Chapter Text
Clarke is wasted.
(Let’s rewind.)
This is all Octavia’s fault, to be clear.
Clarke had gotten back into California early that same day, greeted at the airport by Raven holding up an obnoxious neon yellow sign that read (in bold, blocky letters, of course): CLARKE GRIFFIN, CALL GIRL. Clarke had rolled her eyes so hard she was genuinely concerned they were going to get stuck, but it did little to disguise the smile that instantly dominated her features. Regardless, her hello to Raven came in the form of punching her in the arm hard enough to draw a yelp from ner. Raven had scowled, but she knew she had been missed when there was no retaliation.
The entire car ride back to the apartment they shared with Octavia had been full of conversation, mostly consisting of each girl filling the other in on things that they missed during their scattered Skype calls and sporadic texting. Time and distance had done nothing to weaken their friendship—something Clarke had already known would be the case all along—but it still made her feel happier than she had felt in weeks to settle back into her old routine with her friends so effortlessly. Spending their freshman year together navigating new experiences and getting used to the grueling schedule of a collegiate soccer athlete had forged a bond strong enough between the three of them that they had not hesitated to sign a lease for their apartment shortly after the school year ended and Clarke was glad to see it lasting the test of time so far.
Later on in the evening, Octavia had stormed into their house minutes after Raven and Clarke had finished up dinner, loudly proclaiming that both girls’ presence was required at an end-of-the-summer party she had been invited to by the older guy she was currently seeing. Really, it was just like Octavia to proposition them for a party before even properly greeting either of them.
Clarke had yet to meet Lincoln (given the fact that she had spent the last few weeks of summer in Boston visiting her mother), but she had heard nothing but good things so far. That and he was apparently providing plenty of alcohol for the party, meaning that there was never really a possibility of declining the invitation.
Which leads back to the original point about Octavia being to blame of Clarke’s current state of extreme drunkenness.
The minute that the three of them had stepped through the threshold of Lincoln’s house, Clarke knew they were in for an entertaining night, at the very least. There seemed to be a body occupying almost every inch of space and the music — a mix of dance tracks and the occasional rap song — was way louder than was likely appropriate for the neighborhood they were in. Clarke did not recognize most of the faces in the crowd, but that wasn’t exactly a surprise given that Lincoln was a grad student and his circle of friends probably did not extend much past that. Normally, being on the soccer team meant that there were few people her age that Clarke did not know (hers and her roommates’ propensity for going out to parties almost every weekend probably helped that, too).
Truth be told, Clarke felt a twinge of intimidation at being surrounded by so many older, more mature people, but Lincoln’s friends looked like they enjoyed having a good time just as much as Clarke and hers did. Besides, she rarely ever let her fears get in the way of making the most out of social situations. That is precisely what the alcohol is for, and Raven had seemingly read her mind because she had tugged on her hand insistently and lead them toward the kitchen.
“Alright, drink up!”
Octavia had somehow beaten them to the kitchen and poured three shots of her alcohol of choice, lining them up on the counter. They each took one, taking a moment to do their customary cheers, before knocking them back with practiced ease.
Clarke grimaced when it hit the back of her throat. “Ah, Jose. Should’ve known our old friend would make the first appearance. We aren’t fucking around tonight, are we?”
“Nope!” Octavia exclaimed and refilled each glass, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “It’s the last night of summer and your first night back in forever. We have to go big or go home and we sure as fuck aren’t going home.”
“You say that like we won’t be back here next week, getting wasted again to celebrate surviving the first week of school,” Raven said, accepting her shot glass regardless.
“You say that like you mind,” Octavia shot back. “But, I mean, yeah, you’re probably right. I can already see Kane shaking his head at me when I throw up all over the track tomorrow morning. But that’s okay, I live for the smell of disappointment at 6 A.M. Makes me feel at home again.”
“Listen, you guys know I’m the last person to complain about our probable alcoholism. How else am I supposed to cope with my life if not by getting plastered every weekend with my main bitches? I don’t even care that we’re all gonna feel like a giant bag of dicks for our first practice back!”
Clarke laughed at both of them, holding up her own shot glass and keeping it there until Octavia and Raven brought theirs up to join. “Well then, here’s to our second shit-show year at college, my friends.”
They were most likely (read: definitely) going to get way too drunk and suffer the consequences in the form a brutal hangover during their unforgiving first practice back tomorrow, but Clarke also knew that none of them could really find it in themselves to care.
* * *
So, when Bellamy finds them still in the kitchen about thirty minutes later, loudly suggesting a game of beer pong between the four of them (he and Octavia against Raven and Clarke, naturally), Clarke’s first inclination had been to reject it. She was already five shots of tequila deep and currently nursing a cup of jungle juice that tasted more like battery acid than anything else, so — beer pong? Not a good idea right now, and especially not when Clarke knows how good the Blake siblings are at beer pong, first of all. (It was kind of unnatural, honestly, and Clarke is sort of convinced they wake up freakishly early every day to run shooting drills for this specific purpose.)
Second of all, a drunk Clarke makes for a competitive one, and the memory of their last attempt at playing beer pong with each other was still fresh on everyone’s mind (it ended with a visit from the fire department because Clarke had thrown a candle at Bellamy’s head in a fit of competitive rage after losing on a redemption shot — he was fine, for the record; Clarke was prone to throwing things at him anyway — only she had failed to notice it was still lit. It landed on the couch and, well, that’s also the story of how Raven’s favorite couch was burnt to a crisp.)
Anyway.
She had intended to say no, but then Raven was tugging on her hand, leading her toward the table, and the first thing Bellamy does when he makes eye contact with her is laughs.
“You’re banking on Princess tonight? She can barely get her drink into her mouth, let alone win a game of beer pong.” He bounces one of the pong balls on the table, still grinning at Clarke. “This is gonna be cake. Good to see you again, by the way. It was, like, really sweet of you to text me and let me know you were back in town.”
Clarke really wishes she could dispute Bellamy’s claim, but it is at that exact moment that she spills some of the juice onto her shirt and she really thinks the universe hates her sometimes. Regardless, she sets the cup down on the kitchen island — defiantly, as Clarke Griffin tends to do everything. She’s maybe drunk enough that she’s momentarily distracted by the smoothness of the granite countertop. Nice, she thinks to herself (as though she’d drunkenly acquired a taste for home decor) before snapping it out of it and fixing Bellamy with a glare.
“Okay, firstly, I just got back today so stop being a baby. Secondly, I could kick your ass even if I were blacked out, asshole,” she retorts, taking her stance next to Raven behind the end of the table opposite of Bellamy and Octavia. “Pretty sure I remember making you cry after beating you for fourteen games straight.”
Bellamy frowns, mumbling out, “That was one time…”
“People don’t forget,” interjects Raven, polishing off the last of her beer.
She and Octavia had taken to arranging all of the cups on the table and Clarke is mildly impressed by the neat formation given how she could tell both girls were definitely feeling the effects of the tequila.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s get this show on the road!” Bellamy hands off the remaining ball to Octavia, shooting a smile her way. “Well, Clarke, looks like we’ll have to wait and talk about your little vacation in Boston until after you lose. That is, if you’re still coherent by that point.”
Clarke flips him off and downs the rest of her jungle juice, if only to spite him and prove that her impressive drinking tolerance was still present. She throws the empty cup at him, grinning when it bounces off his forehead.
“You’re gonna be waiting a long time then,” she retorts.
She wishes she was actually as confident as she is projecting, but Clarke can barely keep her mind focused on the task at hand. Her brain is swimming pleasantly with all the alcohol she has had, but she’ll be damned if she lets Bellamy and Octavia take her first beer pong victory since she’s been back. She can feel that last cup of juice settling like lead in her stomach and she is already dreading the fullness that will come with ingesting beer on top of it all. The only solution, really, would be to pummel her opponents, forcing them to be the ones to drink. Easy enough, Clarke thinks.
* * *
They definitely end up losing.
And seriously, the entire fucking universe must hate her, Clarke is certain now. She is currently listening to Bellamy gloat, glowering at him as she and Raven drink the remaining beer in each cup. Clarke would punch him if she didn’t think the momentum could quite possibly throw off her balance, further embarrassing her.
“You know, Clarke, I really am glad you’re home,” Bellamy says then, swinging his arm around her shoulders and smirking. “I was starting to wonder when I would get the chance to show you who’s the real BP boss.”
“God, you’re a douche,” groans Clarke, slapping him hard on the ribs. “‘BP boss’? Who the fuck says things like that?”
“Hey, now! There’s absolutely no need to be hurtful. This is no way to make the most out of the time with your long-lost friend,” Bellamy feigns offense, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “You guys wanna head out back? It’s way nicer outside. I feel like most of the sweat on my body isn’t even mine.”
Octavia and Raven vocalize their agreement, but Clarke shakes her head a little. “Lemme go to the bathroom first. I’ll find you guys when I’m done.”
“Can you handle going to the bathroom by yourself right now, champ?” Octavia shoots her a pointed look, no doubt having taken note of Clarke’s alcohol intake. “Because you’re definitely walking like a slight breeze could knock you over.”
Clarke rolls her eyes, willing herself to look more sober. “This ain’t my first rodeo, O.”
She pauses and then dissolves into laughter. “You could totally become a cowboy and nickname yourself Rodeo-O!”
When all three of them stare blankly at her in return, Clarke mutters, “Fuck you, it was funny.”
“I’ve literally never met a more un-funny person than you,” Raven deadpans, the smirk toying at her lips belying her words. “But, yeah, go do your thing and then come find us. The night has just begun! Began?”
"Begun," Octavia quietly supplies.
"Begun!"
Clarke has to hold back a groan at the thought, wondering just how she’s supposed to make it through the rest of the night if she was already at this current state.
* * *
Predictably, the line to get into the bathroom is long. Clarke busies herself with scrolling absentmindedly through her phone and people-watching, occasionally laughing at the conversations she hears between the drunk girls around her. There are a few intoxicated conversations she has had with her own friends that flit through her mind when she catches tidbits of the ridiculous statements being thrown around (like the time Raven had very nearly convinced Octavia that a North Virginia also existed). Her phone buzzes in her hand then and she immediately pulls up the text from Raven.
Raven
r u still alive?, im kinda drink
11:05 P.M.
She is in the middle of shooting off a quickly reply when she notices it is her turn to use the bathroom, and she is still too focused on typing (which has suddenly become the biggest challenge Clarke has ever faced in her life) to notice the figure stepping out. In fact, she only notices when their bodies collide, jarring Clarke from her current task.
“Fuck, I’m really—,” she begins, faltering when she looks up to take notice of who she had just unceremoniously rammed into.
Clarke’s immediate thought is that this girl is beautiful, the kind of pretty that makes her wonder whether she’s more attracted or annoyed because people like that should not be allowed to exist. Even in the dim lighting, she can easily make out intense gray-green eyes and shiny, chestnut locks that fall in soft curls past her shoulders. She is dressed rather simply, donning black skinny jeans and a loose camisole exposes delicate collarbones that Clarke is already thinking about mouthing over. She almost feels like this girl deserves to be introduced through some stupid montage from a teen romcom—the Hot Girl steps out of the bathroom surrounded by weird fog and angelic lighting, her hair casually blowing in the wind even though she’s indoors.
She’s that hot (but Clarke’s drunk, slutty brain probably isn’t helping helping either.)
“Uh, sorry. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” Clarke finally stammers out, finding her voice after realizing that the girl was pointedly staring at her, waiting for her to finish her initial sentence. “Clearly.”
The girl quirks an eyebrow, nodding in acknowledgement of Clarke’s apology. She gives Clarke a once-over, facial expression mostly neutral. “No problem. I’ll get out of your way.”
Clarke almost tells her that she should actually do the opposite of that and stay in her way, but she clamps her mouth shut, killing any chance of her drunken honesty getting her into trouble. She nods dumbly instead, watching the girl walk away for a minute before stepping into the bathroom. Jesus, Clarke thinks to herself (somewhat bitterly, if she’s being completely honest), that isn’t even fair.
The sudden and harsh light inside the bathroom catches her off-guard, dizzying her a little, and her attention is diverted. Instead, she places her hands on either side of the sink, steadying herself and focusing on stopping the world from spinning.
“When did I become such a lightweight?” She grumbles to herself.
But when she glances at herself in the mirror, she is mildly surprised to find that she looks way more put together than she feels.
Well, at least there’s that.
* * *
The other consolation comes when Clarke joins her friends in the backyard, approaching just in time to catch Octavia and Raven slumped together against the railing of the porch, seemingly holding each other up. There is a small crowd of people milling around the fairly large outside area, but it is nowhere near as packed as it is inside. The temperature is still pretty warm because it is the summer and they are in California, after all, but it feels infinitely better than being surrounded by sweaty bodies at every turn.
Clarke gesticulates wildly at her friends when she steps into their eyeline. “Look at this! You two can barely stand. You’re both disgraceful.”
Octavia held her middle finger up in what she thought was Clarke’s direction, and it would have been slightly more effective if it had actually landed on target. “Screw you, Griff. I’ll fucking fight you.”
“Yeah, okay, I would actually really love to see you try that right now,” Clarke laughs, swatting away Octavia’s hand. “Where’s Bell?”
“Dunno, he left to go find Echo,” Raven slurs out. Her eyes are hazy with the alcohol when she looks over at Clarke, a dopey smile overtaking her features. “I’ll backhand you if you mention this in the morning, but I’m happy you’re back.”
“Yeah, me too,” echoes Octavia, mirroring Raven’s smile. “It’s gonna be a hell of a year, that’s for damn sure.”
“Aww, you guys!” Clarke says, stepping forward and pinching each of their cheeks. She grins widely at their matching scowls and throws her arms around them, bringing them in close because she knows they hate shit like this. “I can’t believe you both openly admitted to missing me just now. Miracles really do happen when you believe.”
“Shut up.” Raven jabs Clarke in the stomach. “You’ll never be able to prove this actually happened. Everyone knows you’re delusional.”
“I have the proof in my heart.” Clarke taps herself on the sternum to accentuate her point. “That’s all I need.”
“You’re dumb,” says Octavia plainly. Then, as if she’s been hit with a revolutionary idea, “Why aren’t we holding drinks right now? This is an outrage!”
She lets go of Clarke and Raven, her intention probably to lead them over to the cooler full of beers at the edge of the backyard patio, but she trips over her own feet after a grand total of about five steps.
Clarke snorts. “That’s why.”
“Maybe you should take it easy for a little while, buddy.” Raven pats the top of Octavia’s head, smashing her hand down with unnecessary force while Octavia glares at her. “You haven’t even gotten to say hi to your boy yet.”
As if on cue, a deep voice sounds from behind the three of them, and they all turn to see who Clarke presumes is Lincoln. Raven had been right when she told Clarke that he is “the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—seriously, it’s like he’s genetically engineered, I don’t know, it’s fucking weird,” but it’s the easy, soft smile directed towards Octavia that wins Clarke over almost immediately. Octavia quickly settles herself underneath one of his arms, leaning against his broad chest and matching his smile, and Clarke feels the warmth of happiness pool in her stomach at the sight of their casual intimacy.
“Glad you ladies were able to make it out.” He notices Clarke right away, nodding in her direction. “I’m assuming you’re Clarke? It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Probably all shit talk and I can promise you none of it is true.” Clarke sticks her hand out and if she maybe misses Lincoln’s and fails entirely at offering a handshake, well—it’s been a night.
“Um, all of it is true,” Octavia interjects.
Raven, for her part, wastes no time in laughing loudly at Clarke’s mishap. “Please excuse her, she’s rarely allowed out of her cage. Even the most basic human tasks are difficult for her after so much time in the darkness.”
“Has anyone told you lately that you’re a dick? Because if not, here’s your friendly reminder.” Clarke knocks her shoulder into Raven’s, jostling her.
“Y’know, it’s hard to take your insults seriously when I just saw you offer someone a handshake and miss.”
They go back and forth trading insults for a few minutes before they realize that Lincoln and Octavia are nowhere to be found, the former undoubtedly having been dragged away by the latter somewhere inside. Clarke halfheartedly searches the crowd for them, but she knows they are long gone, likely for the rest of the night. The thought does not bother her, not really, especially not after seeing how comfortable Octavia looks around Lincoln. Octavia is a wild one to try to keep up with, but Clarke has the sneaking suspicion that Lincoln is more interested in appreciating that as opposed to changing it.
Raven pouts for a second, but then rolls her eyes and scoffs, “Of course they skipped out on us. O’s probably trying to get laid as we speak.”
“It’s hard out here for a pimp,” says Clarke absentmindedly. “Speaking of, I met the hottest girl I’ve probably ever seen in my life when I went to the bathroom.”
“Well, I know that’s not true. You see me every day. Sometimes even naked, when I feel like giving to the poor.”
“Sorry, second hottest girl.”
“That’s more like it.”
Just as Clarke is about to open her mouth and describe the bathroom goddess in excruciating detail, she looks up past Raven to see the very subject of their conversation leaning casually against the wall closest to the doorway leading indoors. She is talking a to a slender blonde, nursing a beer in her hands and smiling lazily at whatever it was her companion was telling her. She looks even lovelier beneath the light of the pale moon above them (Clarke kind of hates it) and it is easier to see her high, defined cheekbones and perfect cut of her jaw. Truth be told, Clarke is still stuck somewhere between being bitter and turned on.
“Holy shit,” Clarke breathes out, averting her gaze before she could get caught. “That’s her.”
“Who?” Raven eyeballs the people nearest to them, narrowing her gaze with the effort it takes her to focus in her current state. “Point her out to me ’cause I definitely only see 4s around here.” She makes it a point to stare directly at Clarke.
“You’re a bitch and could you, like, maybe try to be subtle?” Clarke hisses back, noticing that the girl’s eyes were now sweeping her surroundings. “I kinda ran into her so she probably already thinks I’m a drunk mess. I don’t need to add stalker to my resume.”
Raven gives her a blank stare. “But you are a drunk mess.”
Clarke pauses, offended for less than a split second, and then shrugs. “Okay, yeah, that’s true, but she doesn’t need to know that.”
“Why don’t you just go and talk to her? Fucking point her out to me. I need to see her,” Raven replies, eyes still searching.
Clarke nods as discreetly as she can in the general direction of the woman, following Raven’s gaze until she was certain it landed on the correct target.
“Damn. I mean, damn.” Raven whistled lowly, brows raised. Then she plants a hard slap on Clarke’s back. “Keep dreaming, Griffin. She’s way out of your league.”
“When do we get to the part where you’re the supportive best friend?” Clarke glares, wincing at the sting Raven’s palm left. “She’s not that out of my league. I can clean up nicely too, okay.”
“Looks-wise? Nah, she’s not out of your league. You’re a dumbass, but you’re hot. Except, y’know, she actually looks like she has her life together.”
“Hey! I have my life together,” says Clarke defensively. She looks down at the jungle juice stain on her tank top. “Sorta.”
“Sure, pal…wait, she moved over right by the cooler. Now’s your chance! Pretend like you’re getting a beer and then it’s your time to shine and ask her if, by any chance, she would like to bang you.” Raven nods seriously to herself, as if she’s just given Clarke sound advice. “Actually, don’t even say anything. Just get on your knees in front of her. You wanna be clear about your intentions from the start, Clarke. Avoids complications. I had to learn that the hard way.”
“Wow. Why haven’t I come to you before? It seems like you’ve got it all figured out. I honestly don’t get why you’re single.”
“I’m going to ignore your sarcasm and do you a favor right about now.” As soon as she finishes speaking, Raven shoves Clarke in the general direction of Bathroom Goddess.
Clarke ends up stumbling forward, shooting a withering glance at Raven over her shoulder. Raven just grins maniacally and gives her a thumbs up in return. She gets what she wanted, though, because a drunk Clarke is not very hard to convince and she finds herself already making her way over to the cooler without even really realizing it. At the very least, even if she fails miserably and ends up embarrassing herself, Clarke tells herself she’ll get another beer out of it.
* * *
Lexa sees her approaching out of the corner of her eye.
(The girl from the bathroom, the one who had knocked into her earlier that night.)
She still looks less sober than Lexa feels, but Lexa can admit with little issue that the girl is attractive, with her golden, wavy hair and piercingly blue eyes. She looked like summer come to life in cut-offs and a loose tank top, skin bronze even in the dim lighting of the backyard. Lexa had thought she was pretty whenever they had run into each other just outside the bathroom, even with her face turned down toward her phone. She had also looked vaguely familiar, but she looked young enough that Lexa was mostly certain they had never had a class together.
Either way, she was doing her best to ignore the interest tugging in her stomach, chalking it up to all the alcohol she had consumed and too many lonely nights lately. Really, the last thing she needed in her life at the moment was drunken mistake.
She had only agreed to come to the party at Anya’s insistence, anyway. The other woman had harassed Lexa for weeks about how she should take advantage of what little summer there was left to enjoy herself before throwing herself into grad school and being a TA for the first time in her college career. After a particularly stressful day spent arranging all the material for the first day of class tomorrow, Lexa had caved, making the walk over to Lincoln’s house from her own to meet up with Anya earlier in the night. She figured she could allow herself a little freedom and entertainment before all of her time was swallowed up by academia again.
“You there, Lex? Do I have to dump some cold water on you?”
Lexa blinks, tuning back into whatever Anya was trying to explain. “Sorry, my mind’s all over the place tonight.”
Anya looks at her knowingly, eyes flicking over to the girl who had just stolen Lexa’s attention. “Oh, yeah? I think it’s on one particular thing, actually. So, who is she?”
Lexa does not need to look to know that Anya is referring to the blonde currently fishing a beer out of the cooler a few feet away from them. Her best friend was annoyingly observant like that.
She shrugs as casually as she can. “No clue. She ran into me earlier while I was coming out of the bathroom.”
Anya looks skeptical, but accepts her explanation. “Sure. Hey, I’m gonna go find Lincoln and say good night. I have class early tomorrow and I would rather not start my final year in grad school feeling like a steaming pile of shit. You coming with?”
Lexa considers it for a moment, acutely aware of the girl still lingering nearby, taking a little bit too much time grabbing a beer. She shakes her head.
“I think I’m going to stay for a little while longer. I’m sure I’ll see you on campus somewhere tomorrow.”
Anya smirks, eyeing Lexa knowingly. She says nothing about it, though. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lex.”
Lexa ignores her pointed gestures and nods her goodbye instead, taking another swig from her beer. She should probably stop drinking at this point considering she was well past the point of being tipsy, but her lack of clearheadedness eased most of the discomfort she tended to feel in social situations. She is too busy studying the remaining people shuffling around outside to notice the arrival of the woman next to her until she starts speaking.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, amusement present in her eyes. They’re still a clear, bright blue even underneath the haziness the alcohol provoked. “I’m Clarke, by the way. I figured I should at least introduce myself after almost mowing you down into you earlier. I still feel kinda bad about it.”
Lexa is so caught off-guard by her presence that it takes her a few beats of silence to respond. “Lexa,” is all she says in return.
The girl—Clarke—looks like she is maybe thinking too hard about what to say next (not that Lexa would be in better shape initiating conversation with a complete stranger at a party). She may or may not be drunk enough that she thinks Clarke’s hesitation is, well, kind of cute. She pushes the thought away almost immediately, unwilling to cross into that dangerous territory. She had had a fair amount to drink and there was a high likelihood that she was going to end up making this situation worse if she continued to indulge those thoughts.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Lexa?” Clarke looks like she legitimately cares about the answer.
Lexa merely nods, still cautious about this girl who keeps making the effort to interact with her for seemingly no apparent reason. An awkward silence falls between them for a few brief moments and Lexa is already thinking up excuses to get away.
“So,” Clarke tries again slowly, regarding Lexa with curious, if a little bleary, eyes. “How do you know Lincoln?”
The host/mutual friend is always a safe topic, Lexa supposes.
“Grew up with him,” Lexa replies, bringing the beer bottle to her lips again.
Clarke’s face falls at receiving yet another short answer and Lexa feels kind of guilty because Clarke is being genuinely nice and she doesn’t really mean to be an asshole. It just sort of happens sometimes.
Sighing, she steels herself and continues, “What about you?”
Clarke looks a little surprised, as if she had gone into the conversation expecting to be the one to ask all the questions.
(Under any other circumstances, she would have been right.)
(Lexa finds that she is struggling to ignore the way Clarke watches her throat working with hooded eyes every time she drinks from her beer. She finds it even harder to ignore the heady rush of attraction she undoubtedly feels in response.)
“Oh, he’s dating one of my roommates. Just met him tonight, actually.” Clarke smiles ruefully and looks down. “That’s a weird thought considering I’m already drunk at his house. Please don’t let that tell you anything about me as a person.”
Lexa smiles a little. Clarke’s honesty is beguiling and there is a genuineness that radiates from her that makes Lexa feel more comfortable than she normally would with someone she had just met. Mostly, she feels like she doesn’t have to impress Clarke—that she would be happy to sit and listen to her talk about anything—and it makes her feel more at ease than she has in a while.
“What else is college for if not for consuming alcohol in random places?”
With that, Lexa finishes the rest of her beer. She looks to see that the trashcan is located across the yard, next to a few empty lawn chairs. Before she can think too hard on it, Lexa looks back to Clarke. “Would you like to join me in the lap of luxury over there?”
Clarke’s eyes light up at that and Lexa feels something warm in her chest at how excited she looks at the simple invitation. She’s a human golden retriever. The thought makes her laugh to herself a little.
“Lead the way.”
* * *
About half an hour later, Lexa is another two beers deep (so much for cutting herself off) and well into an engrossing conversation with Clarke. At this point, her mind feels pleasantly numb, free from all of the thoughts at are normally incessantly buzzing in her brain. She doesn’t know what she was expecting when she extended the invitation for Clarke to sit with her, but it definitely wasn’t this: easy interaction and barely contained laughter. And maybe it is the alcohol clouding her judgment, but Lexa thinks that Clarke might be flirting a little, too (or she just makes a habit of staring at people’s lips when they talk).
She learns that Clarke is going into her sophomore year (it makes Lexa feel old, even if it isn’t really a big gap) and is on the starting lineup for the soccer team, which explains why Lexa had thought she looked familiar. She lives off-campus with two of her best friends from the soccer team and she’s from Boston (“Bah-ston,” Clarke said, exaggerating the accent and delighting in Lexa’s subsequent laugh), which Lexa had definitely not expected to hear. Clarke was the embodiment of California, of the warm sunshine and clear skies. Lexa learns that she is caught between wanting to continue on her Pre-Med track or switch to art, both of which surprise her because, if she is being honest, she had sort of written Clarke off just another drunk girl at a party.
Despite their apparent and obvious intoxication, conversation flows steadily between them and before long, Lexa finds her defenses have fallen just enough to forget why she should not be indulging in this attraction in the first place. She was hardly the type to meet people at random parties, but Clarke made it all too simple for her to relax and enjoy being in the present. It was disarming, to say the least.
“So, what do you like to do for fun then? If this isn’t the activity of choice.” Clarke is leaning forward, regarding Lexa with rapt attention.
They were on the topic of hobbies and Lexa had learned that Clarke’s life outside of school and soccer mostly consisted of hanging out with her roommates and painting—“Well, whenever I feel inspired by something beautiful,” she had said, looking up at Lexa through her lashes.
Lexa shrugs. “I don’t have a lot of free time, actually. I usually take about 19 credit hours per semester so most of my time is spent studying.”
“How do you even function taking all of those classes?” There’s a smile playing at the corner of Clarke’s lips and Lexa is having a hard time keeping her eyes off of the freckle above her lip. “I almost died with my schedule last year and it was nowhere near as bad. But soccer keeps me pretty busy too, I guess. It’s hard to feel that way about it when I love it so much.”
Lexa bites her lip when she sees the fondness that overtake Clarke’s features as she discusses her favorite past-time. If Lexa had a weakness for anything, it was listening to people talk about something they genuinely enjoy. That kind of enthusiasm was infectious and impossible to fake.
“Sometimes I wish I were more athletically inclined, but I’ll settle for yoga. Hopefully, I can balance all of that with the TA job I’m starting too.”
Lexa picks at the hem of her shirt, avoiding Clarke’s gaze. It is not often that she admits to being overwhelmed and it is an unfamiliar feeling to be divulging all of this to someone who is still, essentially, a stranger to her. Not for the first time that night, she blames the openness Clarke inspires in her on the alcohol.
“So, you’re telling me that you’re taking that insane course load and you signed up to be in another classroom as your job?” Clarke’s blue eyes are wide and blinking at Lexa in awe. “Holy shit. How do you do it?”
Lexa can’t help but laugh at the shocked expression on Clarke’s face. She’s just—so cute, which isn’t a thought that Lexa has often about people, but Clarke is wholly endearing.
“I guess I don’t really consider it a job. I enjoy learning. It’s like you with soccer.” Lexa shrugs again. “It helps keep my mind off things, most of the time.”
She watches Clarke tug her bottom lip in between her teeth, feeling the act in the pit of her stomach. This is bad, Lexa thinks, really, really bad. Then again, she was steadily getting closer and closer to not caring at all anymore. Clarke, Lexa is quickly learning, has a knack for pulling her out of her self-imposed protective shell. She cannot remember the last time someone captured her interest and attention this easily. That alone was an issue in and of itself—nevermind the attraction that Lexa felt was almost swallowing her whole, despite her best efforts to leave it mostly unacknowledged.
“What else helps keep your mind off things?”
Lexa almost chokes on her own spit. She is not sure whether or not Clarke had meant the statement suggestively, but she makes the mistake of catching Clarke's eye regardless. She is not prepared for the hunger she finds in Clarke’s stare, or the pink flash of Clarke’s tongue wetting her lips. The air between them suddenly feels heavy with tension, and Lexa finds herself struggling to swallow past it. Clarke is staring at Lexa’s mouth again, as if she needed further convincing of Clarke's intentions with her.
“Maybe that’s a topic better discussed in private,” She finally replies. Her cheeks are burning at her own answer, but the Blue Moon in her system is making it too easy to match Clarke’s suggestiveness.
(It also makes it easy to quiet the voice in the back of Lexa’s head that insists on reminding her that she is drunk and flirting with a random undergrad student in the backyard at a party.)
But, well, fuck it, Lexa has resigned herself to thinking—Clarke is beautiful and flirting with her, Lexa is wildly attracted to her, and she cannot remember the last time she did something without getting too caught up in the possible consequences. Maybe Anya was right about needing to let loose (she probably did not mean to this extent, but that was a thought for another time).
“Oh, yeah?” Clarke is smirking in this vaguely shit-head way that Lexa should definitely not find attractive, but definitely does. “And where would be a more appropriate place?”
Lexa knows the minute she hears Clarke’s answer that this is a mistake they are both (happily) going to make.
“My place is just down the street.”
* * *
It should feel weird (because they barely know each other), but it doesn’t, and Lexa briefly thinks that maybe that’s the weird part about all of this, and not how she’s straddling Clarke’s lap on the couch inside her house after having just met a few hours prior. Clarke’s hands on Lexa’s hips feel sure and steady, confident in a way that keeps Lexa on her toes. Their mouths have been pressed together since they stepped through the threshold of the house, an unspoken agreement about what they were about to do settling between them. It’s been a long time since Lexa found herself in this type of situation, but at this point, she is too far gone to put a stop to it—and she doesn’t want to, but she chooses to focus less on that.
When her lungs start to burn for air, she pulls back from their kiss, opting instead to pepper smaller ones along the curve of Clarke’s jaw. She pauses when her lips touch Clarke’s pulse point, enjoying the sensation of it beating like moth’s wings against her mouth.
“We should - um, we should stop,” mumbles Clarke right then.
Lexa can feel her shivering beneath underneath her; her skin is hot to the touch.
“If you want,” says Lexa slowly. Her lips seem to have trouble cooperating as she mouths over the exposed skin of Clarke’s collarbone, drawing a soft sigh in return.
“It’s not - , ” Clarke pauses, swallowing hard when Lexa gets to work on leaving a bruise on the hollow between her neck and shoulder. “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to stop, if you keep doing this. If we keep doing this, I mean, and I don’t know how you feel going that far with me.”
Lexa pauses as that, leaning back and admiring her handiwork for a moment. She moves her hands to Clarke’s shoulders, blinking slowly. “Do you want to? Stop, that is—because to be honest, I thought this was going one particular way since left the party together.”
Clarke laughs and Lexa immediately tenses, dropping her hands down to her sides. Clarke shakes her head, pulling her hands back out and lacing their fingers together. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at how fucking clueless I am.”
Clarke looks up at her then, eyes dark and hooded. She smiles, and it’s slow and lazy—Lexa finds it impossible to ignore the flutter that erupts in her stomach at the sight and chooses instead to focus on the steady rise and fall of Clarke’s chest, the tousled strands of golden hair that Lexa wants nothing more than to further muss up. She wants Clarke— it burns hotly beneath her skin and at the pit of her stomach. Whether or not their paths will cross again after tonight is not exactly at the forefront of her mind when Clarke has been trying so hard to dismantle her all night.
If Lexa really thinks about it, she probably should have realized that Clarke had likely gotten her hook, line, and sinker. Her pride wants to make it harder for Clarke to pull her apart, but a bigger part of her enjoys entertaining the thought that she had been in Clarke's sights all night.
“You’re beautiful,” says Clarke suddenly, interrupting her train of thought.
Her voice is quiet and a little slurred, but it catches Lexa off-guard how sincere Clarke sounds - like she’s never meant anything before she meant that. She can’t fight off the blush that warms her cheeks and the bloom of affection she feels in her chest. Well, that's...alarming, Lexa thinks, but she is not sure how much she actually means it.
“You’re also more than a little drunk,” Lexa counters.
She tries to keep the vulnerability out of her voice, but she’s not so sure she succeeds. Alcohol does rather inconvenient things to her defenses, it turns out. Nevertheless, Lexa brings her hands up to the sides of Clarke’s neck, stroking and reveling in the softness of the skin there.
“Yes,” Clarke concedes, leaning into Lexa’s touch. She smiles again and Lexa burns all over. “But I can handle my liquor and I have a feeling that the alcohol has nothing to do with me thinking that.”
Lexa doesn’t know what to say to that, so she kisses Clarke again, hard, keeping herself from breathing “so are you” into the space they share. She moves away for just a moment to take her shirt off, carelessly tossing it to the side, and then Clarke is looking at her with so much awe in her gaze that it makes it hard for Lexa to breathe. She watches as Clarke moves her hands forward tentatively, settling over Lexa’s stomach and merely feeling for a minute before traveling back toward her spine. Lexa’s whole body goosebumps, and she lets her eyes close shut when Clarke’s fingertips reach her bra clasp.
Moments later, she feels the careful touch of Clarke’s lips on her sternum and the material slipping off and down her arms. By this point, she would normally feel the need to curl away shyly, to hide and protect herself - but she doesn’t, not at all. She feels safe, and wanted, and all she wants to do is make Clarke feel the same way, consequences be damned.
“You’re so beautiful,” Clarke repeats, making her way over the newly exposed skin of Lexa’s chest. Her hands grip at Lexa’s hipbones, and it feels like she is desperate to make her believe.
“Take this off,” Lexa says instead, tugging at Clarke’s belt, rushed and just this side of breathless.
Clarke laughs a little against her mouth, reaching down to grab Lexa’s hands and keeping them still. “Patience.”
Lexa huffs in frustration, loosening the leather until the buttonhole pops free. There’s something about listening to the sound of the belt come undone that pushes Lexa into a frenzy and she quickly pops open Clarke’s cutoffs. Clarke, for her part, leans back against the couch with her hands behind her head and watches the focused set of Lexa’s gaze as she works to release her of her shorts. Lexa moves up off of Clarke to kneel on the floor in front of her; she pulls the zipper down slowly, watching Clarke watch her movements. It kind of turns her on, Clarke observing her every move like this.
She makes a bit of a show of it, sliding Clarke’s shorts off first, dragging them at a nearly glacial pace until they hit the floor. Clarke is smirking, but the dazed way she’s looking at Lexa lets her know that she’s already won this battle. Rather than give Clarke what she wants, Lexa runs her hands over the tops of her thighs first, fingertips digging in hard enough to leave imprints of her fingertips.
“You’re not playing fair,” whines Clarke, leaning even further back. There’s something downright obscene about seeing Clarke like this, blue eyes dark and wild and determined. Lexa can’t remember the last time she wanted anything, anyone, as much as she wants her.
“When did I agree to be fair?”
Clarke simply looks at Lexa for a long moment before moving herself forward, reaching until she can grab Lexa’s arms and tug her back up again. Lexa is mildly surprised, but lets herself be pulled nonetheless, settling her legs on either side of Clarke’s lap.
“Come here,” Clarke murmurs, arms wrapping together behind the small of Lexa’s back, tightening until their bodies are flush against one another.
Lexa hums low in her throat. “You do know where I was going with that, right?”
She moves her thumb to trace Clarke’s mouth, dark red and somewhat swollen. Clarke kisses it, regarding Lexa for the longest moment as she does so. She doesn’t answer her, choosing instead to maneuver them so Lexa is lying on her back along the length of the couch, Clarke hovering carefully over her. Lexa takes the opportunity to slow down and let her hands feel from the lean muscle of Clarke’s arms all the way down to the ridges on her abdomen.
“You first,” Clarke finally responds, nosing Lexa’s hair away from her neck to place kisses wherever her mouth can reach.
Lexa’s breath catches in her throat when Clarke starts to travel downward. The sight of Clarke’s head steadily getting further and further away is overwhelming, so her eyes flit up to the ceiling. Her breathing sounds harsh and loud in the quiet stillness of the house when she feels rather than sees Clarke’s teeth tugging at the band of her jeans. She can’t help the whimper that escapes her while Clarke carefully undresses her in one go. Lexa feels so sensitive to everything—the heat of Clarke’s breath on her thigh, the feeling of her long fingers grazing the outside of her hips, the strands of her hair lightly tickling her calves.
Lexa almost comes undone as soon as the warm pressure of Clarke’s mouth is on her, teasing and exploratory. Her eyes fly shut, her hands automatically burying themselves in golden hair, pulling and knotting. When Clarke hums her approval, Lexa feels it everywhere. The entire room feels too small and too warm—for a moment, she’s genuinely worried that she’s going to catch on fire. Her whole body feels taut, pulled tense like the arrow on a bow. She does not know if it is the alcohol or Clarke’s touch that is making her dizzy, or maybe it’s a combination of both. Clarke is taking her time and Lexa doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until her lungs start to ache with the effort of it.
Clarke pauses to whisper, “Breathe.”
And Lexa does, expelling it slowly and shakily. She feels like she’s losing her mind in all of it, like there’s too much for her body and for her senses to take in all at once. She catches herself thinking that she wants to remember all of this in the morning. The warmth of Clarke, the way she unfurls Lexa so delicately. The soft, almost shy noises escaping the back of her throat and the way she repeats Lexa’s name like a prayer under her breath.
Lexa knows Clarke can tell she is close by the way the hands in her hair tighten, from the way Lexa’s abdomen tenses beneath her palms. Clarke moves her mouth away to kiss at the curve of Lexa’s hipbone for a moment, smiling against the skin when she hears Lexa whine in protest. She scrapes her teeth over the spot before biting down, drawing a hiss from Lexa and leaving an angry, red mark that will serve as a reminder to her that Clarke had been there.
When Clarke resumes her previous ministrations, it’s almost enough to send Lexa over the edge. She’s arching off the couch now, pushing up and into Clarke’s mouth as much as she can without causing discomfort. It only takes another series of gasping breaths and Lexa is gone, breathless when her eyes flick downward to take in the sight of Clarke on her. She feels as though her skin can barely contain her, and Clarke is working her down carefully, gradually slowing until she comes to a full stop.
Lexa is still struggling to catch her breath when Clarke crawls her way back up, resting her head on Lexa’s chest and stretching out the length of her body as best as she can on the narrow couch.
“You okay?” She murmurs into the darkness.
Lexa expels a few more hard breaths before tilting Clarke’s face up to meet her in another kiss. She draws back just enough to mumble against Clarke's mouth. “You’re still wearing too much clothing.”
She feels Clarke’s impish smile. “Then I guess you better fix that.”
Lexa wastes no time in pulling Clarke’s shirt and bra off in one smooth motion, her hands coming to rest on the bare skin of her waist. Clarke is smooth everywhere that Lexa touches, her body the perfect combination of soft curves and lean muscle.
“Up,” says Lexa, nudging Clarke to adjust their positions until her legs are bracketing Lexa’s hips. Clarke is kissing her again and Lexa returns the act with equal fervor, letting her hands wander down to to run over muscular thighs. She feels Clarke shiver in response and it encourages her to keep going even further. She takes her time, deciding in the midst of it that since this is likely the only time she will have Clarke in her (metaphorical) bed, she is going to do it right. However, it isn’t too long before she lets her hand wander up to where Clarke needs her the most, letting her fingertips feel with light, maddening touches. When Clarke’s mouth falls open at the sensation, Lexa uses the opportunity to let her tongue glide along the length of Clarke’s bottom lip before pulling it gently into her mouth.
She can tell by the way that Clarke is shaking above her and the almost painful grip she has on Lexa’s shoulders that it probably won’t take her too long. Lexa feels the sudden urge to drag it out, to take every moment to savor every part of Clarke, every breath, every sigh. When she slows her pace down, Clarke lets out a low whine.
“Why are you trying to make me suffer? I’m a good person, I promise.” Clarke’s voice has dropped an octave, the huskiness of it affecting Lexa more than she wants to admit.
She laughs lowly, her lips brushing Clarke’s every time her mouth moves. “I like taking my time. Is that a problem?”
Clarke’s pupils are blown and her mouth is kiss-swollen and the sight of her this worked up almost makes Lexa rethink her decision. Almost.
“It is when I want you like I do right now,” says Clarke, huffing. She moves forward and plants a kiss on the corner of Lexa’s mouth. “We can do slow later, yeah?”
Lexa hums, pressing into Clarke more firmly with her fingertips. “You’re not in a position to bargain right now, though, are you?”
She feels a burst of satisfaction at Clarke’s strangled gasp, but she finds herself letting out a hiss quickly afterward when Clarke delivers a sharp bite to her bottom lip. She draws back a little again, choosing to move her fingers without any real sense of purpose, enjoying the noises she keeps dragging from low in Clarke’s throat. Clarke, for her part, is breathing harshly against Lexa’s mouth, attempting to grind her hips down in search of more contact, more of anything.
Lexa surges forward to press their mouths together again, the contact sloppy and hard and desperate, before slipping inside Clarke more fully. Lexa feels rather than hears Clarke’s moan and it is all she can do when she takes control, moving her hand down to keep Lexa’s wrist in place while she determines the rhythm with canting hips.
When Lexa looks up, she catches the sight of Clarke’s head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent cry, brows furrowed with effort. She looks gorgeous losing herself to Lexa like this, and everything around them is coated in a pleasant, soft haze. Every single one of Lexa’s senses is inundated with Clarke, with this moment. For a fleeting minute, it feels eternal.
“Lexa—fuck,” Clarke groans out, her breath staccato and sharp in the silence of the room.
Lexa smooths a kiss to the dip between her collarbones, murmuring, “Let go, Clarke.”
And she does. Lexa anchors her with a hand on the small of her back, pulling her close and swallowing all of the soft noises she makes. She lets Clarke ride it all out for as long as she needs, dropping kisses all across her chest, careful to keep her hand still in case Clarke was too sensitive afterward. After several long moments, Clarke slumps forward bonelessly, dropping her forehead onto Lexa’s shoulder.
“Holy shit.”
Lexa laughs at that. “Yes, that sounds like the typical reaction.”
Clarke snorts and pokes Lexa in the ribs. “I would tell you to go fuck yourself but one, I already did that and two, I can’t say anything to disprove that considering the orgasm you just gave me. Thanks for that, by the way.”
Lexa laughs again. “Thank you too.”
They’re quiet for a moment, giving themselves time to bask in the afterglow, ignoring the sticky sweat between their bodies. Clarke turns her head to continue mouthing over the column of Lexa’s neck, the contact gentle and barely there. Lexa figures she should probably extricate her hand from Clarke so she does, whispering an apology when Clarke winces a little.
“That...was definitely not how I pictured my night ending,” murmurs Lexa, leaning back on the couch and letting her eyes drift shut. It felt nice having some time to recover from the intensity of what had just transpired. “But I can’t say that I mind.”
Clarke fixes her with a mischievous look and smirks. “Who says the night is over?”
Lexa figures she should probably give up on the idea that she was going to be getting any sleep that night, which was just as well. If she’s being honest, there’s a significant part of her—the one that was adamant on throwing caution to the wind tonight—that desperately wants to make the most out of their remaining time together. It’s one, single night out of the other thousand that Lexa spends working her life away, already too busy for any sort of romantic entanglements. It’s not like it was going to get easier to allow herself these things once school started so really, this could be considered a last hurrah. Yeah, Lexa thinks she can give herself a night. For just a few hours, she can let herself have Clarke and her blue, blue eyes and loud laughter.
And when Clarke brings their mouths together again, Lexa gives up on thinking at all.
* * *
The alarm is ringing.
Probably has been for several minutes by the time Lexa’s sleep-addled brain manages to register the fact. Groaning, she rolls over and swipes her thumb across the screen, stopping the hellish noise. As soon as she moves, her stomach is roiling, threatening to empty its contents all over her bed. It takes at least a few minutes of laying still for it to stop.
“I hate myself,” Lexa mutters darkly, reaching for her phone again. “Why do I ever think it’s a fucking good idea to drink?”
She has a message from Anya and another from Lincoln, who was probably giving her shit for having left the party last night without even saying goodbye.
Just like that, the entire night floods into Lexa’s brain—flashes of blonde hair, soft skin, gasping breaths. It’s been a while since she had had a one-night stand, let alone a drunken one, but Clarke had definitely made it worth the wait. Lexa almost blushes when she recalls the night in its entirety, and how it had only ended after hours and hours of unrestrained, desperate touching. As far as intoxicated decisions go, Lexa has made far, far worse; Clarke had been surprisingly funny and sweet, and had seemed genuinely interested in everything they’d talked about. She wasn’t awful to stare at either (so that might be a bit of an understatement) (it’s kind of a huge understatement).
Still, despite all the ways in which she caught Lexa off-guard, Clarke was barely going into her sophomore year of undergrad and she was a jock, for crying out loud. She highly doubts their Real Lives are anything alike or that they’re even slightly compatible outside of intense sexual attraction. Which was why Clarke had been the perfect, brief getaway for Lexa.
Unsurprisingly, Clarke is nowhere to be found when Lexa walks through her living room and into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. She does, however, spot Clarke’s panties by the corner of the couch.
“I’m trash,” she mumbles again to herself, rolling her neck to relieve some of the tension and making a mental note to pick those up later.
Her head is pounding something fierce and she knows her first day is going to be a struggle, but she thinks the look on Anya’s face when she tells her just why she’s so exhausted will probably be worth it. The thought triggers the memory of Clarke smirking at Lexa, teasing her about having thought that the night would have ended so early, and she smiles a little to herself. Yeah, definitely worth it.
* * *
By the time Lexa makes it to the lecture hall where the class she is a TA for is being held, there are only two minutes left until it starts. She would have been considerably earlier had she not needed to take a bathroom break to empty the last of her breakfast in the toilets by the student union.
(It’s been a rough day.)
She had endured ruthless teasing from Anya earlier before she had even opened her mouth because, as it turns out, in her rush to get ready this morning, Lexa had failed to notice the hickey right at the base of her neck (“Looks like someone took my advice on having fun a little too far last night.”) How she managed to go so long without noticing was beyond her because Clarke had really done an admirable job on that one. If she wasn’t so dreadfully hungover, Lexa probably would have been more upset about it. As it stands, she had practically crawled her way across campus, unshowered and unkempt, to all of her classes and had yet to take her sunglasses off since she left the house this morning—would a hickey even affect her appearance at this point? No. She was positive she looked like a mess regardless and was way past the point of really even caring what her peers thought of her. It was hard to put in the effort when you woke up feeling like twice microwaved shit.
Still, despite her less than ideal start to the semester so far, Lexa felt a prickle of excitement as she began setting out her notes for class. She had been meticulous and thorough, attempting to make the information as easy to understand as possible for the students. The professor—an intimidating force of a woman who preferred to simply go by “Indra”—gave a grueling, comprehensive course that slowed down for no one, so Lexa was determined to make sure each student in the class had a good grasp on the challenging material from the very beginning. It would certainly make her own job easier later on in terms of having to tutor any struggling students.
Lexa is so caught up in her thoughts that she fails to notice her sitting down until she takes her own seat near the professor’s desk and looks up.
“Her” being Clarke. As in, the Clarke she had slept with last night, the one who she had no intention of ever seeing again (apparently, the universe is a real dick and had other plans).
Lexa feels her eyes widen, stomach dropping right down to her knees. No, no, no, there’s no fucking way. There is no conceivable way that Clarke is in this classroom right now, as a fucking student.
Did people frequently hallucinate when they were really hungover?
But then she—Clarke—finally takes notice of Lexa blatantly staring and she has a similar expression of surprise on her face.
This is it. This is the universe punishing me for being a drunk moron. “Have some fun, Lex!” “What could possibly go wrong?” “Lighten up!” This, Lexa thinks in a panic, This is exactly what can go wrong. What kind of twisted life lesson is this? ‘Don’t get drunk at a college party or else you’ll end up fucking one of your undergrad students before the first day of class even happens.’
Murphy’s Law, right?
Clarke gives her a weak wave.
Fuck. My. Life.