a long way from the playground

"All I can do is say that these arms were made for holding you." – 18, One Direction

Touching Clarke wasn't like touching other girls.

On the Ark, his interactions with girls were few and brief, a means of releasing tension as opposed to forging a connection. On the Ark, the only girls that mattered were his mother and sister. And once they were gone—floated and imprisoned—the other girls were gone all together, skittish and afraid of being anywhere near him, a pariah.

Coming to Earth none of that mattered. The girls here loved his rebellious, alpha wolf aura—and what did former criminals care about his social pariah past? Well, besides Clarke Griffin, who looked like he wasn't even fit to kiss her second-hand, but still better off, shoes. (It took him a while to realize she didn't look at him like that because of who he was on the Ark, but because of who he was here on Earth.)

He only knew two ways to touch girls—sexual or familial. Light, meaningless caresses, a means to an end, were reserved for the girls who came to his tent at night, whose hungry eyes sought him out, wondering what sort of favors they could get out of him. Tender, tight grips, a reassurance that she's safe and alive, were reserved for Octavia, who he thought may be the only person he's capable of loving.

But Clarke—and how he touched Clarke—didn't fall into either of those categories.

He remembered the first time he really touched her, in the bunker, showing her how to use that gun. He didn't know how to do it; she wasn't Octavia, so his frank, bossy touch seemed out of place here, especially with someone who was rapidly becoming his equal—and she certainly wasn't the groupies who he slept with, the tilt of her chin too intelligent, the way she carried herself too regal. Only when she turned to him, excitement on her face in a way that reminded him of Octavia, did he feel himself relax a little, let him place her—tentatively—into the familial category rather than the sexual one. It still made him uncomfortable, but at least he had some direction as to how to treat her.

Still, he avoiding having to touch her as little as possible after that.

But then she hugged him.

He knew he looked ridiculous, in that brief second in which tiny Clarke Griffin wrapped her arms around him, and he could feel the movements of her lungs inhaling him, breathing him in, infusing all of her senses with him. He could feel her relief that he was alive; he knew it because it mirrored his about her.

It was that thought that spurred him into action, because if she was doing so to him, then he, her partner, her co-leader, could do no less. And so he wrapped his arms around her, thinking he could pretend she was Octavia, but that was probably the worst plan he'd ever had, one that failed spectacularly, because once he buried his face into her neck and breathed her in, he knew he would never be able to forget the scent of Clarke Griffin, the feel of her in his arms, slight and strong, an iron will under soft curves.

Clarke Griffin created her own category that day, an uncomfortable merging of his other two, because while he could touch her with the tenderness he only reserved for Octavia, it was certainly different from the familial, platonic, brisk way he would make himself touch her before.

It wasn't sexual—yet. But there was a sort of longing, there, a connection that he couldn't shake, and one, for once, that he didn't want to.

The hug didn't last forever. They separated, but still, in a way it was like he never let her go again.

Touching Clarke wasn't like touching other girls; it was like he had to re learn himself all over again, a different sort of education than he was used to.

Today, he knew how to hug her. He knew how to wrap his arms around her, knew how tightly he could hold her before it would be too restrictive, uncomfortable. He knew her chin would fit perfectly into the dip of where his shoulder met his neck, he knew how far down he had to bend so that his chin could fit into hers.

Tomorrow, he would learn how to touch her. How and when to press a hand to the small of her back to guide her over rough terrain, the exact amount of pressure to use so she didn't feel pushed or prodded, didn't feel that he was being overbearing. How to use touch to communicate, beyond eyes and facial expressions and hand gestures. When she gripped his coat, did it mean that she was scared, or did it mean that she wanted him to stand down. When he draped his arm across her stomach and waist, holding her to him, was it to hold her up or to hold her back.

Someday, he would learn how to hold her hand. He would learn how well her small, nimble fingers would fit in his large paw of a hand. If they matched their palms up, how much bigger would his be? He would learn what ever squeeze, what every caress of her fingers on his wrist would feel like. He would learn that she liked to press down on his pulse point, every so often, a reminder that he was with her, a way to ground her. He would learn that he liked to hold her hand, lacing their fingers together, but sometimes he was okay with just his pinky in hers, because they would never fully be attached at the hip.

Tomorrow, he would learn how to touch her. He would learn what the skin under her cheek felt like when he slid his palm up her neck—past her jumping pulse—curving along her jaw, and to her cheek, soft and warm under him. He would learn that his thumb would fit perfectly in the dimple on her chin when he lifted it so her sea glass green eyes could meet his. He would know the curve of her eyebrow under his hands, the smooth expanse of her forehead under his lips, the feeling of her soft cheek brushing his prickled one as he nuzzled his face into hers.

Someday, he would learn how to kiss her. He knew her lips were pink, but how soft were they, really? He felt them, briefly, on his neck as they hugged, but he felt more of their effects—a zing of awareness, a flush that originated there and rippled out and up his neck and across his body—than the lips themselves. Would they be dry and slightly chapped like his, a result of constant exposure to the elements, or would they be softer, smooth because she always nipped and licked at them, a nervous habit? Someday, he would know, as they aligned with his, fitting in place like a puzzle, as he mapped them with his lips and his teeth and his tongue; as they glided across his cheeks and his forehead and his eyelids after he came home from a long excursion; as they bit and suckled along his neck and jaw, claiming and marking, a mirror of what he did to her as well.

Tomorrow, he would learn how to touch her. He would learn what touches would elicit sounds, moans and mews as he learned pressure points and curves—the curve of her waist, her breast, her ass, her thighs. He would learn when and where to squeeze, to caress, to worship; would learn angles and positions and how to best align her compact body with his lean one. He would learn her body as well as his own, and how hers reacted in relation to his, a chemical combination that they would feel to their very cores every time a part of him was in contact with a part of her.

Someday, he would know it all. Today was a good place to start.