When Clarke sells a commission, she celebrates. What’s five to ten bucks out of the fifty she’s just made? It’ll help keep her motivated, she figures. Positive Reinforcement. Twenty chicken nuggets and a diet coke, and isn’t technology grand, she thinks, lounging on her couch scrolling instagram on her phone. Sit on her ass in her pajamas and let the nuggets come to her.
Two raps on porch door, rattling the screen, and the buzz of a notification on her phone and she’s up, slipping a little on the hardwood floor in her socks. “Hey,” she says, fumbling to fish a dollar out of her boxers for a tip. “Thanks--” she looks up and sees probably the hottest girl to exist on planet Earth, even in brown shorts and brown socks and brown button up shirt with a fake front pocket. Clarke chokes on nothing, coughing and flailing.
“Are you alright?” The delivery girl asks, leaning in to peer at Clarke through the screen. “I’m first aid trained.”
Clarke shakes her head. “Sorry, sorry. No. I--am tired?” She winces.
The girl blinks. “Okay.”
Clarke takes a clear breath, shakes her head a little. “Sorry.” She takes another look at the girl, the brown button up shirt and the khaki shorts. “I didn’t order anything via UPS.”
“No,” the girl says, after another pause. She touches a small patch above the breast pocket of her shirt. “I’m from the app?” She ducks her chin self-deprecatingly. “Lots of people think we’re from UPS. It’s a terrible uniform. Do you still want your food?”
“Do you always answer the door for suspected UPS delivery with your hand down your pants?”
“Oh yeah,” Clarke says, successfully retrieving a few crumpled ones and using her toe to prop open the screen door. “I use the dickhole to hold my change sometimes.”
“I… see.” The girl offers Clarke a white paper bag and a fountain soda. “Twenty piece and a diet Coke?”
“Yup,” Clarke confirms, taking the items into her own hands and passing over the money. “Also I’d like to apologize for almost everything that’s happened since I opened the door.”
The girl shrugs. “You tipped, we’ll call it even.”
“Okay.” Clarke raises the hand with the drink in it, awkwardly, to just above her shoulder level. “Thanks.”
She waits until the door is shut to drop her food on the counter and furiously text Raven a wailing keysmash. Then she shoves two nuggets into her mouth while she waits glumly for a response.
Raven shows up at ten, holding two bottles of wine in one hand and an open beer in the other. “Corona is disgusting,” she says, and takes another swig before handing the drink to Clarke. “And we’re too old to drink from cans.”
“Shut up,” Clarke says, and drains the entire can in four swallows. “I’ve had a long and trying day.”
Raven looks around the room doubtfully. “Really?”
“No, I slept in and then daydrank until my delivery got here.”
“Oh right,” Raven says, flopping into an armchair and fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Hot delivery girl judged me for keeping money in my dick pocket,” she reads off the screen. “Was that real or the thing where you get bored and text me ridiculous nonsense so I’ll talk to you before I get off work?”
“Tragically real,” Clarke says with a sigh. She taps at her phone. “This is her picture from the app.”
Raven peers at it, then makes an appreciative noise. “Hot.”
“Lexa,” Clarke sighs. “I could have had make-up on. Could have been wearing that tank top. That blue one.”
“Your cleavage is amazing in that top,” Raven agrees. She opens another beer and passes it to Clarke’s waiting hand. “Woe?”
“Woe,” Clarke agrees, after a long drink. “Woe is me, fuck.”
“Let’s order food,” Raven suggests. “Maybe she’s still working.”
“No,” Clarke says, flopping onto the couch and taking a forlorn drink from the can. “That’s stupid.”
“Hold my beer,” Clarke says, two hours and several cans later. “I’m putting on that tank top.”
“Fish fish McChicken fish,” Raven sing-songs, tapping at her phone. “Can you request a specific delivery--oh, you can’t. You change, I’ll light a prayer candle.”
Clarke orders, cancels, and then reorders three times. When the app pairs her with Lexa she and Raven shotgun a beer each over the bathtub in celebration.
“Hi,” Clarke blurts, wrenching the door open while Lexa’s still raising a hand to knock. “Do you like my shirt?”
“Uh,” Lexa says. Her eyes go very wide. “I--have six fish sandwiches for you?”
Clarke looks down at her own cleavage. She frowns. “I look hot in this shirt,” she informs Lexa. “I wore it for you.”
“Uh,” Clarke says, an inkling of sobriety niggling at her. “I promise I’m not a murderer.”
Lexa takes a very small step backwards on the porch, the paper bag crinkling in her outstretched hand. “Please don’t eat all these sandwiches by yourself after twenty nuggets.”
Raven pops up over Clarke’s shoulder. “Those are for me.”
“Oh.” Lexa looks between the two of them. “Oh!” Something eases in her shoulders. “I didn’t realize.” She smiles, still tentative--but. Clarke feels the warmth in her chest. A shared smile, recognition. You are? I am too. Family.
“We’re not gay,” Raven clarifies, breaking the shared moment. “Well. Not together.”
Clarke points at herself. “Mostly gay.”
Raven snatches the food out of Lexa’s hands. “And I’m her friend, Supportive and Questioning.”
Clarke’s head jerks around. “What? Questioning?”
“The barista at my favourite coffee place is really mean to me and I think it makes me wet sometimes.” Raven unwraps a sandwich and shovels the entire thing into her mouth.
“We’re drunk,” Clarke admits.
Lexa is still smiling, very slightly. “Clearly.” A pen clicks in her hand. “Do you have a post-it?”
Clarke sticks her hand down her pants. “Nope.” She blinks. Winces. “This is a joke. Because of how I kept money the first time we met.”
Lexa, delicately, takes Clarke’s wrist by her thumb and forefinger and frees Clarke’s hand from her waistband. She turns it over, then tugs it forward, Clarke rocking slightly on her feet. Lexa writes on the inside of Clarke’s forearm, the nib scratching in a way that makes Clarke shiver. “My number,” she says, clicking the pen and tucking it back into her front pocket. “In case you need something else delivered tonight.”
“Uh,” Clarke says, stupidly, her arm held out in front of her like an idiot. Raven tries to high five her, misses, smacks the side of Clarke’s boob. “Okay.”
Clarke wakes up on the living room floor with a hangover and an alert on her phone from her bank asking her if she authorized a forty dollar tip for online fast food delivery. “Oh god,” she groans, fumbling at the touchscreen to make the icon go away. “Oh god.”
She sits up and immediately regrets it. “Raven!” She winces at the sound of her own voice, and levers herself to her feet with the help of the sofa. “Are you dead?”
The pile of fast food wrappers in the corner rustles. Raven emerges with desolation in her eyes. “There is no God.”
Clarke staggers towards the kitchen. “How much did we drink?”
She can hear Raven unsteadily following her. “What day is it. What in your kitchen can I kill myself with.”
Clarke sees a shining light in the shit tunnel of her hangover. “Drunk us made coffee.” She drinks straight from the pot while Raven crosses herself in thanks, then passes it over.
“I feel better,” Raven decides, putting down the pot. “I’m gonna take a shower. You?”
Clarke points at the sink, stomach rolling. “Vomit date.”
“Gross,” Raven agrees, and makes her way down the hall.
Clarke’s got the garbage disposal humming when she finally opens up her phone and checks her notifications.
Nugget Fairy: Are you alive?
“Oh no,” Clarke mutters, scrolling up through the conversation from the night before. “Oh no.”
“My life is over,” Clarke says bleakly, sitting on the toilet.
Raven sticks her face out from behind the curtain. “What? Stop talking to me while I’m washing my ass.”
“I ruined it. She wrote her number on my arm and I ruined it.”
“She knows you were drunk,” Raven says, muffled by the sound of running water. “Apparently you were very charming, if she texted you in the morning checking in.”
“What can that ass do for nuggets,” Clarke reads from her phone. “haha get it because UPS.”
“Oh,” Raven says after a long pause. “Yeah that’s ruined. It’s not even funny bad, it’s just bad.”
Clarke flushes the toilet vindictively. Does a half victory strut half walk of shame out of the bathroom while Raven shrieks in the background.
Clarke bites the bullet and texts Lexa back after Raven’s passed out napping in the bedroom.
is it at all endearing to admit I’m aware of my terrible choices while drunk and that I take full responsibility for them?
She sits there, obsessively clicking her phone back on when it goes to sleep. She jumps when it buzzes instead, the generic ringtone blasting. “Hey.”
“It’s good to know I won’t have to make a statement to the police,” Lexa says, instead of returning the greeting.
“I thought I was clear I’m not a murderer,” Clarke jokes. It falls flat, the silence awkward and halting. “Because… I said it before?”
“Right,” Lexa agrees. “I meant that I wouldn’t be contacted as the last person to talk to you before you died of alcohol poisoning.”
“Is it possible at all that you’re finding my drunken antics and subsequent hangover charming instead of a horrifying cautionary tale?”
“I’m enjoying your usage of ‘subsequent’.” Lexa’s voice has gone a little deeper, more relaxed. Flirty, even.
“And subsequently she brought me a sausage mcmuffin?”
Lexa laughs, low and lightly amused. “I’m about to go to my day job, actually.”
Clarke deflates. “Oh.”
“Text me after six,” Lexa says. “Delivery of your choice.”
Lobster tails and emu steaks, Clarke texts at 6:05.
Lexa shows up with chicken nuggets. “Oh my god,” Clarke says, snatching the bag up with a gleeful noise. “Marry me.”
“Mm,” Lexa says neutrally, but her smile is satisfied.
“There’s only ten in here,” Clarke says with a frown. She holds the bag a little closer to her chest. “Did you… already eat?”
“They’re all for you,” Lexa reassures. She produces a tupperware from her tote bag. “I brought salad.”
“Why?” Clarke asks, completely serious. Lexa laughs again, missing the look of confusion that flits across Clarke’s face. “Sorry, please. Come in.”
Lexa on her couch, eating salad without spilling the dressing all down her front and out of uniform, jeans and a jacket over a tanktop and she’s got tattoos, Clarke never stood a chance. She even tactfully refrains from commenting on the shocking number of recorded trashy reality shows on Clarke’s DVR. “I watch them ironically,” Clarke informs her. “Wait, no--they’re Raven’s?”
Lexa is smiling into her salad. “Are you always like this?”
“No,” Clarke admits. “I’m boring, actually. School and work and intensive hobby.”
“Art?” At Clarke’s shocked look, Lexa gestures at her pajamas. “There’s paint on your shirt.”
“Yeah, I uh--” Clarke puts down her nuggets. “Actually--do you wanna see?”
“It’s not much,” Clarke says, pushing open the laundry room door to the garage with a grunt. “But Raven parks in the driveway so I can use it as a studio.”
Lexa delicately steps over a pile of discarded socks and sweatpants to join her in the cramped one car garage. “It must get hot in the summer.”
“Voila,” Clarke flourishes, and smacks the button on the wall. The door creaks to life, grinding up to let in the setting sun and the fresh dusk air. “It does get stuffy,” she admits. She taps at her phone, cuing up the speaker in the corner. “But it’s nice. It’s mine.”
Lexa walks along the edge of one wall, peering down at a few pieces drying, a few sketches taped to the walls. She stops to linger in front of the canvas on the easel. Clarke holds her breath. “I like this.”
Clarke smiles. “I do too.”
“Thanks,” Clarke says, hovering awkwardly at the door while Lexa stands on the front steps. “For bringing me food--oh!” She fumbles at her pocket. “Let me pay you.”
Lexa waves her hand. “No, please. I think my finances can handle ten chicken nuggets.”
“I’ll paint you something,” Clarke blurts. “Uh. For compensation. A small thing.”
“I’d like that,” Lexa says, and waves as she walks down the path to her car parked at the curb.
help Clarke texts Raven. I told Lexa I’d paint her
the light of my life: gay
Clarke sketches her first. On the couch eating salad, at the door with a soda and a bag of fish sandwiches. Standing in Clarke’s grungy garage studio smiling. The cut of her jaw and the curl of her hair. Her eyes and her fingers and the way one side of her mouth curls upward faster than the other when she smiles at Clarke’s stupid fucking jokes.
“Creepy,” Raven says, flipping through the sketchbook. “Like if you weren’t kinda hot and I wasn’t already sure you’re not a serial killer, it’d be time to call the police.”
Clarke snatches it back. “I just want to get it right. It’s dedication to my art.”
“It’s five straight pages of her eyes.”
“The eyes,” Clarke says loftily, “are the mirrors to the--ow!”
It’s a month before Clarke orders delivery again. She’s so nervous her fingers slip on the touchscreen of her phone, damp with sweat. She changes three times and chills three different wines in the fridge. Texts Raven to confirm she’ll be working all night. Texts Raven a picture of the salad she bought premade but rearranged into a ceramic bowl she stole from her mother for exactly this purpose to get a second opinion on her grape tomato placement.
Lexa raps at the door just as the app dings on Clarke’s phone. Her smile is much more reserved than it was when she waved goodbye at the hood of her car. “You could have texted me directly,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “I would have--” she stops herself. “Never mind.” She thrusts out her arm, the grease stained pizza box. “Different from your usual.”
“Uh,” Clarke says, scratching at her temple. “Yeah. Yeah! I’m diversifying my interests.”
Lexa nods. Her fingers go up to her temple, adjust the bill of her hat awkwardly. “Have a good night.”
“Wait!” Clarke blurts. “I um--I ordered pretty late.”
Lexa nods, still half turned to walk away. “Most everything is closed.”
“So you’re off now, right?”
Clarke deflates. “Sorry, you’re right. I should have texted. I finished your painting, that’s all--let me just grab it and you can go, sorry--”
Lexa’s hand lands over her mouth. “Clarke.”
“Yeah,” Clarke says, muffled. When she licks at her lips she can taste Lexa’s palm.
“I didn’t know you were really going to paint me something. Of course I can come in.”
“Okay,” Clarke says, still behind Lexa’s hand.
Lexa removed her hand, then pauses. “I smudged your lipstick,” she says, leaning closer, eyes checking her mistake.
“Um,” Clarke responds, watching Lexa’s face get closer.
Lexa’s thumb brushes up against the corner of her mouth, then swoops gently along the curve of Clarke’s bottom lip. “Good,” she decides.
“Yup,” Clarke says, narrowly avoiding tripping over her own feet as she turns to lead Lexa to the kitchen. “I uh--I made you salad. But you don’t have to stay, I can put some in a bag to go.”
Clarke picks up the wrapped canvas, the cloth rough on her fingers. “Yeah, like Ziploc? We don’t have any tupperware.”
She offers Lexa the gift.
“You didn’t have to,” Lexa says, turning it over in her hands. “This size runs you fifty usually, doesn’t it?”
Clarke blinks. “You know my prices?”
Lexa’s hands freeze. She pinks. “I looked you up,” she admits. Clarke stares at her fingers for a beat too long, nails cut short and picking gently at the twine.
“Please,” she says with a cough. “I owed you. And--I don’t know. Buy me more nuggets sometime.”
Lexa, smiling again, nods once. Then she unwraps the painting, lets the wrapping fall. “Oh,” she says, soft and quiet. She tilts it one way, then the other. Clarke winces in pre-emptive disappointment. “It’s gorgeous.”
Clarke exhales. “Really?”
“I was worried it was going to be a portrait of a chicken nugget.”
Clarke swats at her. “Shut up, you did not.”
Lexa catches her eyes. “It’s beautiful, Clarke. I’m honored.”
Clarke fidgets, somehow made more awkward by Lexa liking it than if she hadn’t. “Do you want my salad?”
“Yes,” Lexa decides. “I do.”
Clarke brightens. “I have four dressings,” she says, turning to go into the kitchen. “Also there’s the pizza, if you--” Lexa’s hands, one on her shoulder and the other cradling her jaw. The electric drag of Lexa’s eyes across Clarke’s face to her lips. And the soft dry press of Lexa’s lips, the flicker of wet at the tip of her tongue. “Oh,” Clarke breathes, and Lexa takes the opportunity to slip her tongue into Clarke’s mouth. Her nose brushes Clarke’s when she switches sides; Clarke’s hands move from awkwardly hovering in the air to settling on Lexa’s elbow, her waist.
The kiss breaks, both of them breathing harder. Lexa licks her lips and Clarke feels a drop in her belly. “How do you not have tupperware,” Lexa murmurs.
“The food would get moldy and we’d get scared and throw the whole thing away,” Clarke responds, breathless, “or something, who the fuck cares.” She pushes Lexa back two steps into the wall, slides a knee between Lexa’s legs to nudge them apart, and leans in to lick up the side of Lexa’s throat. “This okay?” she asks, in between sharp pinching nips of her teeth.
Lexa makes a strangled noise and wraps a hand in Clarke's hair to pull her mouth back to Lexa’s skin.
“Good,” Clarke says, and tugs Lexa’s shirt down to bite at her collarbones. “I have been,” she says, punctuating each word with a wet suckling kiss, three hickies in a row already starting to darken, “thinking about this--”
Lexa chuckles , low and absurdly sultry, her head tipped back against the wall to give Clarke full access. “Since when?”
“The first night.”
Lexa’s eyes flicker, taking in the seriousness of the statement, then darken, the lids gone heavy and slow blinking. “What you remember of it,” she wisecracks, and it makes Clarke laugh, loud and bright.
“C’mere,” she says, and runs her fingertips down Lexa’s forearms, over the ink and the veins and the little scars, here and there. Lexa shivers, and Clarke tugs her gently across the room until her knees bump the edge of the sofa. “Thought about this uniform,” she continue, turning and applying just the slightest bit of pressure. Lexa’s knees fold; she sits, neck craned up to look at Clarke and her eyes blown wide and dilated.
“I hate this uniform,” she says, and her tone is sex-drenched, crackling.
“I really like it,” Clarke tells her, trailing the nail of her index finger up from the hollow of Lexa’s throat to the soft underside of her chin. Then she reverses, digging in red lines form, over and over again.
By the time she stops Lexa’s skin is a mess of winding lines, from her collarbones all the way up her throat. She’s taking great heaving shuddering breaths and there’s barely any color at all left in her eyes, the black swallowing it up. Her fingers scrabble on the fabric of the couch, then reach up, searching.
Clarke tangles their fingers together and straddles her, rocking her hips down once in a grind to make Lexa gasp before kissing her deep and filthy. “Sorry,” she pants into Lexa’s mouth, her hands on Lexa’s bare skin under her shirt, the flare of her hips and the way she shivers when Clarke touches her. “Sorry, I’m getting kind of carried away, I--”
Lexa licks Clarke’s cheek, jawbone to temple. “Where’s your bed.”
Clarke makes a strangled noise. She tries to sound dignified and mostly fails. “Do you wanna maybe see my bedroom?”
Lexa slides a hand up Clarke’s shirt and cups a breast, thumb moving slowly over Clarke’s nipple. “I do.”
“Cool,” Clarke says. “We’ll hit it for round two.”
Lexa’s hand falters. She squeaks as Clarke rolls them off the sofa onto the thick rug. “Round two?”
“I’m not waiting for Round One,” Clarke informs her cheerfully, then rips Lexa’s shirt open, the buttons flying. “Good, I thought it’d be cheap enough to do that.”
Lexa lets her hands slide down to Clarke’s waist. “That shirt cost fifteen dollars.”
“I’ll tip you,” Clarke says, and bends her head to lick all the way from one side of Lexa’s chest to the other, over the fabric of her bra.
“Okay,” Lexa agrees breathlessly, and arches up slightly to reach under herself and unhook her bra.
“Belt next,” Clarke orders, sliding back down Lexa’s thighs a little to give her room to work.
Lexa’s fingers scrabble obediently at the buckle, fumbling more pronouncedly when Clarke lets her hands wander up Lexa’s ribcage, lets her fingers trace Lexa’s collarbones, lets her palms roll over Lexa’s breasts. Clarke likes the sound the leather makes as it slides out of the loops, the buckle thumping heavily onto the floor beside them.
“Button,” Clarke murmurs, dragging a single nail up Lexa’s throat.
Lexa cants her head back, her throat working as she swallows hard, her fingers undoing the button of her shorts, the zip. Clarke slides up Lexa’s waist onto her torso, shivering slightly at the pressure. She grinds three times, long and slow, because she wants to and because Lexa makes the most gorgeous noise when she does. Then she reaches behind her and slides a few fingers over the fabric of Lexa’s panties.
Lexa twitches, her breath caught her in her chest. When Clarke presses down her eyes roll back in her head. Clarke keeps going, one hand sliding gently around Lexa’s throat and the other rubbing hard and slow and curling, keeps going until the fabric’s soaked through and her fingers are making obscene wet noises.
“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, throaty and sex-drenched. She tugs Clarke down for a kiss, bare chests pressed together and Clarke still in her skirt; it tugs her hand away from Lexa’s bottom half, but the way she closes her mouth around Clarke’s fingers and licks her own taste off Clarke’s skin more than makes up for it.
“I,” Clarke says, mumbled into Lexa’s lip as the kiss breaks, “um. Do you think--my fingers?”
“Yes,” Lexa says, grabbing Clarke by the wrist and guiding her hand to between her legs. “Your fingers.”
“Okay,” Clarke says, and the elastic snaps against her skin as she slides her fingers underneath, bare against slick hot skin. “Lemme--” she slides down to give herself better leverage, starting with one finger, a slow pump and turn. She sucks a mark to the left of Lexa’s belly button, then a mark to the right. A little farther down and she can kiss just below the swell of Lexa’s belly. And then lower.
Lexa heels slide on the carpet. “Two,” she asks, her hands in Clarke’s hair. Not tugging, though. Winding gently, scooping up. So she can see.
The knowledge makes Clarke clench. A second finger and then looking up; making sure Lexa is watching for the first long lick, top to bottom. Lexa breathes out an ‘oh’, soft and low and sweet. It’s the last thing she says before it breaks into a half-sobbed chant of Clarke’s name.
Two fingers hooked just right, her thumb on Lexa’s clit, her teeth sunk into the inside of Lexa’s thigh. Lexa sucks in a hard breath, her toes curl. Her legs clamp around Clarke’s face and she can hear Lexa’s heartbeat. When she goes limp and Clarke sits up everything feels quieter, slower, the colors more saturated.
She kisses Lexa’s slack mouth to taste the last of her moans, licks a drop of sweat from the underside of her jaw. Let her tongue slide out so Lexa can suckle away her own wetness. “Okay?”
Lexa’s foot runs up Clarke’s calf, hooking lazily around Clarke’s ankle. “Mmhhmm. Worth a late delivery order.” Her fingers curl around Clarke’s elbow. “And the ruined shirt.”
“Worth a Round Two?”
Lexa grins at the ceiling, then pulls Clarke down into a kiss. “Definitely.”
Clarke helps her stand, fusses with the collar of Lexa’s shirt, hanging open and ripped around her shoulders. “You look good like this.”
Lexa raises an eyebrow, looking down at her shorts around her ankles and her definitely ruined underwear. Her bra is still dangling, the strap caught in the sleeve of her shirt. “That cannot possibly be true.”
“I only speak the truth,” Clarke says loftily. She frees the bra and they both watch it fall to the floor. “About my bedroom…”
Lexa steps out of her shorts, kicking them off to the side. “Lead the way.”
Several hours later, Clarke is wearing Lexa’s shirt, slumped back into the pillows and panting, her toes still curling. Lexa sits up from between Clarke’s legs, looking sated and self-satisfied, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I win Round Two,” she says smugly.
“This shirt is too small for me,” Clarke tells the ceiling, dazed and cum-dumb. “Toooo small.”
Lexa wipes her mouth on Clarke’s left breast. “Mmmhhm.” She bites the fabric of the shirt and tugs playfully. “Best two out of three?”
“I need sustenance,” Clarke says. Then she hears a key scrape in the front door lock. “Shit. And to tell Raven to clear out.”
Lexa, fully naked, rolls over to lean off the bed to grab her phone. She checks the time. “Shit. Maybe I should go.”
Clarke grabs her by the ankle and drags her back up onto the bed. “No way. I mean. If you have to, but--”
“I could be convinced,” Lexa says, playful and sly and flirty.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Clarke orders, and scrambles up, yanking open a dresser drawer to pull on a big t-shirt and pajama pants before tripping her way out the door, Lexa’s soft laughter following her until she shuts the door behind her.
Raven is standing in the living room, looking down at Lexa’s shorts and bra on the floor. “You… dog.”
Clarke refuses to blush. “So, I’ve got company tonight.”
“The delivery girl,” Raven says. “You fucked the delivery girl. You’re--” she points at Clarke’s general state of debauchment. “You are midfuck! You are currently fucking the delivery girl!”
“Listen,” Clarke starts, and then has nothing else really to say. “... so there?”
Raven rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine. Go back to your life, which is an actual porno right now. I’ll crash at the lab.” She picks her keys back up from the counter, then points at Clarke. “No couch. You have a bedroom, use it.”
“Uhh,” Clarke says. She darts a guilty look at the couch.
Raven makes a disgusted noise. “I’m coming back with fabric cleaner and you are reimbursing me.”
“Fair,” Clarke says. They high five.
The front door’s hardly shut before Lexa pokes her head out of Clarke’s bedroom. “Coast clear?”
Lexa’s wearing one of Clarke’s shirts, too big in the chest for her and just barely falling to her upper thigh. “I’m hungry.”
Clarke waggles her eyebrows.
Lexa rolls her eyes. “Feed me,” she demands, shuffling out into the room and looking down at the couch. “Hm. You should clean that.”
Clarke rolls her eyes. “Can you call my phone? I’ll order delivery from the all-night pizza place.”
Lexa tosses Clarke her phone, then goes into the kitchen to rummage through Clarke’s fridge. “Oh god,” she says. “This is… alarming.”
Clarke dials her own number. “Yeah, why do you think we order out so often? It’s not just that you’re the hot delivery girl.”
Calling Possible Murderer
“Hey,” Clarke protests. “I said not a murderer!”
Lexa’s voice is muffled faintly by the refrigerator door. “Exactly what a murderer might say.”
“We’ve fucked,” Clarke says, picking up her own phone where it had fallen under the couch. “You have to change this.” She goes into the kitchen and gooses Lexa’s ass with a light pinch, leering when Lexa squeaks and turns around. She gets a good look at the fridge. “Jesus Christ, that’s scary.”
“You have to clean this.”
“Hold on,” Clarke says, “I have a solution to this problem that is way sexier than rubber gloves and mold.” She tugs Lexa back slightly, then shuts the door with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
Lexa kisses Clarke’s throat. “Usually that would be very upsetting,” she murmurs, against Clarke’s skin. “But I’m very invested in winning Round Three.”
“Change my name on your phone,” Clarke pants, and Lexa backs her into the counter and pulls down Clarke’s t-shirt to mouth at her chest.
Lexa takes her phone from Clarke’s fingers and does something out of sight, Clarke’s eyes fluttering shut as Lexa’s knee slides between her legs and rocks. “Ta-da,” she echoes, holding up her phone so Clarke can see.
Probably Not A Murderer
It startles a laugh out of Clarke, loud and joyous, and then she erupts into giggles, hiding her face in Lexa’s neck. Her teeth scrape at Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa shivers. “If I win Round Three,” Clarke says, low and throaty and her hand up Lexa’s shirt for a friendly grope. “I get to change that myself.”
“Big talk,” Lexa says, and then her breath hitches when Clarke lifts her up onto the counter. “Prove it.”