It's… unexpected. That seems like the optimum word to explain the experience. It catches you off guard because people have laughed at you in the past (like a whole lot) and you're honestly sure by this point there isn't a short joke that you haven't somehow come across. There was also that one time the librarian - who seems to have an odd soft spot for you - once casually got you one of those rad ladders but this, this is something entirely new.
You're struggling as per usual. Of course you are you can't exactly have grown the extra four inches you need to reach the shelf every single fucking book on your required reading list is on overnight. Except, perhaps you have because your fingertips are brushing the spine of the book you were almost debating trying your nonexistent telepathic powers on.
Coincidentally, the book touching also coincides with your feet no longer being on the ground and firm hands gripping your waist both respectfully and heatedly all at once (you suspect the latter description is mostly just your perception of the situation because they're incredibly attractive hands with extremely, extremely long finge- shut it down, Mitchell). Thank God you decided to wear a jumper because something tells you, you wouldn't be handling this situation so well had you been able to feel her palms molding into your hips.
You grab the book, if only to be put down and it seems the easiest way to achieve that - assuming that's why you've ended up here in the first place. Pivoting on the spot leads you directly to a redhead who's reaching one of her perfectly sculpted hand towards you in greeting and urging you to take it with an infectious grin. You accept and her smiles widens. They feel just as nice as they look.
"I'm Chloe, all round saver of lives"
"Beca – pale, awkward and very, very small"
"Adorable" She says and walks away. Nothing more, nothing less.
What the heavenly frick?
Somehow the second time you're even less prepared. Part of you is disappointed that you weren't more vigilant but the other; more logical, part of you is screaming that you couldn't have been expecting this. You shouldn't have been expecting this. You were doing as a normal person would – minding your own business and gently (aggressively) muttering about how annoying the shelves are and the ridiculous nature of the Dewey Decimal System.
Your angry mutterings were probably what drew the redhead – Chloe, you remind yourself – to your side. Perhaps swearing damsels were her catnip - like a moth to a flame she couldn't help but be entranced by the pathetic nature of your troubles.
You didn't gasp. You swear on your life that you didn't gasp. Except you definitely did. You know full well that you gasped, because you received this throaty chuckle in return that made the hands on your hips tremble and your throat close up until you could barely breathe, let alone release the crescendo of obscenities building in your chest at the feeling of her smooth calluses brushing against bare skin because oh yeah! Today was the day you decided a crop top was the way to go (obviously by that you mean today was the day Stacie locked you out of your shared dorm with nothing but a wink and an outfit that you would never pick on your own accord).
Your hand grabs the book on its own volition and you're glad because your brain isn't functioning properly and you really need to be back on the floor so that your IQ can rise back into double digits. Although when your feet are embracing the solace of the floor her hands are still resting gently at your hips, and her back is pressed so slightly onto yours that you almost pinched yourself to check you weren't dreaming. Something about the situation seemed so intangible until warm breath carried words through your ear and you couldn't deny it anymore.
"Don't strain yourshelf"
Who on Earth was this girl?
By the third time she is apparently trying new techniques in her lifts as though she's trying to gain flare points from the judges - of who appears to be an incredibly tense blonde and Stacie who looks suspiciously too split between focusing on your whole situation and said blonde to actually have came to the library to study like she claimed (not that she was going to get anything less than perfect on the physics test).
Except, more importantly than your audience, this new technique includes her facing you before she lifts which, in turn, means her face is the height of your breasts and that she's firmly nestled in there as you weakly reach for the book in question. As your feet leave the ground fuck is your first thought, and your second, and your seventh. Thoughts three through six go something along the lines of sweet baby Jesus but that's just you paraphrasing the complete and utter frazzlement of your entire, tiny being.
The fact that you've completed your task seems to go completely unnoticed by Chloe. You clear your throat in some attempt to remove her from your cleavage because your body is going haywire with each stuttering breath that rolls across your nipples with (un)intentional purpose.
"I'm finished" It comes out high pitched and scratchy and wow - you seriously need to think about how long it's been for you in that department because this shouldn't be affecting you so much. Or maybe it should because, despite the innocent grin on her face when she plants you back on the floor, you can see the smirk lingering between the spaces – the salacious nature of the redhead peeking through the cracks in her façade. She's trying to get you flustered. Lord knows it's working.
"Thanks," you mutter because she's still in your space. Her hands are still resting upon your hips, a gentle reminder that other things exist beyond the depths of her blue eyes.
"I'm always happy to help"
"I'm not so sure helping is at the top of your priority list there, Chloe." She doesn't even have the courtesy to look sheepish. She merely winks.
"Oh it totes is, Beca. If you ever need a hand just holler" Well that sounded… charged.
"Just a hand?" Where was this coming from? The last person who tried to flirt with you was the awkward dude at the froyo shop who you almost threw your rocky road at in confusion, which was simultaneously how you discovered that Jesse was hitting on you also and you just hadn't quite realised yet.
"Whatever you need" It should be noted for the autopsy that the wink that follows the statement is what kills you or, more precisely, it's what causes that heart attack that kills you because holy fuckity fuck fuck, that's going to be the subject of your daydreams for a solid few days (read: weeks).
You don't reply. You merely stumble away with a weak wave of the book that started it all and return to Stacie whose feeble attempts at trying not to laugh outright at you has just resulted in her shaking like she has hypothermia and snorting like a pig. Luckily she still looks oddly beautiful because the blonde smiles softly at the sight and unfolds from herself in such a way that you finally note she's much prettier without the permanent stick up her ass.
Maybe the professor hates you. Maybe he himself is posing an important philosophical question of – how many times can Beca be almost groped by a freakin' Greek goddess lookalike before she loses all self control and does something stupid?
It's a valid question and you yourself are beginning to wonder how you're still holding onto at least some semblance of sanity when you once again feel a warm embrace (thankfully she's returned to the tried and tested method, unfortunately it still drive you insane). She laughs when you moan that you would have managed eventually and it trickles down your spine like honey pooling at your toes.
You stumble even harder when escaping this time but she simply shouts a, "tomorrow then, Beca?" through the stacks to which she receives nothing but a glare from the librarian at her outburst of sound.
The answer is five.
Five times is the amount of times an insanely pretty redhead can practically grope you before you lose it - although, there are also various other variables in play that may have lessened your resolve.
For example, its night-time and the grabbing corresponds with the librarians regularly scheduled break, meaning the library is empty except for you (and evidently her). Secondly, searching for the book had been a last minute decision as you were lying, ready for bed - meaning you're maybe, possibly, completely braless and you've found her hands are wandering higher with each encounter. Most importantly though, there's a certain momentum to her movements this time that has her hips grinding into your back and also a certain sound that she omits that makes the silent air crackle with electricity, charging your body with an ineffable sense of confidence. Enough confidence that has you demanding she put you to the floor only to have you hike her thighs around your waist and slam her into the very stack you'd spent a good few weeks blushing into.
She squeaks. You smirk. She wipes it away with a particularly sharp tug of your hair that has your lips crashing together. You've never fully understood first kiss clichés and while you don't feel fireworks or rainbows or whatever, you do feel like she's been tempting you to shore just to indulge herself in the sight of you crashing at the rocks beneath her feet.
It's the second that you feel your resolve crumbling, that you feel your hands wandering dangerously and your lips getting sloppy with desire that you pull back. Then you run. You run because you're not this kind of girl. You're the kind of girl who recites what she's going to say to strangers because you're nervous you'll mess up, not the kind of girl who rolls their hips into unsuspecting redheads and revels in the guttural growl it elicits.
Escaping is easy.
The memories that flash through your mind as you try to sleep that night - they're all encompassing and so bloody hard.
You shouldn't really go back there. You should find a new library, or move to a new country, or something. But you do go back. You go back because in the midst of losing your mind you forgot to pick up the exact thing you actually went there for.
You expect to see her there – probably just sitting with the blonde you've learnt is named Aubrey (and has a tongue that tastes like cinnamon because Stacie will not stop going on about). What you do not expect is to find her sitting against the shelf, your shelf, legs crossed and fingers lazily swiping across a phone screen like she's been camping out for you for some time. Your entrance evidently isn't as surreptitious as you'd hoped because her eyes jump to yours the moment you take one step and she's hopping to her feet in an instant until you're face to face.
You salute. You then obviously proceed to roll your eyes at yourself for being such an awkward dork but she follows suit with this adorable grin and you can't even bring yourself to tease her because my god!
"You ran away."
"I did"
"Can I ask why?"
"I guess so, I'm not quite as sure that I'll be able to justify myself with an answer though" You're not good with words. Except that's not entirely true. You could write essays upon essays with effortless finesse. You could write down every feeling you had into a journal, so long as you imagined no one else would see it. You just can't do this – you can't look someone in the eye and articulate the thumping in your chest, or the residual heat that's still lingering in your loins from where their hands singed your skin the night before. But then she sighs and you mimic it with ease as you open your mouth to (likely) embarrass yourself. "I'm not the kind of girl that does this"
"And what exactly is this?"
"This is me getting so completely and utterly overwhelmed by your hands on me that I can barely breathe, let alone control myself enough to not all but maul you in the library." That wasn't so bad. She was even smiling. That's good right?
"I wasn't complaining"
"But-"
"I also kind of, totally, was trying to get you all flustered because you do this adorable furrowed brow thing - so it was my fault. Although, I'm not going to act like having you get all dominant wasn't a delightful turn of events that I would unquestionably take part in again"
"That could be arranged." You go to take a step forward before catching yourself with a subtle shake of your head. You needed to focus. "But maybe not right now because I actually, really need to read that book" She follows your finger with a grin before encircling your body with her arms and a cheeky grin that has, your sure by now, ingrained itself into your brain.
You have to admit, you could totally get used to being this tall.