Hey everyone! I was asked to start up a Clexa Christmas event, and I thought to myself why the hell not?! Clextober was a real success and I really enjoy Clexa so here we go! I also noticed that Clexa Week wasnât going to be able to do any of these so donât fret everyone! You can hit them up for a prompt @clexaweek2018â because they are probably better at it than I am :)
I donât want to exclude anyone so I am thinking of it being Clexa Winter Wonderland type of theme. The whole month of December will be Clexmas. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ćmisoka, New Years, or any other holiday you would like to do. 12 days before Christmas I will start a 12 Days of Clexa event that will have a Christmas themed list.
How To Participate:
Fanart, fanfics, moodboards, photo manipulations, fic recs, fanvids, anything that jingles like Clexa, letâs see it!
As part of Clexmas, I will be doing a special 12 Days of Clexa starting on December 14th, 2018. Below is a list of the theme ideas we will be doing for the 12 Days of Clexa and I will post a more detailed list very soon to help get those gears turning!
12 days of Clexmas:
Dec. 14: Christmas Sweaters
Dec. 15: A Christmas Story
Dec. 16: Let it Snow! Let it Snow!
Dec. 17: Spiked Eggnog
Dec. 18: Youâre a mean one Mrs. Grinch
Dec. 19: FREE DAY
Dec. 20: Winter Wonderland
Dec. 21: Naughty or Nice
Dec. 22: Deck the Halls
Dec. 23: Secret Santa
Dec. 24: Under The Mistletoe
Dec. 25: Christmas Morning
Reblog or send this post out to anyone you think will enjoy! Send out ideas/prompts to your favorite writers and artists!
#Clexmas18 Â Â #12DaysofClexa
Christmas is an event in the Griffin-Woods household! As soon as Halloween is over, the ugly sweaters roll out, the pine-scented candles are lit, and the festive decorations go up. Of course, Lexa canât resist a joke about Clarkeâs shapely baubles.Â
in which lexa has given raven a âjolly mandateâ to organize festivities of this skaikru holiday for the sake of alliances or whatever
-raven has put on a 24 hour marathon (âbut it might go longer who knowsâ) of Christmas movies on makeshift projector screen erected in a somewhat busy part of polis
-clarke hands out popcorn to kids to ease that fear of wanheda thing, courtesy of kane (âthose kids donât have a chance against that griffin charmâ) itâs slightly sweet but salted and warm and clarke for sure gets a fanbase for it
-even lexa herself comes down to catch a glimpse of ravenâs magic story business and finds herself behind some kids in a line for popcorn, blushing a little bit at the Very Attractive Popcorn Giver. she is really quite taken by the movie music and helps herself to like 4 more helpings of popcorn, for diplomatic reasons of courseÂ
-lexa totally cries during the polar express and asks raven for a hole puncher
prev (day 12) all next (day 10)
Dumped and depressed, Clarke is searching for any way to get out of LA before the holidaysâthat includes swapping homes with similarly unlucky in love Anya whoâs sister has a bad habit of turning up on her doorstep unannounced and finding herself in Clarke's bed come morning. When 'no strings attached' quickly becomes complicated, on both sides of the Atlantic Clarke and Anya are left coming to terms with the reality that they are leaving in two weeks.
read on ao3
thank you so much to @dontcha-wanheda for giving me the inspiration and creating this amazing poster!Â
Sheâs an idiot.
Heâs and idiot.
Theyâre both idiots for letting themselves be caught up in this gameâone she now knows is nothing but pure fraudâand the knowledge that she has curls under her rib cage like malevolent fingers until she canât breathe. Â
She presses a hand into her chest, knuckles curling into the neckline of her pyjamas until it inflates beneath her palm and sheâs sure she isnât suffocating, before extracting herself from the throes of eight-hundred thread count and Egyptian cotton.
The house is eerily quiet. Clarke knows Finn is downstairs somewhereâhopefully on the couch where she left him last night, or even better gone entirely. What he did makes her want to vomit and she doesnât have the energy to deal with him any more than she did last night when she slammed the bedroom door and told him to stay out.
She can still smell the other girlâs perfume.
She hooks her phone into the speaker on the nightstand and blasts her playlist as loud as it will go until she can feel the vibrations of the music drown out the vibrations of her heartbeat in her ears and gets to work.
His teeâs are the first to go. She sweeps them with a wayward arm off the cubby in the walk-in she has saved for him and they fall limply to the floor but it isnât enough. She finds his dress-shirts next and rips at the notch in the side until the fabric gives and the whole shirt rips apart in her hand with a grating noise she canât hear. She snatches the rest of them off their hangers and flings open the door to the balcony, hurling the armful over the railing and sending them flying.
She had plans for todayâfor their anniversaryâbut she watches the shirts sink into the shallow end of the pool and can feel the dinner reservations going with them, throat closing around her attempts to swallow and breathe.
A furious bang on the locked bedroom door pries her attention from the drowning clothing and she crosses the room to open it on a whim before disappearing back into the walk-in, completely out of control of her own body. Her head feels fuzzy but her movements are sharp and she doesnât understand what she is doing until she finds herself going through his selection of watches that sit inside his sock drawer.
âI told you to leave.â
âClarke, what did I do?â
Finnâs voice grates in her ear as she spins on her bare heelâhis good Rolex in hand, rubbing finger prints into the face in the way she knows makes him irritated. He is standing in the entrance to the walk-in in boxers and his grey sleep tee, entirely too relaxed with his shoulder resting on the door frame and his shaggy hair in his face and all she sees is red.
She drops the watch and sees his face crumble as the face shatters.
âFor fucks sake, Clarke you canât just kick me out and not tell me why!â Â
He snatches the next watch before it can meet its match on the tiles and her hand flies out to slap him across the face.
He stumbles backwards and she freezes, hand stinging.
âNot tell you why?â She whispers, nausea creeping up her throat. âBellamy told me, Finn. It wasnât âjust a kissâ youâve been sleeping with that girl for months.â Finn scoffs but she doesnât wait for him to argue, she flings a polished black Salvatore Ferragamo loafer at him and watches him duck to avoid it. âSheâs nineteen , Finn!â
âYouâre not even going to let me deny it?â
âI have proof!â She shoves him and brushes angrily past. âNot that I would listen to a word you said if you did because youâre a compulsive fucking liar and I should have known the day I met you that this would happen.â
She wants to cry but she doesnât.
Tears burn behind her eyes and she staunchly refuses to let them fall because that would mean that Finn would winâevery moment she spends crying over him is one she is sure he tallies up like a victory and she wants to scream until she canât anymore. She finds his trainers by the bed, slings a t-shirt from the floor over her arm and piles the script from his latest film on top, ignoring the way he follows her, close enough for her to smell his cologne. Â
âCome on, Clarke. This isnât my fault and you know it.â
âSo what?â She whirls and shoves his belongings into his chest. âYou just slipped and fell into bed with her?â He looks like he wants to nod. âFour times?â
âMaybe I wouldnât have had to if you didnât work so much.â He squares up.
Clarke feels her breath grow shallow in her lungs.
âFor fucks sake. You donât want me Finn!â His brow dips into the barest resemblance of innocence and she hates it. âYou want the idea of me! The me that moved here five years ago with nothing, and now that I have the job, and the house and the money, youâre intimidated. You donât want a girlfriend, Finn,â she informs him curtly. âYou want a puppet.â
Fury boils in her stomach and she takes a few shallow breaths before deciding she doesnât want to look at him anymore. He doesnât look guilty or chastised, instead heâs achingly calmâsmug even and if anything everything that she says eggs him on. If she sees it for another second she is going to lash out and do something she regrets.
Her father always said she was a spitfire.
She storms out of the bedroom and grunts when he follows, feet falling heavily on the stairs and down into the atrium of the Spanish Style Villa.
She remembers buying the houseâsurveying the property hanging off Finnâs arm as she imagined making it her own. Her money, her things, her name on the papers because even though Finn tried to coax her into buying a house together she decided she wasnât ready.
Now, she thanks god for the small mercy.
âOr maybe, just maybe, it isnât all about what Iâve done for once!â Finn accuses.
âWhat the fuck is that supposed to mean?â
âClarke, you live a fairy-tale world. You came to LA and made it big and now you sit here with your big job, and your big house making big money and not once do you stop to think about the real world.â
âThatâs bullshit and you know it!â She turns away and coaches herself into breathingâonce, twice, three times. Pain pricks in her palms as she unwinds her fingers from where they have dug grooves into her palm. âAll I have ever done is work for what I haveââ
âYou draw pictures for a living!â
âFuck you, Finn!â She yells until her throat begs her not to. âMaybe wanting more out of a relationship than a quickie in the supply closet means that Iâm âliving in a fairy-tale worldâ. But if that makes me better than you, then Iâm okay with it.â She shoulders past him and opens the front door. âNow get out!â
He refuses, jaw flexing in a way that makes fear creep up her spine.
âIâll call 911,â she threatens in a high, thin voice.
âJesus Christ, Clarke I didnât cheat on you!â
Itâs everything she can do not to let tears fall. The lump in her throat tightens and morphs into something she canât swallow around and it takes her a minute to finally get the words out, scrutinising him with a watery gaze. âWhy would Bellamy lie?â
Finn shrugs. He avoids her eyes and smooths his hand over the back of his neckâa nervous tick she has come to know means he is trying to come up with a lie. Clarke has seen it numerous times now, on curiously late nights in the office and odd stains on his shirt collars, and she hates the fact that she only now is understanding what it means.
Maybe she is naive.
Doubt creeps into her mind, seizing in her chest until she can feel the anxiety setting her on edge.
âHeâs Bellamy,â is Finnâs eventual answer and Clarkeâs heart drops into her stomach. Her last shred of hope sinks and burns. âHeâs been in love with you since he met you.â
âYouâre so full of shit Finnââ
âOr maybe you just donât know how to be what I need!â
There it is.
His key chain is a leaden weight, biting the center of her palm as she twists the house key off and drops it into his hand. The anger boiling in the pit of her stomach engulfs her entire chest in flames until she is sure every inch of her is burning with the need to do something other than stand passively by.
She blinksâblank facedâand twists her house key off the ring, handing it back to him with all the ceremony of asking for salt over the dinner table and opens the door wider. âIâll send you your things.â
He talks a step towards her and she stares at himâlips pursed and chest quiveringâuntil his mouth twists as if something inside it has curdled and he scowls.
Raven eyes her with worry from her perch, cross legged in the middle of Clarkeâs California king. There is an open suitcase in front of her which, so far, has collected two pairs of jeans and a thermal turtleneck. Clarke stands in front of the walk-in perusing her rack of sweaters. She is still in her silk pyjamas, hair fastened into a haphazard top knot with an elastic.
Once the deed was done, she had felt decidedly less frantic about the whole ordeal. There was something solid in having a seat booked on the eight oâclock flight that smoothed down the edges of the world that had come unstuck the moment Bellamy told her about Finn. When she saw the description on the listing it was almost too goodâto ironicâto be true. âFairy-tale English cottageâ . She had almost scrolled past it in search of something bigger before spite made her send an inquiry. Now, she is sure that if she can just spend the next two weeks hauled up in a one cart town with a bottle of wine, she will just about make it out of this still breathing.
Decisively, she takes the sweaters, hangers and all, and lays them on the comforter.
âIâm packing a suitcase, arenât I?â She meets Ravenâs intent stare.
The Latina purses her lips as Clarke begins to take the sweaters off their hangers and fold them methodically: side, side, bottom flip.
The movement calms the rattling headache she has had for the better half of the morning despite taking two Advilâs. She can only hope it will lessen with distance.
âYou can beâŠimpulsive,â Raven says evenly, avoiding the way Clarke shoots her a look. She picks up a navy cable-knit and begins the process.
Tucking a stack into the suitcase, Clarke stands back and smooths her fingers over the fly away hairs at her hairline. âI canât be here right now,â she explains tightly. âNot where I could run into him.â
She doesnât want to have to confront the image of Finn with his new toy. The thought of them together seizes in her chest and makes her want to vomit and she forces herself to swallow the nausea that burbles, uninvited in her stomach as she perches on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.
âOh, hon.â
The mattress dips with Ravenâs weight as she abandons her folding and scoots closer to slide an arm around Clarkeâs shoulder and it doesnât take much force for her to pull the blonde into her chest. âThis isnât your fault, Clarke,â she coos, resting her chin atop the blondes head.
Chest stinging, Clarke shoves a fist into her front teeth to stifle the sob that escapes her chest, unbidden.
She feels like a stranger to herself and it scares her. The thing is, she has absolutely no idea where it went so wrong.
Finn had always been on the sickly side of charming. He would play flirt with Raven and Octavia to no end and got on a little too well with her friends but Clarke had chalked it up to him wanting to make a good impression and now sheâs utterly shocked at her naivety.
âI found a ring.â
When sheâs ready, Raven letâs her pull away and sit up. Â
âWhat?â
Taking a shuddering breath, Clarke pulls the elastic from her top knot and rakes her hands through her now free hair, fisting her fingers at her hairline.
âI found a ring in the pocket of his jacket last month,â she sniffs. âIâve been waiting for him to, you knowâŠâ she makes a vague gesture. âDo it.â
Raven nods, tucking a lock of lank hair behind her ear as she tries to get her words out without swallowing them. They scream in her throat like they want to be let out but when she tries she canât and it only burns worse. âNow I canât help wondering if it was for her.â
âHeâs an asshole,â Raven decides, but her voice lacks the usual feistiness and it sounds strange and stilted with such a sympathetic.
Her world tilts and she falls back into the mattress.
âThis is so messed up.â
Jeans and oversized tee knotted at her waist, Octavia appears in the bedroom doorway with the beige duffle coat Clarke keeps in the downstairs closet with the other cold weather gear for when she visits her parents in D.C. and Clarke springs up, pressing her knuckles under her eyes to blot at the tears.
âBellamy called,â Octavia says quietly. She crosses the room and hands the coat to Clarke, catching her knuckles between her fingers and giving them a squeeze. âHe can take you to LAX. Save you the cab fare.â
Taking a shuddering breath, nods. âTell him thank you,â she whispers, holding the coat against her thigh to roll it as tightly as possible and tuck it into her suitcase. She has five more hours until she can forget this mess.
Thatâs manageable, she decides.
She points to the rain boots in the bottom of the walk-in.
âCan you hand me those?â
England is cold.
Unlike the tepid heat of LA in the winter, the chill that Clarke is faced with as she stands on the cobblestone path of the cottageâfuzzy headed from the ten hour flightâcrawls into her lungs beneath her thermal, turtleneck and Burberry pea coat and threatens to choke her. She tucks her nose into the lip of the tartan scarf she has wound around her neck, breathing until she warmth sinks into her chest and makes breathing bearable. Her fingers fumble with her suitcase as the wheels threaten to run away on the uneven ground.
The cottage looks identical to its picture.
It stares at her out of four shuttered windows from under a slate, gable roof. Two chimneys book end it at each end and a wilting wreath hands from a nail in the front door from a velvet bow.
She finds the key under the mat where Anya emailed that she would leave it and consults the instructions which tell her to âjiggle it twice, the lock sticksâ in thin, slanted handwriting and does as she is told, feeling the door give and she steps inside. She closes the door quickly, shivering gratefully at the warmth.
Inside is as quaint as outside. A rickety kitchen table and chairs stands in the room to her right where the mental countertop hugs the wall and a tin kettle sits in the cradle of the gas stovetop. Ahead, the rungs of the staircase are adorned with garlands and crude paper snowflakes hang from it with stringâthey look childish and it makes her wonderâand the living room sits at the end of the hall, the sum of a few overstuffed armchairs, a coffee table and a shag rug in front of the fireplace.
Clarke appraises herself in the age-speckled mirror inside of the doorway, setting down her suitcase to pull her beanie off and brush out her hat-flattened hair with frostbitten fingers.
She looks tired. The aftermath of the Xanax she took for the flight has etched bags under her eyes and her cheeks are chapped a shocking red colour that she tries, unsuccessfully, to rub away with the heel of her hand.
When it doesnât make a difference she sighs and gets to work.
The house is warm but still not comfortable so she decides to fix that first, dragging the wicker basket of kindlingâchopped wood and sticks from outside it looks likeâout from behind the fading armchair. Her father taught her how to stack wood in the grate on a camping trip when she was seven so she tries to replicate it and strikes a match from the box she finds in the top kitchen drawer but when the spark doesnât light after the third time she gives up.
Thereâs an oil heater in the closet under the stairs that she plugs in next to the armchair that will have to do.
Upstairs she finds two bedrooms and an adjoining bathroom which is so small that, when she sits on the seat of the toilet and reaches her arms out they brush the exposed brick on the other side of the room. She eyes the tub-shower warily and decides that she isnât in the least bit excited to see how that turns out.
Thereâs a dog nestled in the knitted quilt on the bed in the master bedroom who pops his head up as she enters and stares at her without blinking. She shoos him off, taking a look at the tag around his neck which reads âFishâ in neat engraved letters, before putting her suitcase on the quilt to unpackâher clothes get wedged in the minimal closet space, her shoes are chucked in the bottom of the stand-alone wardrobe and she slots her toothbrush into the ceramic cup by the sink which is decorated with smudged fingerprints in red and yellow finger paintâall of which takes fifteen minutes before she is left at a loss once again.
She still canât feel the heat from the oil heater and her toes are numbing. Rummaging in the depths of her half-unpacked suitcase where it peeks out from beneath the bed she finds a pair of socks and tucks the cuff of her jeans into the tops to keep the heat in.
Now what?
The answer, she finds after a half hour of roaming the cottage, is overwhelmingly nothing.
Fish rests his chin on the sagging toes of her socks as she sits in front of her failed fire, knotting her fingers under her chin to ward away the doubt that creeps up her spine.
Perhaps the one place on earth where there is absolutely nothing to take her mind of her cheating ex-boyfriend was the wrong choice for her to make in this situation. She canât help but think that if she were hiking through the Peruvian mountains or laying on the beach in Barbados it would be easier to breathe through the sickly weight on her chest but she doesnât have the luxury now. She feels the numbness that coaxed her through booking the ticket and the ten hours flight fading fast, replaced with the jarring realisation of what she had done and she doesnât like it. It makes her feel frantic and paranoid and absolutely, unavoidably dumped like she is seven-years-old again and her Dad has taken her to the beach to teach her to swim in the waves, but instead, she has tripped and let the water drag her across the sand and this is the moment she breaks to the surface to breathe.
She doesnât like it.
It feels rough and confronting, scraping the inside of her chest raw and the image of Finn with his arm slung around the shoulders of the girl Clarke had greeted almost every day for two years makes her feel queasy.
She needs a drink.
Clarke thought that the minutes she spent watching her mother go over the life insurance papers with the lawyer were the longest of her lifeâsitting sour-faced and ramrod straight in the chair the receptionist had dragged in for her, avoiding her motherâs eyes. She didnât understand it. At age fifteen she pretended she did but honestly, the things the tight-lipped man was saying were too overwhelming for her to listen to entirely when the dress she wore to his funeral was still in the bottom of her laundry hamper.
She now knows that they had nothing on what she has come to call âEnglish village in the ass crack of nowhereâ minutes which so far have been spent avoiding the curious glance of the check-out lady as she surveyed Clarkeâs itemsâ-a bottle of red wine, two jars of pitted olives, gingerbread cookies, packaged Christmas chocolates and cheese chips that look entirely too fancy for a pity party for oneâand belting out a decidedly tipsy rendition of âMr. Brightsideâ on the old CD player Anya keeps in the den, wine glass in hand, and screening phone calls with an LA area code like the plague.
All the while Fish has followed her with a wide berth like he doesnât quite trust her in his masters house.
She has discerned that flying halfway across the world to get away from her problems is quite possibly the most cowardly move she could have made, but she has also decided that there is no changing it. Hibernation suddenly sounds like the smartest idea in the world.
At nine p.m. she finds herself in bed, tapered sweatpants tucked into the tops of her polka-dot bed socks, thermal turtleneck on under her pilling chunky-knit cardigan and the opened bottle of wine sitting on the nightstand. The glassâmostly empty nowârests in her palm as she frowns in annoyance at the characters in the soap opera that is playing off the TV resting on the dresser. Â
Raven texts her in the middle of a surprise stranger revealing that he is, in fact, the shop girls baby daddy and Clarke grunts through a sip, patting the folds of the quilt for her phone.
[Text from: Raven 11:37 PM 15/12] I let Anya in and I couriered Finn his things.
[Text from: Raven 11:37 PM 15/12] Sheâs kind of a hard ass.
Clarke smirks and swipes her lock screen to open it.
[Text to: Raven 11:38 PM 15/12] Intimidated?
[Text from: Raven 11:39 PM 15/12] Shut up.
Chuckling, she returns to the soap as the shop girl slaps her ex across the faceâClarke nods in tight-lipped sympathy for herâbefore reaching up to mute the TV at the sound of knocking coming from downstairs. She swings her legs out of bed and pauses, socked-feet hovering over the wood.
It happens again a minute laterâa persistent banging on what sounds like the front door, although she isnât entirely ruling out that Fish had perhaps gotten himself into trouble, so she traipses out to the landing to investigate.
âWho is it?â She hollers uncertainty, fists wound in the cuffs of her sleeves as she rounds the bend in the staircase.
âItâs me.â
Frowning, Clarke wraps her cardigan tightly around herself and fists her hands into the sagging pockets as she descends the rest of the way down the stairs. She can see the dark silhouette of a person through the four dust-clogged panes in the door, each thump of their fist causing the wood to shudder on its hinges.
âAnya,â they grouch. âIf you donât open the door, Iâm going to have to take a leak on yourââ Â
The panic that lurches up her throat is enough to have Clarke pulling the door in, fingers fumbling for the porch-light switch on the panel by the coat rack.
âOh.â
In the light, the silhouette turns into a woman, Clarkeâs height in a cable-knit sweater, dark green duffle coat with the toggles undone, jeans, and rain boots, cheeks chapped and red beneath the tartan scarf around her neck which her dark hair is caught in like she left wherever she has been in a rush.
Clarke shivers, pulling her cardigan snugger as the cold creeps into the cottage uninvited through the open front door, but the threat of hypothermia is almost worth the look of quiet horror on her visitors face as she raises a hand to tuck her hair behind her ears, as if checking she can see clearly.
âYouâre not Anya,â she says dumbly.
âNo,â Clarke quirks a smile, gesturing to the front step. âBut by all means.â
The woman looks down and Clarke counts the twelve different shades of white she goes when she understands, watching her ruefully sink her hands into her pockets. âThereâs a chance I got a tad too slap happy with the gin,â she admits.
âI couldnât tell.â
Suitably chagrined, the woman peers at her toes for a beat, as if wishing the front step would swallow her whole and Clarke leans against the open edge of the door waiting.
âYes.â She looks up and Clarke is struck immediately by the colour of her eyesâthey water from the sheer sting of the cold and in the porch light the soft green punches the air out of her chest. She tells herself itâs the chill.
âNevertheless,â the brunette entreats, nodding her head inside, âmay I?â
Itâs Clarkeâs turn to flush vehemently as she flings the door wider and steps aside to let the woman in. âOh. âCourse.â
She checks herself over in the mirror inside the door again, tucking curls of hair behind her ears. It isnât much of an improvement on what it was when she got hereâher hair is lank and her eyes are darkâbut her cheeks are rosy now from the warmth of the quilt and the wine and if she tucks her sweat pants from her socks she almost looks human. She can deal with almost human.
The toilet flushes, then the faucet squeaks and the woman appears from the squat bathroom wedged beneath the stairs, unwinding her scarf from her neck bashfully so her hair falls free.
âSo, uhââ
âClarke,â Clarke offers.
âClarke,â the woman nods. âLexa,â she points to herself. She peers at Clarke curiously, like she is trying to place her and when she canât, she sags apologetically. âAm I in the right house?â
âThat depends,â Clarke smirks, reading the shallow confusion rooting itself inside of Lexa.
âOn what?â
âAnya didnât tell you?â
Lexa freezes, tentative smile stretching into a grimace as she tries to reconcile what she wants to say with what is coming out of her mouth. âShe could of,â she admits, âbut, as previously mentioned, Iâve been down at,â she hitches a thumb towards the door to jog her memory, âthe pub.â
She sways on her feet, listing sideways as if to affirm her point and Clarke lunges forwards to place a steady hand on her elbow. She can feel the heat emanating from beneath the fabric under her hand.
When she looks up Lexa is decidedly too close.
âAnyaâs in LA,â she says quickly and the brunette pulls back, affronted.
âLA?â
âShe listed her house on a home exchange website. I got here this morning.â
âOh.â It seems to be news to Lexa. âMay I sit down?â
âOf course,â Clarke springs away, letting Lexa shimmy past and ease herself down into the cushions with a grunt. Fish takes the moment to decide the couch is free reign now and hops up next to her, pushing his nose into her lap like they are familiar.
âIâm sorry about this,â she looks up at Clarke after a moment. âI donât usual burst into peopleâs homes unannounced on a Friday night.â
Her bashfulness is unusually charmingâClarke thinks itâs the accent but she canât be sure, her sheer vicinity to the perfect stranger has her flustered in a thousand different ways she hasnât felt before. Â âEven if you didnât I couldnât fault you on it,â she laughs.
Lexa smiles in appreciation for her attempt at salvaging the conversation.
âMy sister usually lets me stay the night if I drink so I donât have to drive.â She admits.
âYour Anyaâs sister?â Clarke tries not to let her surprise show. From the little that she has talked to Anya over the phone to work out the details of their exchange, Lexa seems like the polar opposite. Sheâs hard where Lexa is apologetically soft.
âGuilty as charged.â
She nods thoughtfully for a moment, watching Fish drag his wet nose along the strip of skin visible between the waistband of Lexaâs jeans and the hem of her sweater before chastising herself.
Was twenty-four hours too soon for a rebound?
The angel on her shoulder says it is but if Raven were here she would tell her otherwise. Her own head feels fuzzy from the red wineâwhich she should have known would lead to consequences after Harpers baby shower last monthâand she peers around the cottage. Short of asking Lexa to play a round of Scrabble with her she isnât quite sure how to entertain her. Â
âDo you want a drink?â
Itâs the first thing she can think of.
âA water or...wine?â
Lexa looks at her hopefully. âWould it be terribly English of me to ask for a cup of tea?â
Clarke blanches at the thought. âIf you tell me how to take it.â
âYou donât know how to make tea?â
âIâm more of a Starbucks girl,â Clarke admits bashfully as Lexa eases herself off the couch.
Fish yips at her feet as they migrate to the kitchen, Clarke leaning against the rickety kitchen table as Lexaâdespite her sore headâgoes about finding mugs from the cupboard. She navigates the kitchen with ease, filling the kettle and flicking it on, taking the battered tin off the top shelf of the pantry and placing a dark tea bag in the bottom of her mug and shrugging her coat off onto the back of a chair, leaving her in her sweater that hangs off her frame. She rolls it up at the sleeves as she waits.
âSo, LA?â She muses, glancing back as the kettle burbles.
Clarke nods. âYeah.â
âArguably more glamorous than Surrey.â
âWhoâs to say,â Clarke smiles diplomatically.
Lexa grins, leaning forwards like she is about to bestow Clark with.a secret. âIâm sure no one would blame you if you did.â
Clarke grins at her and Lexa stands straighter for it.
âI hope you donât mind my asking but how do you like it so far? England I mean,â she hastens to clarifyâfor what reason Clarke doesnât know.
Clarke leans back into the table and takes stock.
So far she has walked a mile in the snow because of a grumpy cab driver who refused to do a U-turn at the end of a narrow country lane, cleared the local grocery store out of red wine and watched enough soaps to narrate the life stories of the people living on a street that seems to attract pathetic drama like month to a flame. It wasnât what she had in mind when she turned up at the airport but then again, she doesnât know what she thought she would find. She was being stupid and impulsive and itâs come back to bite her now, alone in a village with less cell service than an underground bunker.
âWell,â she prepares to condense all of it into an easy reply. âIâve been here for,â she checks a watch that isnât there, âsix hours and I already want to leave, so good.â She gives Lexa a sardonic thumbs up and the brunette grimaces in sympathy. She looks down at Fish and then back up, fingers playing with a loose thread of her cable-knit.
âI could show you around the town tomorrow,â she offers. âItâs nothing flashy but the pub sells alcohol and the food is hot if you want a way to pass the time.â
âOhâŠâ Clarke ducks her head, flattered and strangely unsure how she feels.
âUnless youâre already spoken for,â Lexa backtracks, suddenly busying herself with fetching the milk from the fridge. âI donât want to overstep.â
âYou didnât,â Clarke assures her quickly. âYou havenât. Actually,â she sinks her fingers into her hair and wonders why she is going to tell her sob story to the perfect stranger who threatened to drop her pants on her porch in the middle of the night. âI had a bad breakup. He was an asshole, it was messy,â she shrugs. âI came here to un complicate things but it hasnât quite worked out how I thought. Frankly Iâm not sure what I thought, I must have been out of my mind but here we are.â She tries for a lopsided smile, noticing the way Lexa is looking at herâsoftly, with a slight smile on her lips so that Clarke canât tell what she is thinking but knows itâs something sweetâand quickly leaning down to let Fish nuzzle into her palm.
Heâs starting to warm up to her, she thinks. It didnât take much to win him over but a bowlful of foot and a belly rub.
âWell if you ever want something uncomplicated,â Lexa reminds her.
Clarke isnât sure if itâs supposed to be an innuendo. She almost asks but then the kettle whistles and Lexa goes to pull it off its cradle. Clarke listens to the whisper of boiling water against the ceramic and the clink of the spoon against the mug as Lexa mixes in the milk and raises it to her lips to blow across the surface of the drink.
After a moment she sets the mug down on the counter and pins Clarke with a beseeching smile . âWould it be awful if I stayed?â She asks, lips curling into a wince as if she hates to ask. Clarke finds herself fixating on the freckle that she has spotted on her top lip. âI could take the sofa. You wonât know Iâm here.â
âOh, no,â Clarke shakes her head, dragging her mind out of the gutter. âSure, no thatâs fine,â she hitches a thumb behind her. âLet me just go get you a blanket and then itâs all yours.â
She climbs up the stairs, rummaging in the hall closet under towels for a comforter and a sheet, pausing to steal herself on the landing.
When she returns, Lexa is in the living room. Her coat has migrated from the back of the chair in the kitchen to the coat rack, her rain boots sit just inside the door and she nurses her cup of tea in her hands as she pursues the bookshelf arching over the doorway into the hall. She thanks Clarke warmly when she hands over the bedding.
âLook, Iâm sorry again for barging in unannounced. I know how awkward this must be for you.â
âItâs nothing, really,â Clarke waves it off. âAnyaâs your sister itâs more your house than mine.â
âStill, there arenât a lot of people who would let just anyone camp on their sofa for the night.â
âYouâre not just anyone,â Clarke hums, swallowing the way her heart beats a rhythmic tattoo in her chest. Theyâre so close sheâs sure Lexa can hear.
âNo,â Lexa whispers, âIâm not.â
When they kiss Clarke canât say that she isnât at all expecting it.
Itâs soft and languid, barely enough to match the intensity of the feel that gnaws at the pit of Clarkeâs stomach but when she tilts her head sideways to deepen it, their noses brush and Lexa pulls back to breathe, blinking in what Clarke is sure would be shock if she was completely coherent.
âOh.â She says calmly.
âOh.â Clarke parrots.
The heat grows in her stomach, morphing and building magma until itâs a sharp, kneeing ache and Clarke reaches out to slid her fingers over Lexaâs collarbones, focusing on the neat ribbing intently. Her mind slows to the pace of thick honey, as she swallows and blinks, looking up at Lexa who has her lips parted and hands fisted at her side. âWould youâahââ she waits for the words to form on her tongue. âWould you mind doing that again?â Â Â
The second time itâs heavier.
Clarke curls her fingers into the shoulder of Lexaâs sweater, swallowing the moan that she lets out when she swipes her tongue along her bottom lip on a whim. Fumbling, Lexaâs fingers find Clarkeâs waist under the folds of her cardigan, shoving the fabric aside and then the tee beneath that and Clarke shivers, unfiltered in the noise that she makes, when her fingers skate across her ribs, frigid and cold, raising goose bumps in their wake. Â
She leans her forehead on Lexaâs, breathing shallow breaths that send hot puffs of air cascading across the sharp cut of her cheekbones.
She is prettyâokay sheâs absolutely beautiful and Clarke is suddenly flawed by it but she summons the dregs of liquid courage that have lain dormant in her stomach since she laid eyes on the brunette and wills it to fill the cavity of her chest as brings her fingers up to cradle Lexaâs jaw, peering at her intently.
âHuh,â she whispers.
âWhat?â
âI should tell you,â she warns quietly, âI donât usually kiss the first person who shows up to my door on a Friday night.â But even as she says it she takes Lexaâs hands in her own, bringing them up to the collar of her cardigan and urging if off in clear permission.
âNeither do I.â
Lexa shakes her head, fingers playing with the hem of Clarkeâs tee. Clarke lifts her arms and allows it to be pulled of and discarded leaving her in her bra, skin pricklingâdespite the living room being a virtual hot-house from the heater she left on all day and the proximity to Lexa feels like sheâs made of raw heatâher fingers coming down to fumble with the button on Lexaâs jeans.
âIâm open to making an exception though,â she sighs between kissesâteeth clacking, noses bumping in their haste.
âYeah?â
Clarke nods. âYeah.â
Lexa glances towards the staircase, stamping her jeans down her legs as she goes to work at her own sweater. Clarke helps so that theyâre a mess of limbs and awkward, desperate pulling.
âUpstairs?â Lexa whispers when they hold the top between both of their hands, breathing stilted breaths and marvelling at each other.
âYeah.â
The angel on her shoulder hollers warnings of certain doom but Clarke doesnât have it in herself to listen.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Anya/Raven Reyes, Octavia Blake/Lincoln
Characters: Clarke Griffin, Lexa (The 100), Anya (The 100), Raven Reyes, Lincoln (The 100), Octavia Blake
Additional Tags: Cabin Fic, Snow, Christmas, Clexmas18, 12DaysofClexa, Day10, Let it Snow! Let it Snow!, Physical Therapist Clarke, Snowboarder Lexa, Fluff, True Love
Series: Part 3 of Clexmas18
Summary:
Lexa finally makes her ski lodge come true with the help of Clarke.
