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Individual Medley

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Elation is a strange feeling, Clarke has decided. Even stranger when it's not her own to experience, but the Olympics have a funny way of making the bizarre intoxicating. She's alight and tingling off the accomplishment overflowing the room, much like the champagne bubbles bubbling over rims and fingers and dripping sticky to the floor. Even as she sucks the sticky liquid from her knuckles, she almost can’t believe that she’s here, surrounded by the world’s best athletes all high off their triumphs or drowning their disappointments with just as much fervor.

Octavia and Bellamy are long gone, probably recreating their glory moments with their respective teammates as they work their way through the open bar with reckless, brilliant abandon. She'd long gotten over there absence, though, with plenty else to occupy her attention. She'd gotten far more time with them at the party than she could’ve hoped for, laughing and crying with them, trying on their medals, sharing in their adrenaline and excitement as the proud best friend of two new Olympic medalists. She's happy , just soaking it all in. Happy to and and willing to be wonderfully distracted and encompassed by the euphoric bubble. 

 

And now she finds herself pleasantly buzzed and in the middle of a group of heinously tall people she assumes to be the US basketball team. Or maybe volleyball. She wonders which team is taller on average for about a second before something tickles at her attention and she turns.

Oh.

Lexa Woods is…is staring at her. No, can’t be. Clarke looks around but there’s no one particularly outstanding around her, well other than the fact that everyone is. She turns back around and flushes because Lexa Woods is definitely looking at her, smirking even.  And now, oh god, she’s looks around again because there’s no way Lexa Woods is actually walking towards her.

 

Clarke gulps and feels her entire body respond in a jumble of nerves and excitement and she’s not even a little ashamed to admit that she’s star struck. She shouldn’t be, her best friends are Olympians after all, but this is Lexa Woods, 3-time Olympic medalist in swimming who just broke the world record for most gold medals earned by a female athlete as America watched on with tears in their eyes and screams in their throats, “Woods” plastered across shirts and flags and even some foreheads.

 

“Hey,” the swimmer shouts over the music, a confident and overtly flirty smirk on her face as she struts into Clarke’s space.

 

“Hi,” Clarke shouts back, knowing that there’s a dumb smile on her face but not really caring about anything other than the stunning woman in front of her.

 

“You’re very pretty.”

 

A bashful chuckle gets lost in the thrumming of the room and Clarke thanks god for that. “Thank you,” she shouts, “You’re very forward.”

 

Lexa Woods nods amorously and grabs at Clarke’s visitor pass, eying it playfully. “Who are you with?”

 

“What?” Clarke takes a step forward and tilts her head up towards the swimmer who towers over her. She points to her ear then rolls her eyes at the music. Lexa smiles and accommodates her, bowing her head down and getting her mouth close. Clarke shutters.

 

“I said, who are you here with?”

 

“Oh! I have a couple friends around here somewhere. They're athletes as well. Well not--I'm not. I mean they're athletes as well as you. Well not as well, I mean they're good...but they're like bronze medal good. Which isn't to say that's not good! I just mean..." Clarke finally figures out how to shut her mouth, and she does so with enthusiasm, kicking herself internally. Lexa just smiles and lets the lanyard and tag drop back to Clarke’s chest.

 

“What sport?”

 

"I'm sorry?" Clarke gathers herself, trying not to get lost in Lexa’s tan face and sharp angles. The warmth and sweetness in her eyes takes her by surprise. She's seen that face on TV for years now, but in person, she's a whole other creature. 


Lexa grins. "What sport do these dead beat bonze medalists play?" 

 

Clarke feels herself flush as she laughs at herself. "Soccer." 

 

Lexa nods and deftly nabs two drinks off the tray of a passing waiter. “Want one?”

 

Clarke takes it with a mouthed ‘thank you’ and doesn’t hesitate to take a large sip. And it helps, oh does it help, because when Lexa begins speaking again she feels decidedly more relaxed and definitely more flirty.

 

“What country?”

 

Clarke scoff and taps at the US crest on Lexa’s jacket. “USA, of course.”

 

Lexa laughs and taps back at her, her finger poking suspiciously at the Australian flag pin on her collar. “What’s this, then?”

 

“Oh, you noticed that did you?”

 

“Yeah,” the swimmer says, short and full of mischief. “What gives?”

 

“I was born there!”

 

Lexa “ahs” over the rim of her glass and Clarke decides the look in those green eyes is intrigued. It only fuels her fire further.

 

“I just beat an Australian,” Lexa smirks and it’s dripping with a good-hearted cockiness that surprisingly makes Clarke swoon.

 

“I know,” Clarke says chuckling, and then, “You’re cocky.”

 

Lexa nods with a wide, toothy grin. “I know. So what’s your name?”

 

“Clarke. Griffin.” She has to shout it twice for Lexa to finally hear it but when the swimmer does she smiles and not so subtly tucks a strand of hair back behind Clarke’s ear.

 

“Nice to meet you, Clarke Griffin. I’m Lexa. Lexa Woods.”

 

Clarke laughs, “I know.”

 

Something like pride and desire flashes through the green eyes flitting back and forth between Clarke’s mouth and eyes and Clarke finds herself nodding quickly when she’s asked if she wants to find somewhere a little quieter.

 

When Lexa guides her out to the car she’d rented, Clarke feels the magic of it all start to drain from her suddenly. She stops in her tracks, halting Lexa too with a tentative brush to the swimmer’s back. When Lexa turns around, she’s smiling, but it falls as soon as she sees the distress on Clarke’s face.

 

“Can we walk?” Clarke asks, eyes fumbling around to find something to land on.

 

Lexa charmingly places her hand under Clarke’s dropped chin and raises her eyes. “I’m not actually drunk, Clarke, you know that right? I have a press conference tomorrow and I’d never put you in the car with a drunk driver.”

 

Clarke swallows and nods, eyes now flitting back and forth between Lexa and the car. “I’d just—I’d prefer to walk.” She holds her breath and nearly cringes against the backlash she expects to pour forth at her, but it never comes. Instead Lexa just shrugs and laces their fingers together with a calm smile.

 

“It’s a beautiful night with a beautiful girl, anyways. A walk would be nice.”

 

Clarke looks at her stunned for a moment before she accepts it with a shy smile and closes her fingers around Lexa’s.

 

Lexa’s palm is warm and sure against hers and it’s a little uncomfortable because it’s unfamiliar, but it’s certainly not unwelcome. Especially not with the sky now completely dark and the sidewalks almost totally deserted.

 

“Do you know where you’re going?” She asks when Lexa stalls at a split road.

 

Lexa smiles, “I think so,” and tugs her left. “We’ll find out.”

 

And oh, they do. It somehow seems like a blink of the eye by the time they’re back at Lexa’s hotel room, though Clarke doesn’t forget the pleasant small talk they’d shared and the way Lexa’s silhouette in the moonlight was canvas worthy.  It plays in the back of her mind when the back of her head hits Lexa’s hotel room wall. Lexa is kissing her and sighing like she enjoys it and Clarke can hardly believe it. She’s teetering precariously close to the edge already when Lexa draws back and stares at her.  

 

“Is this okay?” The swimmer’s question is sweet and endearing and a needed pause in the middle of the hurricane they’d become. Clarke follows the swimmer’s hand down the plane of her stomach and into the waistband of her jean shorts, then underwear, and nods. She undoes the button herself, letting her hips jog forward into the heel of Lexa’s palm as her head falls back against the wall offering up the soft skin of her neck to Lexa’s hungry and adventurous lips with a gasp and choked back moan.

 

“Okay?” Lexa whispers, her hand making small circles, audible in Clarke’s arousal.

 

“Mhm,” Clarke hums, nodding before bowing forward and connecting their lips. They’re sloppy and heated and rushed together, charged with adrenaline and alcohol, national pride, the wonder of the Olympics, and the cool press of Lexa’s medals between them.

 

“God, you’re sexy,” Lexa mutters when her fingers venture lower.

 

Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa’s neck tighter and grips into her marvelously wide shoulders, her legs come up to wrap around Lexa’s waist. The swimmer catches her effortlessly and laughs in nothing more than a whisper. “Needy,” she says but it’s muffled by the kiss she’s already pressing back into Clarke’s open and waiting lips.

 

Clarke’s grateful she’s in Lexa’s arms because she’s quickly verging on too hot, too aching and the room spins a little bit every time Lexa digs her fingers into Clarke’s ass and helps her grind against abs so defined it has Clarke choking on the air desperately trying to get in and out of her lungs. Something sparks low in her stomach and she startles because it’s too strong too fast and it’s building before she can get a grip on it.

 

“Wait, wait, wait” she pants, her palms flat on Lexa’s chest, pushing but wanting so badly to be pulling.

 

“What, what’s wrong? You okay?” Lexa’s eyes are just as frantic as her words as they peel apart. She starts to lower her, but Clarke digs in and kisses her in quick reassurance.

 

“No, I’m good, just—“ she squeaks when Lexa shifts her upwards, readjusting her weight, and her head falls forward to meet the swimmers, both of them struggling to find their breath. “Slower,” she manages. “I got close…”

 

“Close?” Lexa frowns and the sounds of their pants are the only thing that fill the room, that and the hum of the AC that Clarke is pretty sure is broken. Realization hits the swimmer and she blushes. “Oh you mean…”

 

Clarke laughs and nods, their foreheads rubbing together, eyes sparkling, lips swollen and wet and itching for more.

 

When her back hits the bed moments later, her eyes flutter closed and she tries desperately to think of anything that will dull the burn of Lexa’s fingers skirting up her thighs.

 

She barely registers Lexa’s quiet “Can I take these off?” She nods, admittedly hating the way her jeans are thick and stiff between them. Lexa tugs them down her hips, pressing feather light kisses in their wake leaving Clarke a shivering mess at the contrast of her warm lips and the cool air. Clarke grasps sloppily at Lexa’s biceps urging her back upwards after her shorts are gone and shoes are pulled off and thrown somewhere.

 

“God, you’re gorgeous.” Lexa nudges her nose into Clarke’s cheek, her lips pressing kiss after kiss to the corner of her mouth until Clarke turns her head and catches her lips. She licks into Lexa’s mouth, throbbing at the way it makes Lexa shutter, the smallest of moans catching in the swimmer’s throat like she’s trying to hide it. But Clarke hears it, oh does she hear it, and she’s desperate to draw it out of her again.

 

Hooking her hand around the nape of Lexa’s neck, she tugs the swimmer down and their teeth knock together. Lexa snorts and Clarke smiles as her tongue runs across the front of her teeth soothing the slight abrasion it’d caused. “Sorry,” Lexa whispers, kissing her again, this time soft and gently.

 

“S’okay,” Clarke mutters, “won’t be the last time that happens.”   

 

“Don’t think so?” It’s quiet and playful, strained by the way Lexa is still panting and chasing every expanse of skin Clarke offers up to her.

 

Clarke shakes her head, biting her lower lip because god, she feels sexy. For the first time in ages she feels sexy because Lexa is looking at her likes she wants nothing as bad as she wants her and Clarke would be lying if she said it wasn’t slightly overwhelming.  Lexa laughs and kisses her and Clarke thinks it’s one of the most wonderful sounds she’s ever heard, though that might be the alcohol talking. Then again, now that she thinks about it, the buzz of the alcohol has significantly ebbed and everything is sharp and clear again. Wonderfully sharp and clear. Terrifyingly sharp and clear.

 

“Hey,” Lexa checks in with her, lips ghosting across her face. “You good?”

 

It’s then that she notices Lexa’s hand back down between her legs, the stillness of it drawing her attention. She arches up into it with a small smile and sucks Lexa’s lip into her mouth, swiping her tongue over it and letting it go with a small pop. Lexa’s eyes darken so quickly it almost seems unreal but Clarke feels the reality of it everywhere, in the burning tips of her ears, the tingling and thundering in her stomach. Most of all she feels it in the quiver of her thighs and the throb of her clit against the sticky confines of her underwear. When Lexa takes an adventurous and possessive nip at Clarke’s collar bone, she lurches into Lexa’s thigh, shuttering in approval at the new friction. Her hands come to the hem of Lexa’s shirt and tugs, “off?” she whispers.

 

Lexa licks her lips wickedly and draws back, removing her medals before crossing her arms in front of her to pull off her shirt. Clarke is mesmerized, marveling at the rippling muscles in the swimmers arms and stomach, her eyes trailing the expanse of skin as every inch is revealed, almost never ending along Lexa’s long and powerful torso. It becomes clear to Clarke why she’s the best. Every inch of her is long, lean, and streamlined, made for slicing through the water.

 

A hand to her cheek, cupping and tugging upwards, draws her out of her reverie as Lexa captures her lips again, their tongues sliding together with a spark that jolts through Clarke. She gasps, their lips separating only for their foreheads to join and Clarke hears Lexa’s breath catch and stutter forward.  “Your turn,” Lexa’s barely able to husk out.

 

Clarke lifts her arms and lets her shirt be pulled over her head, shaking her hair out, missing the way Lexa’s mouth falls open ever so slightly in complete reverence. Had she seen it, it would have helped keep away the bile that rises in her throat when she suddenly remembers the large scar just below her sternum.

 

Lexa doesn’t seem to notice or care. Instead her hands splay across Clarke’s stomach, her thumbs brushing across the curve of her lower ribs turning Clarke’s skin into a constellation of goosebumps. The tips of her fingers brush the underside of her bra and Lexa’s eyebrow quirks up in the silent question. Forcing aside her insecurities, she pushes up on her hands and lets herself be pulled into Lexa’s lap, ankles hooking at her lower back. She loops her arms around Lexa’s neck as Lexa reaches around her and undoes her bra.

 

Lexa’s fingers are barely there, just hints of a touch as she brings the straps over her shoulders and tosses it to join her shoes. “And you?” Clarke asks, her eyes downcast and voice quiet.

 

Lexa leans back and slips out of her sports bra, her swimmer’s lats bulging and flexing with the motion. Clarke can’t stop herself when she presses forwards and latches onto them, hands running up and down in exploration of the various layers of muscles there. She doesn’t miss the similar scar Lexa carries on her ribs, but affords the swimmer the same discretion and instead refocuses her attention on Lexa’s muscles.

 

Lexa let’s out a short sort of chuckle and grabs Clarke’s hips, pulling her close, whispering “that tickles” against her lips.

 

“Sorry,” Clarke draws her hands away, but Lexa catches them, brings them to her lips then places them on her shoulders.

 

“It’s okay. Feels good too.”

 

“Sore?”

 

“Mm, a little.”

 

“You were amazing today,” Clarke gushes, her hands tangling in the ends of Lexa’s ponytail.

 

Lexa smiles a small, almost shy little thing, and kisses her deeply, pulling away only to mutter, “I don’t wanna talk about me, Clarke.”

 

“What do you want to talk about?”

 

Lexa threads her fingers through Clarke’s hair and pulls her back towards her lips in good-natured annoyance. “I don’t really wanna talk.”

 

“No?”

 

Lexa smiles and shakes her head, pitching forward to lower Clarke back onto the bed. Clarke feels exposed and shy as Lexa finally gets the full breadth of her topless, eyes sweeping across her like they can’t decide where they want to settle.  She wants to reach up and kiss her, distract her from her study, but then Lexa’s hands go to her ribs again, just under the swell of her breasts and atop her scar.

 

“Gorgeous,” Lexa breathes, thumb coming up to brush across the underside of Clarke’s nipple. Clarke gasps, surprised by how such a fleeting touch can catch fire in her body so quickly.  She looks up at her and wonders if the blue of her eyes are just as absent as the green in Lexa’s. She almost misses the hue, but the lust it’s replaced by sends excited shivers through her.

 

“C’mere,” she pleads softly, tugging at Lexa’s forearms until the swimmer let’s herself be pulled down.

 

They melt into each other, kisses growing quickly into heated sucking and nipping, teeth clashing again occasionally in their urgency just as Clarke had promised. When Clarke rocks her hips into Lexa’s searching for some relief, Lexa let’s out something close to a growl and it surges through Clarke like a tidal wave. She has to bite hard into her cheek to keep from coming then and there. Lexa’s head falls forward sloppily and knocks into Clarke’s, her breathing hot against her face. Clarke grabs Lexa’s cheeks and crashes their lips together, desperate to trap that heat between them, loving how it feels wrapped around her and tugging between her legs.

 

“Can I take these off?”

 

It takes a second for Clarke to register Lexa’s voice and find her touch indicating what she wants. As if reading her mind, Lexa strokes sideways to draw her attention and Clarke trembles at the tickling just above her pubic bone. Lexa’s finger hooked over the elastic of her underwear is gentle and hesitant but clear in intention.

 

Clarke nods quickly and kisses her. “Yeah, take ‘em off,” she says as she pulls away. She lifts her hips and closes her eyes as Lexa pulls them down around the curve of her ass. A hint of embarrassment tugs at her when she feels the unmistakable pull of her wetness clinging between she and her underwear, but then Lexa’s eyes close and her head drops to the pillow, their cheeks pressed together as the swimmer visibly struggles to steady herself.

 

Clarke runs her short nails up Lexa’s back soothingly, trying to focus on that rather than the overloading sensation of her bare center now against the rough material of Lexa’s jeans. “You okay?” she asks, working to keep the tremble from her voice.

 

Lexa nods and pulls back, flushed, practically panting and pupils blown so wide Clarke can see her own reflection in them. “You’re beautiful, Clarke,” Lexa gasps, her hand snaking between them, any hesitation or coyness long gone.

 

After Lexa slips out of her jeans and boxer briefs, everything is a blur of throbbing, gasping and desperate groping. When Lexa finally runs a finger up Clarke’s dripping slit, they gasp out together, Clarke whimpering and arching forward, Lexa groaning, lips coming down to suck on Clarke’s shaking lower lip.

 

Lexa’s fingers are gentle and barely there at times, rough and fast and urgent at others, and Clarke finds herself building too quickly again. Lexa is good, really, really good and she feels her orgasm rushing towards her like a derailed freight train. She grips at Lexa’s rippling back, fingers slipping over the ridges of muscles in constant motion and buries her face into her shoulder, eyes clenched shut in a desperate attempt at control.

 

She doesn’t mean to, but when Lexa pushes into her suddenly with two fingers, Clarke bites down on the thick cord of Lexa’s trapezius muscle as she cries out, her hips jerking forward to meet Lexa’s thrust. If it hurts, Lexa doesn’t show it, just curls her fingers up and strokes the ridged walls of Clarke’s pussy, clearly enjoying the sensation as much as Clarke.

 

Clarke is so wet Lexa starts to slip out of her but Clarke clenches and tightens around her, desperately holding onto the amazing feeling of Lexa inside of her.

 

“Feel good?” Lexa whispers against the corner of her mouth.

 

Clarke’s lips and mouth feel dry from where Lexa had neglected them in favor of her neck and breasts and can only nod, bucking forward to keep Lexa’s slipping fingers deep inside of her. Taking mercy on her, Lexa adds a third and they both sigh in relief, finally finding that delicious, tight stretch.

 

“Oh shit,” Clarke whispers, voice cracking in a whimper at the end when Lexa starts to push deeper into her, “god, that feels so good.”

 

Lexa nods in agreement and presses sloppy, open mouthed kisses up Clarke’s neck until Clarke bows her head and catches her lips. They try to stay connected, but with Clarke’s head falling back every few seconds, gasping and keening, they settle for Lexa pressing kisses wherever she can reach, usually a cheek or forehead or Clarke’s favorite, the underside of her jaw.

 

They get into a rhythm, Lexa settling on a quick, but deep thrusting motion that moves Clarke’s whole body. The stretch is finally tight enough, the thrusting deep and hard enough, to tug at the inner portion of Clarke’s clit where it connects behind her vaginal wall. She’s never come like this before, but she feels the unmistakable build coming on faster and harder than ever before and doesn’t question it.

 

In a moment of crazed desire, she releases Lexa’s hip from her death grip and thrusts her hand between them and straight into Lexa.

 

Fuck, Clarke,” Lexa gasps in surprise. They simultaneously surge forward, knocking into each other messily and they laugh breathily until their moans overtake them again.

 

Clarke begins thrusting quickly, her thumb coming up immediately to rub at Lexa’s swollen clit, trying to catch her up. Lexa let’s out a long, stuttering moan that Clarke has to actively breathe through to keep from coming at the glorious sound.  Lexa’s hand stills, momentarily distracted, but before Clarke can miss it Lexa moves again with renewed fervor.

 

Clarke knows her body well enough to know that she’s seconds away from bliss but she clenches and tries to hold on anyways, desperate to stave off the inevitable a little longer, wanting to get Lexa closer.

 

Her plan goes to absolute shit when Lexa takes a play out of her book and brings her thumb up to graze across her clit. Her orgasm hits her suddenly and violently sending her into a groundless abyss she doesn’t feel prepared for. It’s strong, stronger than she’s ever felt, yet somehow it feels just beyond reach, throbbing and burning but not quite satisfying. She’s confused, frustrated and yet high on immense pleasure all at the same time and she has no idea how to handle it. She let’s out a needy moan and pushes hard into Lexa’s hand, searching for more.

 

When Lexa’s snakes her free arm underneath her back and pulls her up, pressing their chests flush, Clarke explodes. She jerks and cries out, burying her face in the crook of Lexa’s neck and trembles so hard it almost aches as she finally comes, reaching the satisfaction she’d been clawing at. The build-up had been so strong, stronger than any orgasm she’s had, she’d mistaken it for a climax. She almost laughs at the way her body had known it wasn’t the finale before her mind did, but there’s no time to reflect when she notices Lexa panting in her ear, grinding her pelvis into her hand. She feels hazy and uncoordinated, still pulsing and shaking from her orgasm, but Lexa is so beautiful in her quiet pleasure, almost shy in the soft noises she chokes back, that Clarke can’t help but do everything she can to get the swimmer to the same bliss she’d experienced.

 

When Lexa comes just seconds later she freezes with her open lips pressed to Clarke’s, the smallest hint of a whine vibrating through them. Clarke nips and licks at the sound, smiling at the ring of muscle clenching against her fingers and wanting desperately to be able to pause and rewind the moment, experiencing it again and again.

 

Clarke is still panting and coming down from their collective high when Lexa seems to gather herself and begins pumping into Clarke again, lazy and slow, not after anything more, just clearly enjoying the feel of it. Clarke enjoys it too, so lets her keep going, appreciating the way it keeps her feeling full after such a strong high. She skirts her fingers up Lexa’s arms and shoulders, tracing the ridges of her muscles and marveling at the soft, thin hairs standing on end. “Are you cold?” She whispers, voice tired and raw.

 

Lexa shakes her head and kisses her. Somewhere in the back of her haze-filled mind, Clarke know it’s a bit strange. The way they lay there quietly, staring into each other’s eyes, Lexa still buried deep inside of her, thumb massaging gently at Clarke’s clit, coaxing out the last of the aftershocks of her orgasm in between soft kisses and whispered compliments. Lexa’s supporting hand is steady beside Clarke’s head, shifting occasionally to allow her to dip down and nuzzle against Clarke’s cheek or hair. It’s all a little strange because it’s soft and intimate and familiar in a way that two strangers shouldn’t be able to be.

 

“Hey,” Lexa whispers, pulling Clarke back out of her thoughts.

 

Clarke smiles and presses up to kiss at her questioning lips, reassuring and urging her onwards. “I’m okay,” she smiles and grips at Lexa’s hips, pulling her back down from where they’d started to float away.

 

“You sure?”

 

Clarke nods and wonders when the famous Olympian above her had gone from lusty and heated to overwhelmingly gentle and attentive, her every move careful and soft and filled with the desire to please. “I’m more than okay,” she mutters.  

 

Lexa kisses her on the forehead and Clarke hums, happier than she ever thought she’d be going into this. Lexa pulls out of her one finger at a time and with their eyes connected, licks at them, eyes fluttering closed in obvious enjoyment. Clarke clenches at the sight, feeling her cheeks and neck heat up in the beginnings of arousal. Her own eyes flutter close as she attempts to get ahead of it, wanting to go again but feeling the heavy, intoxicating pull of sleep settling heavily in her body with each passing second.

 

“Sleepy, sweetheart?”

 

Clarke’s eyes fly open at the term of endearment and something lovely flips in her chest. She smiles and nods, head falling back further into the pillow.

 

“I’ve got the room for the night. Told my roommate to make herself scarce,” Lexa says, her still-damp hand coming up to stroke at Clarke’s still-flushed cheek, “why don’t you rest now.”

 

Clarke nods, “I just need a minute. Then I can go.” She tries to be light about it but she doesn’t miss the way her stomach drops, always hating this part. She’s never been good at shaking the shame she feels when she’s kicked out after a quick sexual tryst and something about this woman, stroking almost lovingly at her face, makes it seem even harder.

 

Instead of nodding though, Lexa frowns and leans down to leave a quick kiss on her lips. “You don’t have to leave, love. You can sleep here.”

 

Clarke gulps, because oh. Oh this is bad. Her eyes widen ever so slightly as she stares at Lexa’s sweet eyes, the hue having slowly returned to a bright, emerald green. Her stomach squirms nervously as she struggles to ignore the feelings she knows she shouldn’t be feeling for a stranger, especially a stranger who just gave her the best orgasm of her life. She nods slowly anyways because, truth be told, she’s so exhausted she’s not sure she could have made it back to her hotel even if Lexa had asked her to.

 

She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep with the nerves sparking in her stomach and thoughts surging through her mind, but then Lexa rolls onto her side and pulls her into a bear hug of sorts. An arm snakes around her waste and the other goes around her shoulders, holding her in a way she can’t remember being held before. The breath that leaves her when Lexa kisses her forehead and gives her a quick squeeze is thin and shuttery. As if reading her clearly and trying to comfort her, Lexa brings a hand to the nape of her neck and alternates between scratching at her scalp and carding through her hair.

 

She’s teetering on the brink of sleep when she feels Lexa shift and lean down, pressing a whisper of a kiss into her hair. A wave of warmth and affinity surges through her and she pulls back just enough to capture Lexa’s lips in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m so proud you,” she says when she breaks apart to breathe, “you made America so proud.” It sounds silly coming out of her mouth and she almost regrets it, but then she hears Lexa’s breath hitch and when she looks up, the swimmers eyes are shiny and wide.

 

“Thank you,” Lexa whispers, her voice the softest Clarke’s heard all night. Clarke reaches up and strokes at the sharp, high curve of Lexa’s cheek bone, loving the ability to feel and be so tender. There’s something almost sad about Lexa now that she’s really paying attention and she feels a fierce tug to love and protect her, at least for the night.

 

She nestles back down into Lexa’s hold and kisses her cheek, fingers grazing ever so slightly across the jut of her collar bone. She’s still mesmerized by all the muscles stretching beneath Lexa’s tan skin and wants to explore them all, taking in the way they flex and give with her breathing, the bumpy or smooth texture of them depending on the area of her body, and most of all she really wishes she could see them up close in action, not on some grainy television. “You’re incredible, you know that right?” She murmurs.

 

Lexa chuckles sleepily and shakes her head, “anyone can swim, Clarke.”

 

“Not like you,” she mutters, fingers tracing the Olympic rings tattoo just above Lexa’s heart.

 

Lexa stays silent, hand absentmindedly still stroking into Clarke’s hair.  

 

“Do you think you’ll retire?” Clarke asks, suddenly feeling like she needs to know everything there is about this athlete, wanting to be a part of her past and present and future, wanting to understand the inner workings of her accomplishments and her plans, but knowing with growing disappoint at the back of her mind that she is just another fly on the wall.

 

She expects some kind of quick, cookie cutter response the swimmer might give to a reporter, but Lexa hums like she’s actually deliberating and her fingers still in her hair. They start up again after a moment and Clarke swoons when Lexa kisses the top of her head and sighs in preparation for an actual answer.

 

“Maybe after the next Games. I think I’ve got another in me. Maybe two.” She pauses, then pulls back to get a better look at Clarke, looking almost weary. “Please, ah—I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t repeat that. I shouldn’t really be talking about it to, you know, anyone who isn’t my coaches until I make an official statement.”

 

Clarke nods vigorously and presses up to kiss her as if that will assure her better than anything. And it seems to because Lexa smiles easily and pulls Clarke back close. “Between you and me though,” she mutters, “I’d like to at least do another. I’m only twenty-four, why quit just because a few records were broken, you know?” 

 

Clarke nods and kisses Lexa’s tattoo once, twice, and then nuzzles into her. “I know I’d kill to see you swim again.” Oh for fuck’s sake. She closes her eyes in extreme annoyance at the fangirl in her having gotten the best of her, but Lexa doesn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, the swimmer hums and holds her a little tighter.

 

“I like the idea of you watching me swim,” she whispers.

 

Clarke swells and has to choke back the sigh or laugh or whatever it is that bubbles in chest at the admission.  “Oh yeah?” She barely manages to ask in an even tone.

 

“Hmm,” Lexa hums in assent, “I also like the idea of seeing you again.”

 

Christ. Clarke tingles in delight and wonders briefly if maybe she’d actually fallen asleep and is now dreaming.

 

“Does that sound okay to you?”

 

There’s a hint of hesitance, a smidgeon of vulnerability, in Lexa’s voice that startles Clarke because it’s the last thing she’d ever expected to hear in that silky smooth voice. She nods quickly and pulls back yet again to kiss her, thinking that even after so many she’d never tire of how warm and satiny soft Lexa’s lips feel. “More than okay,” she assures, a wide smile crossing her face before it disappears again under Lexa’s lips.

 

They kiss the sleepiness out of their bodies and it’s another several hours of Lexa making her cry out before Clarke is lying still again. Lexa is asleep already, one arm wrapped possessively, or maybe protectively, around Clarke’s waist, the other pressed between them where her fingers still rest against Clarke’s tingling and slightly aching center. It’s a good ache though, a sated ache that feels heavy and warm against the ghostlike pressure of Lexa’s fingers. She presses up and kisses the corner of Lexa’s slightly parted mouth before falling back to the slow rising and falling of her chest. Her heartbeat is strangely slow and somewhere between consciousness and sleep she remembers reading something about professional athletes and their slow resting heart rates. She listens to it for several moments, counting the beats until the room seems to grow darker and her eyes flutter shut.

 

 

  //

 

There’s something vaguely familiar tickling at her consciousness, settling on her cheek for a fleeting second before it moves to her temple, forehead, the corner of her mouth. She smiles when she realizes what it is and turns sleepily to catch Lexa’s lips. She feels heavy and warm still cocooned in the blankets and in the swimmer’s arms, but she pushes herself to wake, wanting to fully enjoy the way Lexa seems pressed to cover her in kisses.

 

Her eyes peek open with some effort and she blinks against the soft slanting morning light. It bathes Lexa in an angelic glow and it all feels unreal. Like maybe she’s dreaming, had dreamed it all starting last night, and had yet to wake up from some undoubtable alcohol-fueled blackout. She half expects to suddenly be jolted awake and find herself slumped over at the bar of the US Celebration party house, still a little drunk, shorts too tight into her bent waist and shoes god knows where.

 

But Lexa whispers “Good morning, gorgeous,” against her lips and when she opens her eyes, she’s not drunk, her body is deliciously clothes free and her shoes are…still god knows where. She smiles and stretches, arching up into Lexa and reveling in the sound of the swimmer’s soft chuckle.    

 

“How’d you sleep?”

 

Clarke hums and toys with a strand of Lexa’s hair before she leans up and kisses her, whispering “good” into the curve of Lexa’s smile. But then something dark and uncomfortable hits her and she startles further awake. She feels like an intruder, like a fool lost inside a false hope and draws inward slightly, shying from Lexa’s touch. “What time is it?” She asks quietly, eyes dropping and avoiding.

 

Lexa yawns and grunts out a long stretch before rolling over to check the clock on the bed side table. “Almost nine,” she says, her voice still raspy from sleep and oblivious to Clarke’s sudden panic.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Clarke hisses, pulling away when the swimmer turns back around, “I should go.” She scrambles to untangle herself from the sheets and huffs in frustration when she just makes it worse.

 

“Whoa, hey, hey,” Lexa grabs at Clarke’s face and stills her with gentle brushes of her thumb across her cheek, her eyes are wide and concerned and maybe even a little scared. Clarke feels frantic and confused, not used to not being kicked out in the morning and unsure how to continue. “What’s wrong?” Lexa asks, a spectrum of micro expressions flitting across her face so quickly it makes Clarke’s head start to spin.  Lexa leans over and presses a shy and tentative kiss to the corner of Clarke’s mouth, gentle and testing and concerned. The tension in Clarke dissipates and she settles, her mind quieting and head slowing so that when Lexa tries again, Clarke turns and catches her lips.  It’s chaste at first, but Lexa nudges her with her nose, hot breath dancing across her face and Clarke moves to deepen it.

 

The kiss is slow and sound and strangely loving while Clarke tries to push aside her thoughts of insecurity.

 

“Why were you going to leave?” Lexa asks, pulling away to hook her hand around Clarke’s hip and draw her closer.

 

“I just don’t want to monopolize your time.”

 

Lexa hums in disapproval and kisses her chastely but earnestly. “I enjoy your company.”

 

“I don’t know why,” Clarke chuckles sardonically before she can stop herself.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Clarke toys with the top of the sheets and sighs. “I just…don’t know why someone like you would enjoy someone like me,” she says in whisper that tries and fails not to tremble.

 

“What do you mean someone like me?”

 

Clarke snorts and nods towards Lexa. “Like…you. An Olympian. The Olympian. America’s hero, the best swimmer in the world... shall I continue?”

 

Lexa laughs and goes back to her cheek, stroking, a few quick kisses just barely peppered across her face.  “Anyone can learn to swim, Clarke,” she mutters but Clarke shakes her head.

 

“Not like you.”

 

“Yes, like me. It’s just about hours. Hours and hours in the pool and not having anything else to lose. You though,” she pauses and kisses her. “God, Clarke, you’re exquisite.”

 

And oh boy, Clarke tries. She really, really tries, but when she chuckles it comes out as more of a choked sob and her vision blurs.

 

“Oh sweetheart,” Lexa sort of gasps, her lips coming to kiss at the tear track on Clarke’s cheek which only makes her eyes water harder, “you are so, so beautiful. And funny. God, you’re funny. And you’re sweet and caring and to be frank I’m not sure how we got here because when I saw you last night and my jaw hit the floor I thought for sure you’d send me on my way once I finally got the courage to go talk to you.”

 

Clarke laughs and wipes at her eyes, feeling embarrassed but a lot lighter. “I’m sorry, I’m just not use to this.”

 

Lexa frowns and cocks her head to the side, “what are you used to?”

 

Shrugging, Clarke relaxes back into the sheets and rubs at her forehead, the faintest hint of a hangover headache ticking the nerves there. “Being alone,” she finally mutters.

 

You? But you’re so…lovely.”

 

Clarke weakly pushes at Lexa’s chest and smiles, shaking her head. “And yet I seem to manage to get left a lot.”

 

Lexa sputters and shakes her head almost angrily. “Idiots,” she mutters. But then she seems to deflate when she sighs and rolls onto her back. She pulls Clarke with her and then on top of her and Clarke has to silence the mew that comes when Lexa starts massaging at her scalp. “But I know the feeling,” the swimmer almost throws away as if not really meaning to say it out loud.

 

Clarke can’t help Lexa’s tragic past from seeping into her mind at the soft admission; the traumatic death of Lexa’s parents, her swimming for hours to survive after a tragic boat crash and how that led to her prodigious abilities and career. The stories had been plastered all over TV for months leading up to the Olympics.  If she remembers correctly, Lexa was eleven at the time, in and out of foster care until she finally found her place in the pool. She’d watched with wonder, cried with the old photographs of the boat wreckage, the family photos put into greyscale for effect.

 

Lexa’s story was extraordinary, really, becoming a national champion just a few years after the accident, internationally ranked and sponsored in her young teens, allowing her to become emancipated and escape the foster care system. In the videos it all seemed so glamorous and triumphant, but now that she’s up close, lying there with her head on Lexa’s chest looking up at the clenched jaw and distant eyes of the swimmer, she can only imagine how alone she’d been. She wonders if Lexa even likes swimming, if it had been a fun outlet for her as a child, or if it was just a means of survival.

 

The thoughts tug hard at the knot in her throat as she brings her lips to the underside of Lexa’s chin, then her jaw, her pulse point, cheek and everywhere else she can reach. “I like your company too, Lexa,” she whispers.

 

The shaky little breath Lexa lets out and the way her eyes tremble shut when they kiss makes Clarke swell inside, her hands suddenly everywhere in an attempt to love and soothe and show. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. “You’re not alone,” she shutters out just before Lexa’s tongue licks its way into her mouth.

 

When Lexa rolls on top of her the weight is nice. She’s all lean muscle, big and solid but she gives in all the right ways and Clarke feels safe rather than smothered under her. As Lexa’s hands grazes down her stomach, she barely manages to whisper “I have to meet Octavia at noon,” before the swimmer slips her hand between her legs, catching Clarke’s gasp with a kiss before breaking into smirk and saying, “that’s plenty of time.”