaos makes you love her even more.

“Miss me?” you burst in with a deep chested purr.

Because you're in love and you love her and you absolutely want her to know it.

You just… don't know how to fucking say it.

Not yet.

Grey-green eyes widen like a warning shot, darting from you to the corner of the room and right back again, so quickly you would've missed it if you hadn't been staring quite so hard.

“Not particularly, no,” she snips in that contemptuous drawl of hers without missing a beat, and pops the cork back on a bottle of gin that costs more than your semester's tuition.

You, belatedly, follow her eyes to the corner of the room and see your housemaid diligently running a duster across the frame of your great-grandfather's portrait.

Fuck.

Your heart drops right down to your asshole, but you send up a silent prayer of thanks because at least you hadn't tacked on the pet name ‘lover’ like you'd been using so much as of late.

That's been the closest you could get.

But Sherri doesn't seem to have heard you. Or at least she doesn't pay you any mind, not having paused from her work for even a fraction of a second at your grand entrance and social faux pas.

You stand frozen, staring at Lexa still working her magic behind the bar, adding a splash of something red to a drink before taking a sip and grimacing at its taste.

She smacks her lips and shakes her head and sets the drink back down like it's personally offended her.

You frown at the whole display because you know she's not even a gin girl.

“Sherri,” she calls in that sweet little voice she reserves for the people she actually cares if they like her.

“Yes, Miss Lexa,” your faithful maid answers, immediately stopping to look over.

Huh.

Apparently her hearing is just fine.

Delicate fingers discreetly land on your stomach as she passes, trailing down to your hips and snagging the bottom hem of your sweater, yanking just so to send you stumbling several feet away from the door and out of the way.

“You should take the evening off,” Lexa says once she's left you off-balance in her wake. “Go enjoy life for a change.”

“Oh, I don't think—” Sherry starts but cuts off at the soft tisk from Lexa's lips.

“No. No. Now, there is simply nothing to think about, because that was not a suggestion, my chérie.”

You smile at the lilt of her teasing. Always in awe, because for the life of you, you'll never understand how she manages to be such a condescending bitch while still sounding so innocent. So warm and pleasant.

And to be fair, it really hadn't been a suggestion.

You stand forgotten in the late afternoon shadows and watch as she closes in on your maid like a huntress. All sculpted calves and four inch heels. Hands tucked daintily behind her back.

“But your mother—”

“Will never know,” Lexa whispers, bringing one long, sexy finger up to press against the pout of her smile. “I can keep a secret if you can…”

Sherri sighs in her defeat and shakes her head with the fondness of an exasperated mother, and you wonder if there's anyone this girl can't charm off their feet.

Lexa preens.

“Good. Now, a little birdy told me it was your birthday this weekend.” She pauses just long enough for your maid to nod in surprise. “And, well… I guess I just couldn't help myself.”

You cross your arms and make yourself comfy by settling a shoulder against the wall. More than thrilled to just sit back and take in the show as this fucking magician pulls out a bracelet from goddamn nowhere.

She hushes the woman's flustered coughs, ignores hands slipping through greying red hair and automatic dismissals of, “no, Miss Lexa, this is—I couldn't possibly.” She soothes it all with honeyed words of reliability and sacrifice and devotion to our comfort, all while clasping the understated but opulent chain to an overworked wrist, connected to a woman who doesn't seem to quite know what to do with herself. Nimble fingers twist and turn the apparently well-thought-out gift so it lays perfectly in place, admiring her own exquisite taste in jewelry more than anything, you already know.

You wonder when the hell she got so thoughtful.

She ushers the woman out with a firm, guiding hand to her back, mouth tipped in a demure smile as she assures her, this is exactly what she wants.

The parlor doors close much more gently than when you'd entered through them, and she spins gracefully on her heel, looking so fucking pleased with herself.

You hold her eyes.

Uncross your arms.

And slowly, loudly, begin to clap.

“Well aren't you made of sugar and spice and everything nice, Miss Lexa.”

She pinches the sides of her skirt and fans them out, dipping into a mere suggestion of a curtsey.

You move as though to reach for her because it's been six hours too long since you've had your hands on that body, but her pleasantries drop away as she sends you a scowl and slips just out of reach.

“Next time, have a touch more decorum when entering a room,” she sighs over the authoritative clack-clack of her heels. “I had just gotten that bracelet. Didn't even have a chance to wear it out yet.”

Ah.

Now that makes more sense.

Fuck, you love how good she is at thinking on her feet.

“No one told you to kiss her ass with jewelry, for fucks sake,” you mutter despite the efficacy of her brilliance because really, she always had to be so damn extra about everything.

“It was all I had, and thanks to someone,” she says with a pointed edge, “I didn't exactly have time to figure out another distraction. And since I'm fairly certain she at least already knows we're sleeping together, I'd much rather stay in her good graces. I can handle losing a bracelet in exchange for…”

She trails off and vaguely gestures to the air between you.

The thought alone of someone else knowing makes you want to vomit.

You cross your arms tighter.

“Why do you think that she knows?”

That evil fucking brow of her flits up when she looks at you like you're an idiot.

“Because you're not quiet, and she's not stupid, and half of Greenwich knows what you sound like when you come.”

You grit your teeth and wonder if it's worth reminding her who came on your fingers while loudly calling your name last night, but when she struts her perfectly bubble shaped ass back over to the bar, you ultimately decide that, no, it is in fact not worth it.

Apparently done with the minor complication of your eagerness and the conversion as a whole, she picks up the drink you'd all but forgotten and holds it out at arm's length, letting it dangle from the mere tips of her elegant fingers.

“For you, my darling.”

You still haven't figured out exactly what she's playing at when she calls you that, because you know she is never sweet for nothing. You know there has to be a barb in there somewhere. Some sort of slight on your character or something. She shouldn't just call you ‘darling’ for no reason… But for the life of you, when she looks at you like this - like you're the only thing that matters in her broad and expansive world - you can't figure what it could possibly be.

“Gin and… cherries?” you ask when you take the glass and give a tiny sniff of the drink.

She smiles indulgently and twists away to retake her place behind the bar, and suddenly her grimace from her sip before makes sense.

She hates sweet drinks.

Well.

Unless she's kissing the taste of them from your lips.

“So is this what we're doing now?” You examine your drink closer. It doesn't look poisoned anyway. “It's this what we've become?”

She hums in question as she picks up a second shaker and stirs the contents. You watch her grab a martini glass and begin to pour her own crystal clear drink and, yes, that's much more her style.

You truly are fucking a master mixologist. Which you suppose is bound to happen considering she's been making drinks for one person or another since the tender age of thirteen…

“My kingdom for some context, darling,” she murmurs when you're too enamored to answer, popping an olive into her glass and taking a healthy sized pull, moaning at the taste.

You down half your bramble in one go and traipse yourself around the back of the bar.

Setting the drink down at her side, you put your empty hands to much better use. Drift your fingers across the soft dip of her back and trace her hips, holding her steady as you press in and drape yourself along the length of her.

“Acting like a vintage married couple,” you clarify in a whisper. You reach up and pull her hair aside to expose the delicious expanse of her neck, and you wonder in what lifetime you actually managed to do something good enough to deserve the way she tips her head to the side to give you more access.

You mouth slow, wet kisses along the sensitive spot just behind her ear as she sighs, “Is that what this is?”

“You tell me, pretty girl.” You smile against her skin when she shudders at the name. “Waiting for me to come home to you. Having a drink ready. Did you make me a special little dinner to eat as well?”

And you're still getting used to this.

This thing with her you've been playing at for the last couple of weeks. This truce or whatever it is that leaves you so off balance you never know which end is up.

Because you've never had something like this.

Because where you expect a scoff and a rebuff of your entire charade, she only presses harder into you with a sensual groan. Where you expect her to fling your hands away and shove you off of her entirely as she would have before, she merely sets down her glass, and kisses your lips, and covers your hands with her own.

"Not in your wildest dreams, my love," she whispers with an adoring grin, and kisses you deeper again.

#eeeeeeeee #honestly my fave au #Cruel Intentions AU #clexa

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kpforpresident · 5 months ago

Text

MBFW First Kiss snippet for Clexaweek

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The dorm bed they share is barely big enough for one, nestled tight against the wall and tucked under a single poorly hung shelf that Lexa can't seem to stop knocking her head against every time she goes to leave.

It's a dilemma they both take as a sign that she really just… shouldn't do that anymore.

"This is so fucking stupid, I don't even need to know this."

The groaned complaint makes her smile.

"According to the requirements of your degree, you do actually."

"Don't sass me. Who made up those requirements? Hm? Who?"

Marking her place on the page with a tiny dot of lime green highlighter, Lexa turns her gaze to the petulant frown staring at her from roughly fifteen inches away.

She eyes the way Clarke has dramatically collapsed against the evil calculus textbook in question, cheek smooshed against the pages and arms flung out above her head to dangle off the foot of the bed.

Lexa's heart trips over itself.

She finds that's been happening more and more in the recent weeks since this friendship had blossomed and subsequently taken over every facet of her life. Since this girl came crashing in out of nowhere; as if plucked from the very stars and sent right to her, to become the source of every one of Lexa's smiles.

Since she'd blazed into existence, and lit up the world with a brightness that somehow outdid the sun.

It's a feeling that's becoming harder to shake off.

"Clarke, we've been studying for… fifteen minutes," Lexa laughs after reaching over and lifting the dead weight of Clarke's wrist enough to check her watch. "Have you even gotten past the first page of the chapter?"

Clarke's head twists to bury her face further into the crease of the spine of her splayed open textbook as she answers a muffled, "No."

Pinching her lips together to smother yet another smile that threatens to double in size, Lexa clears her throat and pointedly readjusts to get more comfortable and resume her own assigned reading.

She's barely gotten her train of thought back into the flow of Chaucer's affinity for iambic pentameter when the sound of rustling papers breaks the silence, and the overwhelming feeling of a certain pair of eyes boring into the side of her head steals her concentration.

It's feeling she's been getting quite familiar with as of late.

Lexa bites the inside of her cheek.

"You're staring."

Clarke flips onto her back and makes a show of getting comfortable.

When Lexa chances a glance at the eyes still watching her, Clarke doesn't look away.

"So?"

“So," Lexa draws out in half-hearted huff that does nothing to curb the heat rising to her cheeks. "It's distracting.”

Clarke's head lulls toward Lexa.

“Well… You're distracting,” she murmurs, lashes hanging low and eyes soft enough to make Lexa ache.

Lexa bites her lips and tries in vain to tame the wild burst of butterflies that take flight in the softest parts of her belly, willing them to behave themselves for once when she's around this girl.

She shuffles onto her side, careful not to dislodge the other occupant crammed into the postage stamp sized mattress, and rests her head on her palm. Forced to lounge half leaning over the pretty face of her friend splayed in a halo of fanned out blonde hair, the new position gives Lexa the most wonderful kind of vantage point.

“You're the one who's distracting. I'm not doing anything, I'm just studying,” she says through a poorly concealed smile. “How could I possibly be the distracting one?”

Clarke sighs and gives a grave shake of her head.

“You're always distracting.”

It's said so drearily, Lexa has no choice but to laugh and shift closer.

“Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And what about me is so distracting?”

Clarke's face somehow grows softer. More quiet in its calm. Notes of nervous twitching along the corners of the lazy grin of her mouth as she lays there, face so close Lexa can see every flit of emotion that washes over her.

"Your nose," she finally says, seeming to delight in Lexa's surprised scoff.

"My nose?"

"Mhm. You have this little bump. Right," Clarke hums as she reaches up and traces along the bridge with a delicate fingertip, "here... I like it."

Lexa wills herself to keep still as her eyes fall closed in a slow blink. The tickling touch feels electric against her skin, long after its fallen away. It curls across the heated peaks of her ears and down her spine, to land in a syrupy warm pool in her belly.

Something brave and foolish and distinctly helium-based takes up residence in Lexa's chest as she reaches out as well, and drifts her own fingertip along Clarke's chin.

"I like your chin."

Clarke tuts. "That's ridiculous."

"I'm kind of obsessed with your chin," Lexa argues right back without thinking, feeling her stomach tighten with embarrassment at the way Clarke's teeth clamp around her bottom lip.

She drops her hand back to the bed.

Blue eyes sparkle in the low afternoon sunlight the spills through the dorm's only window as they trace every curve and line of Lexa's face in the silence.

"I like your cheekbones," Clarke finally says in a soft, shy murmur.

She seems to hesitate for a moment before leaning up, dusting a kiss to the high apple of Lexa's cheek, and then the other.

Every muscle of Lexa's body sings with a joyful riot of nerves and a deadly feeling of hope. Not knowing exactly what any of this means... but unwilling to stop.

She adjusts again, closer, shifting herself to lay more snug along the length of Clarke's side.

"I like your beauty mark," she forces out on what little oxygen her lungs will allow her.

She swallows against the dryness of her throat and she traces the mark with her fingertip. More terrified than she's ever felt in her life, she leans and presses a lingering kiss to the dot above Clarke's lip.

Lexa's heart pounds and the butterflies in her belly continue their flight as she pulls back slowly. The edges of Clarke's pupils have pressed out in deep inky pools, leaving nothing but the thinnest halo of blue. Her smile is quiet, softened in a flutter of lashes and panting breath, and it's place is this look.

This look that Lexa can't place, too scared to give it a name, as it hits her like a silk-tipped arrow.

But in the thrill of the moment, oh, how that look sets her skin on fire.

She can't help but return Clarke's smile with a weak one of her own, and feels a hand slip against her cheek; a palm cupping her jaw.

A thumb brushing a lazy strokes over the corner of her mouth.

"I like the one you have here too," Clarke whispers, sweeping over and over the spot again.

Time stands still, surely the very earth halting on its axis, as they stare and stare and dangle breathlessly on this precipice that Lexa feels she's been running toward since this woman crashed into existence.

And what a wonderful existence it is when Clarke's gaze flits between Lexa's own, and the path of her thumb blazing over the bow of her lip.

Clarke holds Lexa steady through her trembling as she leans up and replaces her thumb with a soft brush of her lips, and Lexa… Lexa feels like she's floating.

Her smile stretches so wide she knows she must look every bit a fool, lightheaded and giddy in the euphoria of this moment and this girl as her heart beats out the rhythm of a hummingbird's wing.

It's pure instinct that has her swaying into the touch, to let her eyes and lips fall closed around the supple give of Clarke's bottom lip. She sighs against Clarke's mouth, so enamored with the feel that in years to come she would never quite be able to say if they stay there, connected, for hours or mere seconds.

All she knows with absolute certain is that when Clarke inches away, it's entirely too soon.

Where Lexa feels as though her lungs have collapsed — have given up on any semblance of functioning — Clarke settles back against the bed in a rush of breath, her face flaming a particularly lovely shade of pink. Her chest rises and falls so fast Lexa wonders how her friend isn't equally as dizzy. Wonders if Clarke feels just as spun out as she does.

Nails scratch soothingly against Lexa's arm where Clarke still holds her, tangled into each other and keeping her close.

"You're shaking."

Lexa tucks back a curl of blonde hair behind a very likeable ear, feeling so many emotions in the rush of this insanity, helpless to stop the way she mirrors Clarke's smile.

"So are you…"

Lips a few shades redder than they were a few minutes before slide into a Cheshire grin.

"Well, I have an insanely beautiful girl sorta laying on top of me," Clarke says as she slips her arm around Lexa's waist and pulls her more firmly against her. "I kind of think that's to be expected..."

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#EEEEEEEEEEEEE #look at these teeny babies i love them so #thank you andi for blessing us with this #MBFW #clexa

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