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Your story, like all greats stories, begins in the library.
Your crush, like all great crushes, begins with her and her friends shouting (or rather, attempting to shout) penis in the library when you’re just trying to study for your exam. It starts when you hit the eight hour mark and are slowly losing your ability to function like a normal human being and, honestly, you’re fairly sure you’re hearing things. That is until you hear the word mumbled for the twentieth time and know that there has to be some weird kind of game going on.
You shouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t normally do it. You do it. You don’t know why you do it but you do it. Except, you do know exactly why you do it - it’s because they’ve been doing their thing for at least twenty minutes and none of them have braved going any louder than a whisper shout, and you’re both ashamed that none of them have the guts to just go for it, and annoyed that no one has managed to just win already.
Obviously the it you’re talking about is you shouting ‘penis’ at the top of your lungs before giving the stunned group a tired glare and returning to your work, you maybe spend a little time being distracted by clear blue eyes and a husky laugh that makes you forget what air is, but you return nonetheless.
You expect that to be the end of it. It’s actually more that you hope that will be the end of it. You certainly don’t foresee a slice of pizza sliding into your line of sight, or the insanely pretty blonde that slides into the seat next to you.
“Your winnings.” She comments as you wordlessly quirk a brow at her odd entrance.
“Winnings?” You question because you’re a little curious and you’re also a little afraid she’ll walk away and you can already feel your ears itching for their next fix of her honeyed words. You can practically feel her friends staring at the two of you from a few tables over as she gets more comfortable like she’s going to be staying a while.
“Whoever shouts penis the loudest gets the last slice.” She responds like that’s normal. Like all friends just scream about phalluses in order to secure themselves a piece of pizza.
“You guys didn’t really seem like you were playing to win.” She nods solemnly.
“We talk a big game but I know I for one am very scared of the librarian.” She feigns a shudder as she lets her eyes slip over to the woman in question who’s scowling at the printer like it’s done her a personal injustice. Blue eyes snap back to you just as quickly as they left and you stupidly allow yourself a moment to let your gaze drop to her tongue languidly moistening her lips. “Your performance is the best I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s the only way I could think to stop it. A girl can only hear the word penis so many times before she goes insane.”
“Not a fan of penis?” She questions without missing a beat and you push a smirk onto your face despite the crimson creeping up your neck and boldly warming your cheeks.
“That’s a curious way to ask if I’m gay.” You quip before you can stop yourself. You have no idea where it came from. You actually don’t really know how you’re even still forming words when she’s smiling at you like that – like she’s thinking about what you taste like, how your words sound in the dead of night. You distract yourself by picking up the pizza and eyeing it cautiously.
“How do I know you haven’t poisoned this to stop me from beating your ass in the future?” You deadpan but her answer merely consists of her taking it from your hand and slowing sinking her teeth into the tip before tearing it off.
It shouldn’t be hot.
You shouldn’t want to kiss her as she carefully darts her tongue out to capture any stray sauce, refusing to break the piercing stare she’s throwing directly at you. You don’t even know her name and you can already name at least six questionable things you’d like to do with her mouth.
She wordlessly hands it back to you as she chews softly and you waste no time in taking your own bite because you’re starving, and it could also very well be the only way to surreptitiously cover the moans that threaten to throw themselves from your lips edge, as she watches your actions just as intently as you watched hers.
You shouldn’t have studied this long. Your brain was surely fried.
“I should let you get back to your work, Champ.”
“Lexa’s fine.” She’s still grinning and it’s still making your mind whirl. You wonder if something that dazzling could ever truly lose its effect.
“Well, Lexa, I’m Clarke and sincerely hoping your evasion of my earlier question means yes.” You shake your head good humouredly because you haven’t had someone actually ask in a while. You thought at this point in your life the answer had become obvious or that anyone actually brave enough to approach you, despite the usually constant glares, would have enough courage to just give it a shot.
“Yes, Clarke. I am very, very gay.”
“Awesome. May we meet again, Lexa.” She winks as she saunters back to her friends with a triumphant grin that stands out amongst their amused eye rolls and exasperated sighs.
You leave the moment you finish the pizza slice and realise you’ve been reading the same sentence over and over again and yet still have no idea what it says. You leave the moment you realise the only word running through your head is Clarke.
It takes an entire week for you to actually see her again, which makes total sense considering the size of Polis University, but you’d been hoping - stupidly hoping in vain, but hoping nonetheless. You find her again in the library, although in truth she actually finds you, surrounded by books and stacks of notes in pristine order.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lexa Woods – political science student, lover of soccer, hater of loud students causing a raucous and avid fan of this one particular table in the library.” You look up to find her unceremoniously dropping her books into the space opposite you with a cheeky grin. It’s a little odd that you find your lips quirking into your own smile before you can think about it, though considerably less odd when you consider who it’s aimed towards.
Clarke is oddly infectious.
“Lexa Woods is also curious as to how you know so much about her when all she told you was her name, and not even the last one.” Talking about yourself in the third person? Fantastic. Honestly just astounding social skills. Thankfully, she seems not to take much notice of your idiocy as she winks with a shrug of her shoulders and drops into her chair.
“I have my sources and I wanted to see what the appeal of this particular table was.” She says as she begins to investigate her surroundings. You want to call her a dork when she knocks on the wood before giving it a solid nod of approval. You want to call her a goofball when she tilts her chair in each direction to ascertain its sturdiness. You want to call her an idiot. You also want to call her adorable when she almost tips out of the chair and sheepishly blows her ruffled hair from her face. You want to call her beautiful when she gives you a satisfied smile and settles more solidly into her place.
“And what conclusion have you come to?”
“The vending machine is within suitable walking distance. The librarian is far enough away not to moan every time I so much as breathe. Oh and there’s a pretty girl who has glared away all other possible intruders - all in all I’d say it’s the best seat in this place.”
“Other than my face?” You didn’t mean to say that. Heat flares across your cheeks and you find some satisfaction in seeing the same reaction from Clarke (who seems on the verge of choking to death on air).
“I didn’t see that coming.” She chokes out and your blush deepens.
“I didn’t either.” She laughs. “I’m sorry about that.” You add because you’re mortified and because from the moment the words came out your mouth you hadn’t stopped picturing it. You hadn’t stopped picturing you and her doing... that.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” You were going to be blushing for the entirety of your existence at this rate. “I was actually wondering if y-“ You’re interrupted by a rather intense moan and at first you’re just glad that it isn’t your own, until it persists and you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever just get to have an ordinary day of studying in this place.
“I’m not going insane am I?” You question, because you feel like it’s a definite possibility that you had pushed your brain too far the past few days, and also because you’re trying to fill the spaces between gasps and muffled whimpers with something else.
“Nope, not insane. People are definitely fucking in the stacks. More specifically, the theology section if my moandar is anything to go by.”
“Your moandar?” You laugh.
“Years of accidentally walking in on trysts at parties and having my own,” she pauses to wink exaggeratingly, “have allowed me to finely tune my ears to the specific frequencies of moans and such.” You can’t help but smile at her, even the shake of your head is completely endeared and you’re not really sure why you’ve allowed yourself to become comfortable with her so quickly.
Clarke wasn’t wrong when she’d said you glared everyone else away. You enjoyed glaring everyone else away but her... her you couldn’t quite bring yourself to make leave (which wasn’t really your fault because she was hot and Anya always said you were too gay for your own good).
“I’ll admit, I’m curious. What else can you tell me?” She smirks.
“Well for starters it's two girls.” You mock gasp.
“And in the theology section no less. Oh, the irony!” She kicks you lightly under the table and you would be affronted, you would kick back, you would say something, except you can’t do anything when her, apparently bare, foot remains to run along your calf. Her eyes betray nothing and she turns her head back towards the sound with feigned innocence so you follow suit. You refuse to give into her. You refuse to be the weak one.
“They’re finishing up.” She comments and you almost laugh at the sheer seriousness of her tone when two girls pulling at their clothing appear smugly from the stacks. You think if they were going for surreptitious, they were definitely failing. “Octavia. Raven. Fancy seeing you here.” You twist your head sharply at Clarke’s words and she sends a wink to you without removing her eyes from the two girls in front of her.
“Clarke, what are you doing here?” The girls question in tandem before catching each other’s gaze and blushing down at their hands.
“I could ask the same of you two, but the hickies on your necks already answer enough of my questions, so I suppose I’ll let you sneak off with some dignity still intact.”
“Whatever, Griffin, like you haven’t shacked up in here.” The Latina throws back and Clarke finally turns to you when you quirk a brow in question alongside an inquisitive hum.
“She’s lying. I’ve been waiting for the right girl to grumpily shout penis and lure me in with her studious nature.” You roll your eyes before catching sight of the large ticking clock on the wall, hastily standing to shove your books into your bag and sling it over your shoulder.
“I’d better not miss my class then if I want to lure in pretty librarian stalkers.” You smile before turning to the two girls who are still standing at Clarke’s side, watching the interaction with interest. “I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid PoliSci section next time.” You’re not really expecting a response but the Latina salutes with a wink.
“Sure thing, Commander.” You can’t help but laugh at her antics as you slip out of the building and to class.
You can’t deny that the library had become infinitely more interesting over the past few days.
She’s struggling.
You can see that she’s struggling and you spend a little time just standing back and chuckling at her groans before you realise you should probably help. The thing is that there’s something undeniably adorable about watching her stretch and stretch but never quite manage to grab the book she’s looking for. There’s something even cuter about the fact that she’s literally a hair’s width away from managing to get it and is grumbling with each new failed attempt.
You should just ask her if she wants you to grab it for her.
You should just reach for the book and wordlessly hand it to her before getting back to work.
You should just do the normal thing.
You do not do the normal thing.
You have no idea why you think it’s a good idea to wait until she tries again only to grip her hips and lift her the extra few inches that allow her to firmly grasp the book before you return her to the ground. You have no idea why you think you’ll have enough sanity after having your hands on her to be a properly functioning human being. She looks both angry and amused as she spins with the book in her hand before she realises it’s you and the anger melts away. You can’t help but smile at that.
“Unconventional help but I’ll take it.”
“Sorry I didn’t actually mean to, I just sort of... did.”
“Any excuse to get your hands on me, huh?” She was going to be the death of you. You were going to die and your autopsy report would state Lexa Woods, death by a pretty blonde’s sexual remarks. At this point, you’re not even sure you have enough blood left pumping through your body with all of it rushing to your face. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods anyway; you don’t generally tend to leave the politics section?”
“There’s maybe a chance that my mother works at the university, and there’s an even greater chance that I’ve maybe been avoiding her calls for a solid two weeks. This seemed like the least likely place to look for me.” She chuckles at the bashful look on your face.
“Couldn’t you just glare her away?”
“It’s rather hard to intimidate someone when they’ve seen you run around the garden naked in so called war paint.”
“I think we should test that out.” You manage an eye roll despite the way she bites her lip that sends your brain into overdrive.
“You’ve never been intimidated by me, Clarke.” She shakes her head quickly and you busy yourself with sneaking a look across the room from your place behind the stack as she goes to speak again.
“Not true. I’m very intimidated by how fast you make my heart pound.” You weren’t expecting that. You probably should have been expecting that. From what you’d gathered over the past few days Clarke was nothing if not shamelessly persistent. You turn back to her abruptly and find yourself caught between books and her body. You weren’t expecting that either. You weren’t expecting the hand at your waist tugging your hips the final inch into hers. You weren’t expecting the hand brushing loose curls behind your ear or the overwhelming blue that surveyed your lips and eyes with equal fervour.
You weren’t expecting the fire she lit in your veins.
“Hi.” She breathes and you can almost taste her, you can almost feel her.
“Hi.” You mumble and then you’re leaning. You know that you’re leaning, and it wasn’t a conscious choice, but honestly you haven’t stopped thinking about kissing Clarke since the first day you met her and you sure as hell weren’t going to waste this opportunity. Nothing was going to stop you from ki-
“Alexandria!” Fuck. You all but push Clarke away in your haste to space yourself from the intruder. You note the disappointment on her face before she schools her features and joins you in wordlessly staring at the woman in front of you. You wouldn’t say that you mother was scary – imposing, overbearing and completely nosy, yes, but not scary. You wouldn’t say that you didn’t love her either; you were just tired of her trying to set you up with eligible bachelorettes with even more eligible bank accounts.
“Mother, hello. Looking for a book on...” You quickly grab the first book to your right and read the title. “The Vagina: A Literary and Cultural History?” You turn to Clarke in alarm as she surveys the book stuck in your tight grasp and giggles at your complete misfortune.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls.” She states simply before turning her gaze to the still quietly chuckling Clarke at your side. “Where are my manners, I’m Professor Woods and you are?” The smile on Clarke’s face quickly disappears as she scrambles to reach her hand towards the intruding woman.
“Clarke Griffin, ma’am.”
“I didn’t know Lexa had a girlfriend.” You choke on the words despite them not even being your own.
“I didn’t either.” Clarke responds and your mother laughs, actually laughs. You maybe pinch yourself to make sure you haven’t just dreamt up this whole scenario.
“I like this one, Alexandria. You simply must bring her to dinner next week.”
You don’t argue because you don’t even know how. You don’t question the way Clarke calls you Alexandria for a day after the fact because the name somehow sounds beautiful when she says it, because she husks it like she’s whispering it between the sheets despite the fact that the two of you don’t talk about the almost kiss at all.
You really want to talk about it.
You really want to kiss her.
Your mother loved her.
You could very much see yourself loving her.
You still haven’t talked about it.
You still really want to kiss her.
You’re hiding in the library. Except, you’re not really hiding at all because this is the first place anyone who knows anything at all about you would look. You’re definitely hiding your feelings in the library, however. You’ve carefully tucked your denial into the sci-fi corner and your budding romantic feelings have been shoved somewhere between the Third Reich and Stalin’s Terror.
Pretending that you don’t like Clarke seems easier with your head firmly in a book. Pretending you don’t like Clarke is infinitely harder when she slips into the seat beside you, and wordlessly hands you black coffee, whilst she stares unabashedly at you profile. You try not to look. You really try not to look. But you know that she’s looking and all you really want is to catch a glimpse of the sky in her eyes and wonder how anyone used to truly live without the ability to fly amongst the clouds.
“Clarke.” You acknowledge when you inevitably give in.
“I feel like you’re avoiding me, but also not avoiding me, because you’re here where you always are, which would literally be the worst place to avoid someone. Unless you are avoiding me and you’re just terrible at it.”
“I’m not.” You promise and she smiles softly.
“Then why didn’t you come and binge watch Real Housewives with me last night like you promised?” Because Clarke was a cuddler and you couldn’t trust yourself to have your hands on her and not really have her. Because she would ask you to stay like she always did and you didn’t think you’d have the strength to say no like you normally would, and you just know you’d have woken up with her in your arms. Because she always make snarky little comments to the screen that made your heart ache with adoration.
Because you were falling in love with her and had absolutely no faith in your self control.
“I was feeling a little off and didn’t want you to catch it.”
“Please, you don’t get sick. You have the Fort Knox of the immune system world.” She jokes and you sigh, running your hands through uncharacteristically dishevelled hair.
“I was tired.”
“I’m getting a little tired too, Lexa. I’ve given you time because everyone kept telling me that you’d bring up the almost kiss when you were ready, but it’s been two weeks and you haven’t even said anything remotely like, ‘Hey Clarke, you almost kissed me and I want that to be a regular thing’ and I’m starting to freak out, because I’ve never actually wanted to date someone, instead of just mindless flirting and hook-ups but I like you. I like you. So maybe let me know when you figure it out so I can either get to being elated or drunk in some seedy bar with frat boys.” She leaves before you can even get a word in and your left staring at the same place that used to be your sanctuary, which simply stares back at you reminding you of blue eyes and a cheeky grin.
You’re so screwed.
Your story, like all great stories, began in the library.
Your crush, like all great crushes, began with a stupid game on her behalf and a spontaneous choice on yours.
You shouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t normally do it. You don’t know why you do it but you do it. Except, you do know exactly why you do it - it’s because you’re kind of stupidly falling for the girl who knows far too many innuendos, and all the right ways to push your buttons, and draws like she was born with graphite under her skin and paint on her brain.
Obviously the it you’re talking about is standing outside of Clarke’s room at an outrageous hour and shouting ‘penis’ at the top of your lungs before you just wait, glaring at the closed door like you’ll somehow gain Jedi mind powers and be able to open it. It flings open so suddenly that you almost trick yourself into believing you have until you catch a glimpse of blonde in your line of sight.
“Your winnings.” She kisses you before you can question her. She kisses you until you can’t feel your legs. She kisses you until you can’t remember anything but her. She kisses you until the boy from next door pokes his head out and tells the two of you to continue your Sapphic romp somewhere that won’t wake the entire hall up.
Your love, like all great loves, begins with her kissing you in the light of the morning amongst groans that it’s too early and she hates you.
Honestly, it’s kind of amazing.