2 on the 50 cliche tropes, please! (your snippets are my new favourite thing)
There’s bits of gold to be found in the strangest of places, Clarke realizes. This time of year, it’s in those moments Clarke escapes early from work, grabbing a cup of coffee on the way home and being able to savor it. When it snows with nowhere to be but home. Under a blanket, reading some cheesy, action packed sci-fi adventure…
But the best is finding her girlfriend’s sweatshirt still warm from the dryer in the laundry basket free for the taking, and Clarke has never stripped faster. Well. Relatively, anyway. She pulls the t-shirt over her head, tossing it aside in favor of that faded red fabric, worn and loved, but in the end that only makes it softer.
On a chilly December day it’s her own slice of heaven, and Clarke hums quietly to herself as she separates the shirts from the sheets, lights and darks. The next load groans as it starts, water rushing as the basin begins to fill. Clarke hauls the basket up onto her hip and nudges the bathroom door open wider with her shoulder.
She crosses the hall, catching Lexa’s eyes as she looks up from the kitchen counter at the noise to watch her disappear into the bedroom. She drops the laundry on top of the bureau, and begins to unpack. Shirts in the top left, underwear in the middle, bras underneath. She gets about half put away when the door creaks.
Clarke doesn’t bother looking, folding pant leg over leg. “Can I help you with something?”
Clarke’s lips twitch upwards, and she glances back, finding Lexa leant against the door frame. “I don’t think I do.”
Lexa picks herself up and clarke swallows, feigning coolness when the rest of her itches to run. And she tries the second Lexa gets too close, throwing the pants as a distraction, laughter bubbling despite the thrill of the chase that is quick to follow. She tries to escape across the bed, but her feet get caught in the comforter and it spells disaster. Arms encircle her waist, pulling her back and on top of Lexa, and Clarke squeals as they collapse in a heap on the bed.
For a moment it’s just the sound of their mingled breathing as it evens out, bodies pressed close. Lexa smells like a mix of spices, warm to the touch, and Clarke wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
“Stop stealing my sweatshirt,” Lexa mutters. It sounds like the beginning of a pout, though Lexa would vehemently deny it.
“Then stop leaving it where it’s easy to steal,” clarke retorts, shimmying in lexa’s hold until she’s finally allowed the freedom to move. She doesn’t go far, squirming until she’s more comfortably draped on top. Her face fits right in the crook of Lexa’s neck and Clarke kisses the soft spot just below Lexa’s ear. “Did you turn off the food?”
Lexa nods, lips searching until they find Clarke’s, and she’s happy to oblige, propping herself up. It’s soft and incredibly slow and somehow that makes it hotter as Lexa’s hands travel upwards, dipping under the sweater and finding only skin.
“Clarke,” Lexa says, and they way her voice breaks around the middle of her name–
It’s music to Clarke’s ears.
