#flannel socks in bulk

[sophiajone25301]

Wholesale Flannel Socks

Discover cozy wholesale flannel socks, ideal for winter warmth. These soft, stylish socks offer durability and comfort, perfect for retailers wanting to add classic plaid patterns to their seasonal collections.

[clothingflannel]

Cold Toes, Warm Sales: The Business Boom of Flannel Socks Wholesale in the USA

When it comes to keeping customers cozy and stylish, retailers are finding a goldmine in the world of flannel socks wholesale. These snug essentials not only provide warmth but also offer retailers a lucrative opportunity to meet the ever-growing demand for comfort and fashion. Let’s dive into why flannel socks are heating up the market and how savvy retailers can capitalize on this…

[iniziare]

Seele's attire. Alright, as much as I don't like going 'screw it' at canonical attire 'cause I'm (mocking voice:) 'canon strict' and all that, I do want to elaborate on the kind of diversity you'd find her wearing. Because just like how she likely got a Silvermane Guard rifle refashioned into her trademark melee weapon, the scythe, I think that Seele is very much someone who makes the best out of anything she can find. After all, she lived on the streets for a very long time, and in a way still does.

When quite young, and well into her teenage years, Seele would have worn the same things for as long as they were no longer usable, and usually that would mean when they got ruined in one way or another, which usually was because they got very torn up (a reminder that she was homeless for numerous of her very young years, 'dirty' wouldn't have been a reason to discard anything). As she aged a little bit, she would literally take a discarded shirt or pair of pants that she would find in the streets, and fashion it into something wearable. As a kid, this meant, for instance, gathering the oversized bulk of a shirt, and tying it into a knot at her back or side— and as a teenager, it meant tearing away what was impractical, or cutting the legs off a pair of jeans, or rolling them up so it was more cuffed. 'Style' didn't matter, it was all about surviving the cold, and then as she got more versed in combat (and became part of Wildfire), it also had to be practical. Because she stays so very active, but also due to having spent so much time outside as she grew up before she ever 'became part of' the Underworld's orphanage (quotation marks used, because nothing indicates that she ever stayed in it, whether by her own choice or otherwise), she has acclimated more to the cold than others. This is why she will more commonly be found in shorts, with mismatched high socks, legwarmers, or even tights, along with t-shirts (sleeves rolled up, and kept rolled up during intense activity with hair-ties, or bits of rope/string wrapped around) or sleeveless tops that will be complimented with gloves or arm-warmers. In adulthood, Seele has only become more practical, and does actively choose to wear things that keep her warm, but it's mainly due to the fabrics of the clothing that she wears, choosing things that absorb and retain body heat that comes from her highly active lifestyle. From afar, it might not dawn on people that these items of clothing actually do that for her, but if you look closer— you'll notice that a lot of her outfits consist of nylon, fleece, and cotton flannel. Not ideal, but they get the job done decently well. As for when she's 'home', you'll find her putting on random old hoodies, or oversized sweaters, cardigans, flannels, and she'd throw them over whatever she's already wearing, colors or matching don't matter. Seele personifies the 'mix and match' concept, though not out of preference, but simply because she'll wear whatever's most practical. As for shoes? Most appear to be combat boots, usually without heel, but she'll also wear sneakers, or whatever she gets her hands on when her previous pair of shoes got ruined. She'll wear something beyond the last inch of its life and then some.

But most importantly, and the only thing that's fundamental to her: is that she will always have, in one way or another, the scarf that Oleg gave her (or once it inevitably got torn and ruined, one to replace it), the one that marks her place in Wildfire. Not to show-off, but so that people can see that they're there, always, and that they'll never stop fighting to make the Underworld a better place. No matter what she wears, it'll either be around her wrist, or arm, or neck, or tied to a belt. It'll be somewhere on her. Always.

"Wear this red scarf, and then we shall share each other's pain." "We are family. We are Wildfire."

[jazzlrsposts]

Staying Cozy Looking Cool Seasonal Styling Tips for Your Western Wardrobe

Styling tips in summer with western wear

Summer styling with western wear can be both chic and comfortable. Here are some tips to keep you looking great while staying cool:

1. Light Fabrics: Opt for breathable materials like cotton, linen, or lightweight denim. These fabrics will help keep you cool and comfortable in the heat.

2. Shorts and Skirts: Embrace summer by wearing western shorts or skirts. High-waisted shorts paired with a tucked-in blouse or a flowy skirt with a cropped top can create a stylish yet casual look.

3. Tank Tops and Tees: Choose tank tops or lightweight tees with interesting details like lace trims, embroidery, or unique prints. These add a touch of western flair without adding bulk.

4. Layer Smartly: While summer can be hot, evenings can get cool. Layer with lightweight denim jackets or vests. Opt for a distressed or fringed denim jacket to enhance the western vibe.

5. Cowboy Boots: Classic cowboy boots can be worn with shorts or dresses for a fun twist. Choose a lighter color or material to avoid overheating.

6. Accessories: Incorporate western accessories like a stylish belt with a statement buckle, a wide-brimmed hat, or layered necklaces. These can elevate your look without adding too much warmth.

7. Dresses: A western-inspired dress, such as one with fringe, embroidery, or a prairie style, can be both elegant and cool. Look for dresses in light fabrics and vibrant colors or prints.

8. Breezy Layers: Light, flowing layers like kimonos or shawls can add a touch of western style while allowing airflow.

9. Colors and Prints: Go for lighter colors and vibrant prints that reflect the summer spirit. Floral patterns, stripes, and pastels can add a fresh look to your western wear.

10. Keep it Simple: Sometimes less is more. Stick to a few key pieces and avoid over-accessorizing. This helps in maintaining a balanced and cool look.

With these tips, you can effortlessly blend western wear with summer style, keeping your look both fashionable and comfortable

Winter tips

Winter styling with western wear can be both cozy and chic. Here are some tips to keep you stylish and warm:

1. Layer Up: Start with a thermal base layer for added warmth. Then, layer with western-inspired pieces like flannel shirts or denim jackets. A wool or wool-blend vest over a flannel can add both warmth and style.

2. Heavy-Duty Outerwear: Invest in a quality western-style coat or jacket. Options like a shearling-lined jacket, a wool duster, or a classic trench with western details can keep you warm while enhancing your look.

3. Denim and Corduroy: Opt for thicker denim or corduroy pants and skirts. Pair them with tall boots to keep warm and add a western touch.

4. Cowboy Boots: Choose a pair of cowboy boots with a warm lining or pair them with thick, warm socks. They add a western flair and keep your feet cozy.

5. Sweaters and Knitwear: Go for chunky knit sweaters or cardigans in western-inspired patterns or textures. Look for designs with fringe, embroidery, or plaid patterns for a rustic touch.

6. Plaid and Checks: Incorporate plaid or checkered patterns, which are often associated with western wear. A plaid shirt, scarf, or skirt can add warmth and a classic western vibe.

7. Accessories: Layer on scarves, hats, and gloves with western motifs. A wide-brimmed hat, wool beanie, or a statement belt can enhance your look while keeping you warm.

8. Layered Skirts: For a feminine touch, layer a western-inspired skirt over thermal leggings or tights. Pair with a cozy sweater and boots for a balanced look.

9. Fringe and Embroidery: Don’t shy away from western details like fringe or embroidery. These elements can be incorporated into jackets, sweaters, or accessories for a distinctive western touch.

10. Warm Fabrics: Opt for warm fabrics like wool, tweed, and flannel. These materials not only keep you warm but also add a classic, rugged feel to your western outfits.

Combining these elements will help you stay stylish and warm while embracing western wear throughout the winter season.

Tips for rainy season

Styling western wear during the rainy season requires a balance of practicality and style. Here are some tips to keep you looking great while staying dry:

1. Waterproof Outerwear: Invest in a stylish raincoat or trench coat with western details. Look for materials like coated cotton or waterproof nylon to keep you dry. A classic trench or a sleek rain jacket can add a polished look while protecting you from the elements.

2. Layer Smart: Layering is key. Choose moisture-wicking base layers and opt for breathable fabrics to stay comfortable. A lightweight western-inspired jacket or vest can be added over your raincoat for extra warmth when needed.

3. Waterproof Footwear: Opt for waterproof cowboy boots or stylish rain boots. Look for designs that have western elements, such as stitching or embossed patterns. Ensure they have good traction to prevent slipping.

4. Umbrellas and Hats: A wide-brimmed hat or a cowboy hat with a waterproof material can add a western flair while protecting your head from rain. An umbrella in a classic or western-inspired print can also be a stylish accessory.

5. Quick-Dry Fabrics: Choose clothing made from quick-dry materials that won’t get soggy. This includes synthetic fibers or treated denim that dries faster than traditional fabrics.

6. Plaid and Checks: Incorporate plaid or checkered patterns that evoke a western vibe. A plaid shirt or scarf can be both functional and stylish. Just make sure they are made from water-resistant materials.

7. Layered Skirts and Dresses: If you prefer skirts or dresses, layer them with tights or leggings to keep warm and dry. Pair with waterproof boots and a raincoat for a cohesive look.

8. Functional Accessories: Opt for practical accessories like a waterproof bag or a crossbody that can handle a bit of rain. Choose materials that are easy to clean and maintain.

9. Avoid Heavy Fabrics: In the rainy season, avoid heavy fabrics that take long to dry and can become uncomfortable when wet. Stick to lighter, quick-drying options.

10. Mix and Match: Combine traditional western wear with functional rain gear. For instance, pair a western-style shirt with a sleek, waterproof trench coat or combine denim with a stylish rain jacket.

By integrating these tips, you can navigate the rainy season while keeping your western-inspired style intact and functional.

[embalmic]

small fingers tap against the dangling chain. like they're on their own fucking brain and debating opening it with or without her consent. green eyes scan back and forth across his face. there's a feeling in her gut. that she should open the door and let him in. something she'd never do to anyone should the circumstances plop someone else on her door. anyone else. they'd be told to hang out there on one of the weather beaten wooden adirondack chairs and she wouldn't feel a shred of guilt about looking out for herself in that situation.

..he just.. (a god damn tornado's gonna come and then she's gonna end up with him twisted around her fucking flag pole..that's her luck.)

her gaze narrows. not maliciously. she's thinking. listening to how he speaks. watching how he moves. every bit about her says she's judging him from head to toe. taking him in. and wondering.. why the hell they're crossing paths on a night like this. yeah his car broke down. the most classic excuse for anyone that'd want to get in her house. she has a thousand times confidence in herself and her means of keeping herself safe. reality says, however, that he's fucking three times her size (or more) and if he wanted to hurt her.. he could.

could but won't. there goes that gut feeling again. and the chain's dangling loose before she realizes it. bottom lip is pulled between her teeth. they chew on plump flesh as her other hand shoves into the pocket of a pair of loose red and black flannel lounge pants she's pulled on. cozy socked feet curl toes against the floor and she releases her lip with a puff of air bursting out in the heaviest sigh.

"listen. if i let you in and you murder me? that's pretty fucked up. cause i could've let you stand out there in the rain and freeze your ass off. remember that. there's better people out there that deserve to be six feet under. got it? don't make me regret this. fuck knows i don't need another one added to the list i have already." and with that, she steps back and swings her arm towards the hallway. an invitation.

"kick those boots off by the door? kitchen's in there.." her brows arch and her chin ticks past the living room towards the darkened kitchen lit with several dancing candles as the bulk of them are where they stand and where she was. "i'm laura. laura mccabe. why are you out on such a crazy night?"

it wasn't often that he had to travel through the horde in inclement weather and perhaps, that's why he spun out into the middle of the small town instead of closer to her doorstep. the allfather, as he was called, sent him to see who the person was that was projected to fall for shadow moon. unless it was disrupted by anything major, the two should meet in the coming months and become seriously engaged to one another within that next year.

after walking for nearly 45 minutes in the pouring rain, the only thing that wasn't wet was the outside of his boots. . . and they were waterproof. he was soaked entirely to the bone. sweeney was only supposed to be observing her as an outsider, but now? he was pissed. fucking right angry. so, he would be inserting himself into her life. fuck wednesday and his grand scheme. the leprechaun had no clue as to the end game of this plan. he was left in the dark and used as hired muscle — or the person to do tasks that wednesday deemed lesser than.

on her doorstep, fist rose and hesitated. he wondered, for only a moment, how terrible the repercussions of this interference would be. the chill running through his bones was the only reason he decided to throw care to the wind. knuckles rapped once. allowed a few moments between before they landed upon the door another time. the thunder and lightning would make it hard to hear so he decided it wouldn't hurt.

when the door opened a fraction, he was greeted with a door chain in the gap. eyes had to trail down to actually meet her face. god damn, she should be the fucking leprechaun, not him. ginger hair was plastered to his head and a hand raised to slick it back off of his forehead. ❝ i don't have the wrong house because i wasn't lookin' for anyone in particular. ❞ he paused and took a small step back from the door. it wouldn't make him take up any less of her entire door as he was, but he could try. ❝ mostly just wanted to get out of the rain. my car broke down and yours was the first house with enough light comin' from it that i knew someone was here. ❞ hand reached now to smooth over his damp beard and then land at his side. ❝ do you know the nearest place to stay? i need to dry off before i fuckin' freeze. ❞

[toastytoaster22]

COLD WEATHER TIPS FROM SOMEONE WHO LIVES WHERE IT’S COLD:

I always see posts about layering clothing, but there are so many more creative ways to help keep you warm if you don’t have a lot of warm clothes. But first, a note on layering clothing:

-Your underlayer is your WICKING layer. That means it is a layer specifically to absorb the moisture your body produces. DO NOT USE COTTON AS A BOTTOM LAYER. Use merino wool if possible, but other good substitutions are nylon, polyester and rayon. 

-Your middle layer is for insulation. You want AIR POCKETS in there, NOT tight fitting clothes. This is where you want to put your fluffy sweaters, your fleece, down, fur, flannel, or vests. If you do not have these, you can substitute with multiple layers of long sleeve shirts.

-Your outer layer is for keeping the cold away from your body. If you do not have a jacket, you can put on your thickest piece of clothing and then a raincoat over it. Windbreaker if you have one. 

ALSO

-Jeans are the absolute worst at holding heat. Use only as a last resort. 

-You can’t really ever have too many layers on your feet. Alternate tucking your layers of pants into your layers of socks to keep your ankles warm!

-Wear a hat OVER a hood if it will fit! This will keep your ears warmest.

TAKE OFF/OUT ANY AND ALL JEWELERY/PIERCINGS

-If you have a medical bracelet, DO NOT REMOVE IT. If you can, tuck a layer of clothes between it and your skin.

NON-CLOTHING TIPS:

-Raid your recycling. Gather all cardboard boxes and break them down so that they are flat. Put them on the floor to add more layers between you and the cooling house. Newspaper will also serve the same purpose.

-In an emergency, you can also layer newspaper between clothing layers. Don’t worry about looking stupid if you’re staying warm.

-If you have a tent, set that sucker up in whatever room you have decided to stay in. Stay in it and keep it zipped shut as much as you can, but do NOT cover the vent at the top. You can put the rain fly up, but make sure there is circulating air for you to breathe.

-You are probably not going to feel very hungry at times. DO NOT STOP EATING OR DRINKING. Digestion produces a lot of body heat and the food will give your body energy to keep itself going.

-The best foods are heavy and full of carbs and proteins. Eat nuts, eggs, pasta, meats, and beans. If you are on a diet, now you’re not. If you’re vegetarian... bulk up on those pastas and nuts.

-Try not to sweat. If you are finding yourself getting damp, take off the outer layer just until you start to cool slightly. Then redress! Your bottom layer should dry quickly, and being wet is dangerous.

-On that note, STAY ACTIVE. You are probably going to want to hunker down and snuggle up, but that will make your muscles cramp. Every 15-20 minutes do something that gets you up and about. Walk circles in the room, do a couple jumping jacks, stretch, whatever. Just enough to move some blood around your body. Don’t get sweaty or out of breath, it’s just a little movement.

-CHAPSTICK. ON YOUR LIPS. ON YOUR NOSE. ON YOUR EARS. ON YOUR KNUCKLES. Don’t let your extremities get dry or cracked.

SIGNS OF HYPOTHERMIA:

-Uncontrollable shivering -Slurred speech -Confusion or memory loss -Dizziness or lack of coordination -Inability to be woken from sleep

CHILDREN AND INFANTS!!!! I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH.

-Children WILL get colder before you. Make sure they are properly bundled up.

-If you need to breastfeed, put a blanket over the both of you and wait a few minutes for the air to warm before removing or shifting your clothing.

-DO NOT COVER AN INFANTS FACE. ESPECIALLY WHEN SLEEPING. Keep them tucked inside your own clothes when possible. As close to your heart and stomach as possible. 

-Put chapstick on children’s cheeks and clean their face often if they are crying or wiping at their nose. This will prevent cracked skin and irritation.

-Make sure your children are staying as hydrated as you! They are going to fuss and not want to drink cold things, but they NEED liquids.

SIGNS OF HYPOTHERMIA IN INFANTS AND TODDLERS ARE DIFFERENT:

-Shortness of breath  -Cold, red skin -Lethargy or listlessness

Finally:

CHECK ON YOUR NEIGHBORS. CHECK ON CHILDREN. CHECK ON THE ELDERLY. STAY SNUGGLED. STAY SAFE.

[lady-divine-writes]

ACITW AU one-shot - “Draining Pipes” (Rated M)

Summary: After Sebastian is accidentally exposed to Covid, Kurt convinces him to quarantine. While the rest of the city is slowly opening up, Kurt is returning to a life that resembles normal. But for Sebastian, home alone without his boyfriend, isolation is changing him. And Kurt has some concerns... (2063 words)

Notes: Yes, this is a pandemic fic, but I promise, it's funny XD

Read on AO3.

"Hi, honey! I'm home!"

"Nope. Try again."

Kurt's head snaps up so quickly he stutters a step, nearly tripping over his feet even though he'd already stopped walking. He glares at Sebastian from across the room as if the man had gotten up from his seat, strolled over, and, without a word, vomited rancid sushi all over his Manolo Blahniks. "What?"

In a tone reminiscent of one his NYADA dance teacher, Cassie July, used that made Kurt prickle from head to toe, Sebastian says, "Try. again."

"Try what again?"

"Walking through the door."

Kurt spins around to examine the doorway, searching for clues about what he could have possibly done incorrectly. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with the way I walk through the door!?"

"Every time you come home, you say, 'Hi, honey! I'm home!'"

"Yeah, and... ?"

"It's boring. Unoriginal. It harkens back to an era of television situation comedy that had no hand in influencing our generation and, frankly, regurgitating it is beneath you and your dramatic talents."

Kurt plants his hands on his hips and gawks. What the hell happened to his boyfriend while he was away? He was only gone four hours! "Have you been rifling through my old schoolbooks again? I told you, there was no Illuminati conspiracy going on at NYADA!"

"Why don't you try something different?" Sebastian counters, neither confirming nor denying Kurt's accusation. "Something a bit more, dare I say, exotic?"

"Exotic?" Kurt scrunches his nose with distaste when he says it. Of all the words in the English language, that's one of his least favorite. "What constitutes exotic in your twisted opinion?"

"I don't know. Think of something. You're the creative, not me."

"What? I... " A dozen arguments about how he's just gotten home, how exhausted he is, how travel between here and the theater was a pain in the ass because some people still don't seem to understand what 'over the mouth AND nose' means so navigating his way through the subway was like playing a game of human Tetris with potentially infected pieces and that he's never been all that good at Tetris anyway! die on his lips. 

It would be a waste of breath.

Still, Kurt doesn't know why he indulges him, but he turns on his heel and walks back out the door. After a few seconds of deep breathing in the hall to keep from screaming bloody murder, he storms back in and brightly declares, "Buenos dias, motherfucker! Como what's up?"

Seeing as the two of them speak fluent French, Spanglish is the most exotic thing he could come up with.

Sebastian nods in stoic approval. "Better. How goes life on the apocalyptic landscape?"

"I'm not selling my body for Cocoa Krispies if that's what you're asking," Kurt quips, wondering if this is how Sebastian acts at work and how no one has put the man through a window yet, partner or not.

"So what I'm hearing is you didn't bring home Cocoa Krispies."

"Nope. Sorry."

"Bitch."

"Yeah, well... " Kurt removes his shoes and socks, then sheds his coat, his messenger bag, his slacks, and his dress shirt, carefully piling them on a chair by the front door - their staging area for decontamination. While he undresses, he eyes Sebastian, not paying him an inch of mind, sitting on what has been dubbed the convalescence corner of the sofa, dressed in a soft white tee and flannel lounge pants, his laptop open on legs covered by a quilt his mother made for him when he was ten. Sebastian knows for a fact that Kurt is undressing and yet he's not leering at him, wolf-whistling under his breath or licking his lips like he's watching an Outback Steakhouse commercial. He's simply sitting in his spot, eyes glued to his laptop screen.

And Kurt loathes it.

Sebastian's attentions have been waning more and more lately, and even though it's savagely bruising Kurt's ego, he can't blame him.

Depending on how they choose to look at things, this situation could kind of, slightly, sort of be deemed Kurt's fault.

"Thank you again for doing this," Kurt says, extending an olive branch. He's been doing this so often over the past few months, he's started buying in bulk. "I can't tell you how much you keeping your distance and staying home has put my mind at ease."

Sebastian doesn't look at him when he replies: "No sweat, babe."

"I know it was just one small cough... and the kid was wearing two masks... and a face shield... "

"Hey, like you said, no need taking any chances. Right?"

"Right," Kurt agrees. And he believes it. He believed it then and he believes it now. Had the roles been reversed, Kurt would make the sacrifice, more than willing to lock himself away for the sake of curbing this disease and keeping Sebastian healthy.

But it isn't him. 

And he feels like dirt going to work three days a week, returning to something that resembles normal knowing what Sebastian is missing out on.

"It's his mother's fault for not mentioning that her little plague rat has covid before I got stuck on the elevator with them," Sebastian says, possibly trying to make Kurt feel better even though his gaze hasn't shifted.

"But quarantining for six days longer than necessary? That's above and beyond! I mean it. You deserve a medal." 

Sebastian tosses him a wink over his shoulder but he doesn't linger, giving half-naked Kurt only a brief once over. "I got you, fam. Besides, time's up tomorrow. Then... " He thousand-yard stares in the direction of the flat screen "... it's rat-hunting season."

"It hasn't been all bad, has it?" Kurt asks guiltily as Sebastian's eyes return to his laptop. He'll admit that maybe he did go a tad overboard when he'd found out Sebastian had been exposed, banishing him to one end of the penthouse and the guest bedroom, keeping him at broom handle length for the past nineteen days. 

But they were almost in the clear! And that's the part that pisses Kurt off most. 

The disease hasn't been eradicated, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The theater started allowing small groups to return for socially distanced practices. That's a huge win for Kurt. Being away from Broadway and rehearsals and opening nights and curtain calls... it was becoming difficult for him to breathe.

Sebastian was on the brink of going back to the office a few days a week, too. It wasn't so much not being at the office that bothered him, but the peripherals - eating lunch at his favorite deli or hitting the gym before dinner. 

Sebastian had taken three tests after that fateful elevator incident, all of which came back negative, so he was confident everything would be alright. He was in the midst of planning his first in-person meeting, but Kurt balked, pointing out that there has been so much controversy over the accuracy of those tests. Sebastian offered to take three more if necessary, but regardless of the outcome, Kurt didn't feel it safe. And even though they had access to the vaccine (because money), being exposed, even minorly, pushed Sebastian's timetable for receiving his first dose back two weeks.

Kurt's father and stepmother have both received theirs, and Kurt was so looking forward to taking a trip to Ohio for a first hug in over a year. He's going to be damned if a four-foot-tall Petri dish ruins that for him!

But because of his paranoia, Kurt and Sebastian haven't touched, haven't kissed in two weeks. They tried the whole Skype sex thing from different rooms of the penthouse, aiming to recapture old college day thrills to boot, but it didn't work out the way they'd hoped. And even though they see each other every day, talk to one another, aggravate each other, throw popcorn and other food items at each other, Kurt misses Sebastian like the dickens. He misses his hugs, his warmth, his smell.

And yes, he misses the sex.

"Since I've been back to work, you've had the peace and privacy to watch those wacky pornos that your brother sends you."

"Yup," Sebastian says, typing something into his search bar that Kurt can't quite make out. "The wackiest."

"Didn't he say something about them being illegal in the contiguous 49 states?"

"Forty-eight. Tennessee turned itself around."

"It would be Tennessee."

"Always is."

"You probably haven't given your fleshjack a rest in two weeks," Kurt prods, worried over these short responses. 

"Mmph... mmm-hmm... "

Kurt starts circling the sofa when all he gets is a chuckle in response, curious if Sebastian is even listening to him. He comes up behind him, standing on a piece of painter's tape they'd put down to mark six feet so Kurt can peek over his shoulder.

And what he sees on Sebastian's screen makes absolutely no sense.

"What are you watching?"

"Drain clearing videos."

Kurt's eyes go wide. "Drain clearing? Wh-what does that mean?"

"This guy drives all over, and when he finds a street that's flooded, he takes out a rake, drags it through the water, and tries to find the blocked drain."

"Does he work for the city?"

"Nah. He's just some guy."

"And he's made a whole channel about... clearing drains."

"Yes, sir."

"And you're watching it?"

"It came up in my recommendations so I clicked one." Sebastian shakes his head, chuckling when stagnant grey water, punctuated by speckles of rain, turns into a whirlpool, rushing through thick iron bars embedded in the concrete and disappearing from view. "It's so satisfying."

"What on Earth were you watching before this that YouTube recommended it?"

"Car cleaning videos."

Kurt's left eyebrow slowly climbs up his forehead. "A-ha."

"Yup. I never realized how relaxing it is to watch a handsome guy Bissell Kool-Aid stains out of carpet. But now... it's my jam."

Kurt huffs, offended on behalf of himself and his own vigorous cleaning regimen. "It wasn't your jam when I was steam cleaning our throw rugs! And the curtains!"

"Yeah, well, things hit different when you're forced into isolation."

Kurt storms forward a step. But then he remembers. And he stops, foot hovering an inch past the sacred boundary that keeps him from venturing too close to infection. He teeters, determination creasing his brow while anxiety wrestles his shoulders back. All the while, a war wages inside his tired brain:

"Get him! You've been vaccinated!"

"It's only one dose!"

"He's not even sick!"

"You don't know that!"

"Yes, I do!"

"It's not worth the risk!"

"Yes... it... IS!"

"Come on!" Kurt demands, throwing himself bodily at the sofa. He grabs Sebastian's hand, a small voice screaming inside his head as if his tiny naysayer is being burned at the stake. "Come with me... NOW!"

"Where are we going?" Sebastian asks, rushing to move his computer to the side before he gets dragged off the sofa by his surprisingly strong boyfriend.

"This is an intervention."

"But you shouldn't be touching me! Or breathing my air! I have one day left!"

"You're fine! If you haven't gotten sick by now, you probably aren't going to! This is an emergency!"

"What emergency?"

"Quarantine has turned you into someone I don't recognize! Car cleaning videos? Who are you right now?"

"They're educational. It's good to learn a new skill."

Kurt barks a laugh that could shatter crystal. "Right. Like you'd ever. You'd pay highway robbery to have your ten-speed detailed!"

"Nope, because you'd do it for free."

 Kurt rolls his eyes, unwilling to entertain his boyfriend's mocking of him to ask whether or not that's code. "If you're going to ogle a man wielding a Bissell, Goddammit, it's going to be me!"

"So... are we going to clean some carpets?"

"We're going to take a shower and then have sex. A lot of sex. You're getting fucked and sucked until you're back to normal."

Sebastian snorts, delighted by his incredibly good fortune. "If you insist. But are you absolutely sure about this?"

Kurt stops short and faces Sebastian. He looks him over, making certain he doesn't seem particularly sick, and shrugs.

"We'll wear masks. Or three. I don't need to kiss you to make you cum." Kurt continues to drag Sebastian towards the bathroom as his grin grows to epic proportions.

"Kinky."

[gumnut-logic]

It was old.

Scott wasn’t exactly sure how old, but it had been around all his life at least. A hand-knitted patchwork of colours, likely from scraps of wool from other projects. Maybe Nanna? Nanna knitted didn’t she?

His memories of his mother’s mother were so vague, he couldn’t be sure. Gran Roca, dusty wind, gentle hugs, colours and not much more.

Of course, it could have been their mother, but he doubted it. She wouldn’t have had the time. Between her engineering team at Tracy Industries and five young children, she had been stretched thin.

Memories.

He fingered the blanket. It was frayed at the edges. One patch of lighter wool had a stain on it that could be attributed to John, a nasty flu and spaghetti bolognese. He could still remember Grandma’s panic at the time and the rush to get the wool soaking and clean.

It had seen many an illness. It was a go to when one of them was feeling down.

Of course, it wasn’t the only blanket available, they were a large family, after all. Each brother had their own snuggle rug, as Gordon called them. Each with its own unique motif, all terribly predictable.

Alan’s was the single bed quilt from his kiddy racing car bed, the only part of that set up that had survived the great paint explosion of 2052.

It had survived because it had been in another room at the time.

No one commented when it came out, his little brother usually buried under it on the lounge. When the racing car quilt came out, it was time for hugs, not stirring jokes.

Gordon, of course, had a giant squid faux mink blanket. The thing was massive, incredibly soft and the only one in existence. Virgil had it made during Gordon’s recovery. Their brother had lost so much weight, he had been cold all the time. The blanket was king size and huge. Big enough for more than one brother, if needed.

You would think John would have some space age material designed to be super warm, but no. A simple hand knitted star motif in soft wool was deployed on those nights when gravity crawled across his skin and the unregulated atmosphere crept under it. Scott wasn’t sure where he got it from. It just appeared shortly after his first stint on Five and it tended to reappear for the same reason.

Virgil’s blanket had paint stains. Specifically from the incident where he caught his brother in his studio shivering with a fever of 39C after that damned swamp rescue three years ago. The idiot’s hand had been shaking, struggling to paint anything, but for some stubborn artistic reason, he had had to paint right at that moment. Something about getting it all down now, before he lost it.

He lost it alright. Spilt his paint water all over himself, along with orange and blue paint when the canvas over balanced and fell on him.

The soft Scottish blend of wools had never been the same again. Grandma had once again been the once desperately trying to get the stains out of wool, while Scott carted his brother off to the infirmary.

Of course, on a tropical island, there often wasn’t much need for blankets, but they still used them. Sometimes they were scrunched up into makeshift pillows on the couch. Sometimes they were just something to curl up around.

It wasn’t like any of them had much in the way of bed company most nights and Scott wasn’t above seeking comfort in the soft folds of warm and familiar fabric on those nights when loneliness and his life beat him down to the basics.

But this blanket, this well worn host of memories, had seen them all.

He slipped the folded bulk out of the closet and let it unravel in his hands. There was a tiny hole forming in one corner. He must remember to get out the darning needle and fix that when he got a chance, before it became too big.

But for now, the blanket was needed.

Closing the closet door, he flung the knitted fabric over one arm and headed down to the comms room.

It was dark outside and the house was quiet, most of the family had drifted off to bed an hour or so ago, leaving Scott and the one other occupant of the room to talk.

And talk they did.

Spread out on the sofas with room to spare, Scott and Virgil had shared a drink and simple conversation. Not about International Rescue, not about the Thunderbirds, not about work.

Just talk.

A few memories, a few aspirations, Virgil’s latest painting, a dash of current affairs, a little gossip regarding Scott’s secretary at TI and Alan.

It had been a good talk.

But life still existed even when you tried to ignore it, and Thunderbird Two had been out most of the day. Three rescues, all successful, but everyone was only allotted a certain amount of energy per day and at eleven o’clock at night, Virgil hit his limit.

Soft snores echoed across the hardwood floor as Scott re-entered the room. He had dimmed the lights and closed the main glass doors. The room felt cocooned and safe. The moon peeked through the rafters, hinting at the outside world, but for the moment, everything else was shut out.

They were protected.

Scott stepped softly across to the sunken lounge where Virgil was curled up on a sofa. An empty tumbler sat discarded on the end table.

His brother had shoved a cushion under his cheek and mashed his face into it. Technically the sofa was too short and too skinny for his large frame, but Virgil had curled himself up into a ball of flannel and denim.

Steel caps lay discarded on the floor.

The cushion was subjected to drool.

Scott couldn’t help but smile.

Virgil’s face was slack and so young in sleep. His huge hands were fisted up under his chin like the child he used to be and Scott was suddenly struck by the images of so many other nights with so many younger versions of his little brother doing exactly the same thing, yet smaller.

The smile turned into a fond grin.

Moments like these made everything worth it.

He spread the old blanket over Virgil’s legs, the folds landing softly over socked feet, and draped it across his waist.

His brother snorted and wriggled as only a man of his size could.

An unintelligible mutter, a sigh, and the snoring returned.

Still smiling, Scott straightened and backed away, turning to leave.

Dimming the lights to almost non-existence, he headed towards the stairs and his own bed.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[pandawriterstuff]

Pineswallow Ranch

Monty, at only eleven years, three months and four days, had been to many parts of the world, traveling with his mother. She was a corporate lawyer, and was called to all corners to use her intelligence and skill at finding the exact information that was needed to crush the competition.

Monty, being a little boy, was, of course, not wanted in either the board meetings or the more secretive dealings that were necessary when people were not as cooperative as they needed to be. Long days of nailing bottom lines and ferreting out inefficiencies exhausted his mother most dreadfully, and so when she would collapse in their suite, begging Monty to not chatter quite so loud because Mother’s head ached, and wouldn’t he like to watch a nice movie with her? quietly? it was perfectly understandable and he would always do his best, cuddling up with her as they watched musicals and cartoons.

But it meant that despite having been to many more parts of the world than the average eleven year old, he had seen almost none of it. Hotel rooms, airports, lobbies, and far more drop-in daycare centers than he cared to remember were where he’d spent the bulk of his existence.

It was lonely, a lot of the time. But it was what he knew. And he had Mother, and his lessons, and even a few email friends he’d managed to keep in touch with.

But Monty had started to think that maybe it wasn’t enough. Of course, by the time he’d realized that, Mother, always ten steps ahead, had not only realized that this was a problem, but had found a solution. Or at least what she thought was a solution. Monty was not at all sure.

“Your Uncle Keith lives in a rural town, but they have some of the highest test scores in the county, so you won’t have to worry about falling behind. And he has horses, Monty, a whole stable of them, and I know you love to ride.” Monty, currently not speaking to his mother, was sitting on the balcony of yet another hotel suite staring down at the unnaturally blue water of the pool, lips resolutely shut.

His arms weren’t crossed, because Mother would say he was pouting if they were, and he wasn’t pouting.

Even though he would have very good reason to if he did. His mother was sending him away. “I am not going to keep talking to your back, so if you’re going to be this stubborn I’m going to go inside and finish packing. When you calm down we can decide what to get for dinner and pick out something to watch.”

“I don’t want to watch anything with you.” The words snapped out of him, possibly more hard and vicious than words ever had before, and Monty heard his mother’s intake of breath, heard the way it caught a little. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t sorry, his hands clenching down on the cast iron arms of the chair, cold against his fingers. He wasn’t sorry, because she should be the one who was sorry, and she wasn’t-or maybe she was, and still wouldn’t change her mind, and Monty thought that might be worse.

“Okay, then.” The balcony door shut slowly, as if she were waiting for him to change his mind, to run to her, but Monty just stared down at the pool, willing his eyes to stay dry.

He slumped, his head sagging down, once he heard her footsteps padding back across the hotel room that had been his for a week now and into the main part of the suite. Now he felt guilty, as well as angry, and it was an unpleasant combination that made his stomach feel like it had a stone in it. Monty couldn’t say Mother had been entirely wrong in her earlier arguments, that traveling around the way she did kept him from having so many things other boys did; a school, a bedroom, classmates and friends. Having a pet of any type was impossible the way they traveled, or even most large possessions. He’d never even had a real first day of school, though he’d dealt with schoolyard bully types a few times anyway.

But he didn’t want to leave Mother, didn’t want to leave the only thing he knew to go live in a tiny town with an uncle he hadn’t even seen in three years!

Not even for horses.

*****

Three days later, when they arrived at Uncle Keith’s ranch, Monty wished he hadn’t spent so much time being upset with Mother. He hadn’t really expected to, after all. Ordinarily when he was angry or displeased about something his feelings would calm with time, and sometimes he would feel foolish for being so upset over something that truly did look better in the morning-or as Mother liked to say, with thought and contemplation. But each morning Monty would wake up feeling just as sour and small and confused as he had the day before. It is hard to not be angry as well when you have a jumble of feelings like that stretching from your toes to at least up to your eyeballs, and easier to let yourself than trying to figure out some other way to feel about it.

But now they were here, standing outside the sprawling ranch house with the startling steep mountains behind them, and horses of all colors in a paddock near a real barn. It should have been amazing, awe-inspiring, but his mother would be leaving in a few days and none of it was. Mother’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing lightly as Monty looked around, not sure if he wanted to be interested in the rock and herb garden arranged around the wide front porch or not. “Your uncle’s probably inside, getting lunch ready. Let’s go knock, shall we?”

“Yes, Mother.” Only Monty didn’t move, leaning slightly into her touch, and after just a moment he found himself swooped into a tight hug, Mother’s cheek pressing into the top of his head, and he gripped her back just as tightly, wishing they could get back in the rental car and drive to a hotel, to anywhere, as long as he got to stay with her.

“Well, hey now! You got here earlier than I was expecting!” The loud voice broke up Monty’s reverie, and he turned his head to stare at the tall man in a red and blue flannel shirt that looked like something Superboy would wear as Conner Kent, slowly pulling away from Mother as she laughed.

“I think you might have forgotten to look at a clock, we’re here at noon, exactly as specified.” Monty studied his uncle, not sure if he should speak up or not. It had been almost three years since he’d seen his mother’s younger brother, though he knew his mother emailed him a lot, and sometimes she’d tell him a story about something that happened on the ranch, or tell him Uncle Keith liked a drawing or story of his she’d shared. Right now he seemed like a stranger. A stranger Monty was supposed to live with for at least a year.

‘Only a year to start out with,’ Mother had said, ‘and if you don’t like it we’ll figure out something else.’ As though that were a short period of time. Maybe, Monty thought, looking at the llama patterned socks Uncle Keith had worn out onto the porch, it was to an adult, but when you’d only been around for eleven years, three months and one week a year was a very long time indeed.

Adults never seemed to think about things like that. It was exceedingly frustrating.

Looking up again, he saw that Uncle Keith was giving him an indulgent sort of smile, having caught him in his examination, and Mother gave him a nudge in the direction of the porch before he could regroup. “I hope you guys are hungry, I’ve got chilli heating up and grilled cheese ready to toast on the griddle. C’mon in, just take off your shoes or Miss Maisie will never let me hear the end of it.”

Letting Mother push him lightly towards the porch, Monty cast another glance at the corral, his eyes lighting on a horse whose coat was like snowfall speckled over dark loam. As he stared, the horse’s head turned and for just a moment Monty would swear they locked eyes, his breath leaving him in a gasp. It felt like the horse knew him better than anyone ever had or ever could in that moment.

Perhaps, he thought, as his feet reached the porch steps and Mother chided him to remember his surroundings before he fell, there might be a few perks to living here.

Part 2

[bubmyg]

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: unspecified au, fluff, literally just cuddling with yoongi and teasing each other that’s all this is

word count: 679

summary: the cliche one where your heat breaks in the middle of winter

“It’s almost criminal that you’re wearing socks,” Soft brown irises regarded you over the puff of a grey duvet, narrowing a bit between the sanction of the fabric and the dangle of shower soft honey fringe, “I should expel you from the bed tonight.”

You glanced down at the double layered fuzzy socks rolled over the seam of your leggings, slow in the ascend of your gaze where you were met with eyes now pressed into crescents as the Yoongi shaped bump in the sheets began to shake a little with silent laughter. 

���That’s fine,” You shrugged after a moment, bending down to gather your side of the blankets into your palms. With one sharp tug, you dislodged his grip to splay the cocoon he’d created awkwardly across his sprawled out stature. 

“You can take the bed, I get the blankets.”

There was a hint of panic in the way he scrambled for the frayed edges of blankets, tugging to stop your methodical gathering of the fabric against your chest. Another soft tug on his end paired with an obvious pout petaling to tulip shaped lips, “Compromise. I forgive your sock crimes until the heat gets fixed.”

You glared at Yoongi until the gentlest, “Angel…” fell from his lips, dropping his grip on the blankets to make grabby hands at you. 

“Sustained, scoot over.”

Yoongi complied, wriggling away from you and consequently taking the blankets back. He waited until the exact moment your frigid body had settled, tossing the bulk of fuzz and fabric in his grasp so that it fluttered and landed over your head in one giant mass, the tiniest of gleeful noises rumbling from his throat in the process. 

You managed to fish yourself out from the tangle of freshly laundered sheets and flannel blankets you’d tugged from high shelves in the hall closet on account of the lack of heat currently filtering through the vents in your apartment. You found Yoongi still curled in his previous position, nose wrinkling upon inspecting the disgruntled expression on your features. 

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I love you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” You swatted at him with a limp wrist, wriggling until your knees bumped into his thighs, “Hug me then, you’re warm.”

He hummed while you shifted around, eventually slinging a leg across his waist and brushing the cold tip of your nose into his throat. Crooked fingertips made gentle passes along the length of your spine, latter hand fitting underneath your knee, thumb musing patterns into the supple skin there. 

“You know, maybe this whole no heat thing isn’t too bad. For example, the socks are growing on me.”

You hid the roll of your eyes by pressing your lips to his jaw, “...yeah?”

“Yeah, now you can’t wake me up with your cold ass feet.”

“I can take the socks off just as easily as I put them on—”

“You know what else?” 

Yoongi turned just enough to see your expression and press an impulse kiss to your forehead. 

Rolling your lips together, you shook your head, regarding him under a lidded gaze, “No. What?”

“You have to guess.”

“I don’t know—”

He cut you off with a simple shrug, lifting his hand off your leg to lace his fingers together at your hip and consequently hug you tighter. A sweet caramel swirled around dilated pupils and Yoongi said simply, “Cuddles.”

You had to hide your unadulterated endearment in his hood that was strewn haphazardly against his neck, fingers trading for fiddling with his hoodie strings to gripping the soft black fabric. “Two great pros to this situation. I’m starting to think we should call off the repairman,” You muffled, your laughter spreading against the side of his neck. 

Yoongi shifted to be on his back again, pattering a beat similar to the erratically loving hammer of his heart in his ears on the round of your waist, letting his neck hinge to press his cheek against the top of your head while you sprinkled affections to his neck in between your laughter. 

“...that was my next suggestion.”

[samsexualdeancurious]

I’ve Got You

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Words: 1,465

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of sexual content, Alpha!Sam, Omega!Reader

Summary: Sam is stressed from hunting and his mate takes care of him

Betaed by @mrsimoshen​

Written for @saxxxology​ for her July 2020 Angel tier request.

--

You’re just pulling the lasagna out of the oven when you hear the heavy bunker door slam much louder than usual, announcing the arrival of a very upset Alpha. You frown, setting the heavy dish on the stovetop and heading down the hall toward the library. You find Sam standing by one of the tables, hands braced against the back of one of the chairs. His shoulders are hunched and shaking but he’s not making any noise.

“Hey,” you say softly, wary of his temper. Sam is a very level headed Alpha, so seeing him upset is always a little unsettling. “What’s wrong?”

Sam turns to face you and you realize he’s not angry. He’s… crying?

“Sam?”

You take a few steps toward him, opening your arms. He crosses the distance between you in a few steps and falls into your arms, curling in to hide his face in your shoulder.

“Hey,” you repeat, curling your arms around his waist. “Sam? Did something happen?”

He gives a small shake of his head. “Too many things are happening. It’s just one big case after another and I just… I can’t…” he trails off, arms tightening around you.

“Shhh.” You rub his back gently. “I’ve got you.”

Sam tries to pull away but you keep your hold on him. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t what?” you interrupt, bringing one hand around to cup his cheek. He leans a little into your touch. “Need this?”

“‘M the Alpha,” he whispers.

“Yes, you are.” You rub your thumb along his cheekbone, wiping away tears. “And I’m the Omega and this is a partnership. That means it goes both ways. Let me take care of you, Alpha.”

Sam hesitates a moment before crumpling against you with a small, heart wrenching sound. You let him, running soothing hands up and down his back and murmuring soft words until his breathing evens and the little shudders in his shoulders stop.

"Better?"

He’s tense but he gives you a small nod, still buried in your shoulder. You turn your head to kiss his cheek.

“C’mon, Alpha,” you say, stepping back and taking his hand. “Dinner’s ready.”

You made lasagna simply because you wanted some but now you’re extra glad you made such a classic comfort food. You have Sam sit and clean his face while you dish up servings for both of you, bowls of simple salad on the side. He hums happily while he eats, good food working its magic on your Alpha. The conversation is quiet, not going much further than the last hunt and how Dean and Cas decided to take on a salt and burn but Sam just wanted to come home. You hook your socked feet around his ankles, rubbing softly as he speaks.

After dinner, you cover the leftover lasagna and put it in the fridge. All the other dishes - besides the ones you and Sam just used - were cleaned up while the lasagna was cooking so you set the few dirty dishes in the sink for later and then lead Sam down the hall to your bedroom. His huge hand is tight around yours.

“Gotta take these off.” You tug at his shirt collar and open the door to your ensuite, which was the whole reason you chose this bedroom.

“I dunno if I’m in the mood for anything,” Sam says even as he drapes his jacket over the back of the desk chair and begins unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” you laugh, popping the plug into the drain and turning on the faucet in the tub.

You hold your hand under the water until you’re happy with the temperature and then add some Epsom salt. When you turn around, you find Sam’s down to his boxers and standing a little awkwardly in the center of the bathroom.

You lift an eyebrow at him and move to rest your hands on his slender waist, just above the waistband of his boxers. “Gonna take a bath with these on?”

Sam flushes, ducking his head down and to the side. Your heart twists and you reach up to cradle his cheek in one hand.

“I'm just teasing,” you say softly. “C’mon, Alpha. Let’s take these off and get you in the tub.”

Sam watches as you push his boxers down, lifting his feet when you indicate to do so. You can’t help a quick, admiring glance of your mate’s body. He’s lost some of his bulk over the years but now he’s all long, lean muscle under beautiful tan skin. Your mouth waters a little as you follow that perfect dusting of dark hair from his chest, down his abs, to where his cock lies soft against his thigh.

“Everything okay?” Sam asks. Apparently your quick glance wasn’t as quick as you thought.

“Just admiring my husband,” you tell him, taking his hand and drawing him into a gentle kiss. “And wondering how I ended up with such a tall, beautiful, strong Alpha.”

His cheeks pink again but he smiles and leans against you a moment.

You tug him over to the tub and he gets in. Apparently the Men of Letters like their baths because all of the tubs available in the bunker are long enough for Sam to sit in comfortably. He settles into the warm water with a sigh, leaning back and slinging his arms along the sides of the tub.

You step back and begin shedding your own clothes, tossing each item into the hamper along with the clothes Sam just left on the floor until you're down to your panties.

“Y/N?” Sam asks as you kneel beside the tub, settling in on the plush rug.

“Don't want to have to deal with wet clothes,” you explain, grabbing his shampoo. “Let me take care of you.”

Sam obeys, staying silent while you wash his hair and then apply conditioner. While that sets, you grab his loofah and body wash. You take your time with his body, gently moving Sam around so you can get every inch of him clean. By the time you rinse the conditioner out, massaging his scalp some more as you do so, Sam is making soft happy noises and arching into your touch.

“Up you go,” you murmur once his hair is clean, grabbing a towel with one hand and guiding him out of the tub with the other.

He allows you to dry him, smiling when you stretch up on your toes to rumple his hair. A few swipes of your fingers sort that mess right out. Once he’s dry, you take him into the bedroom and lay him on his front on the bed.

With the room lit only by his bedside lamp, it takes you a minute to find the bottle of massage oil Sam bought for your anniversary last month but eventually you find it at the bottom of his nightstand drawer, hidden behind a box of condoms. You emerge from the drawer with a triumphant grin, waving the bottle. Sam chuckles.

“You’re really gonna pamper me tonight, aren’t you?” He shifts on the bed, getting comfortable.

You lean down to give him a kiss. “Of course. You’re always pampering me. Tonight, it’s my turn.”

You climb up onto the bed and straddle his hips. You warm the oil - lavender and orange in a coconut base, so it won’t make his skin super greasy - between your hands before sliding your hands along his spine and over his shoulder blades.

Sam sighs and settles deeper into the mattress as you begin working the tension from his muscles. He always carries most of his stress in his shoulders and back, so you focus your attention there first before moving up his neck and then down his arms and legs. By the time you're done with his backside, Sam is a puddle of happy, sleepy Alpha.

"Wanna roll over so I can do your front?" You press a kiss to the base of his neck.

He shakes his head. "Just wanna cuddle you."

Warmth floods your chest at those words. "Let's get your under the covers."

Sam manages to rally his limbs long enough to get you both under the blankets. Once he's settled, head tucked into your shoulder and breath warm on your collarbone, you reach over to flip the lamp off.

"Gonna thank you properly in the morning," he murmurs into your skin.

"Don't worry about that." You brush your fingers through his still-damp hair. "Just sleep. I've got you, Alpha."

He does just that, sleeping deeper and longer than he has in months. At least, that's what he tells you in the morning, after he's emerged from his place between your thighs, satisfied that he's "thanked you properly".

---

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—

Team Forever: @mrswhozeewhatsis @laughing-at-the-darkness​​ @tumbler-tidbits​​ @imsuperawkward​​​​ @emoryhemsworth

[sophiajone25301]

Wholesale Flannel Socks Supplier

Flannel Clothing leads as the premier destination for flannel sock manufacturing in the USA, offering a diverse range of styles curated by top designers. Explore their site for more information.

[clothingflannel]

Reasons Why you Should Choose Flannel Over Every Other Material

Reasons Why you Should Choose Flannel Over Every Other Material

Are you somebody who has just come across this material? You would be surprised to know that it is the same old checked shirts that you found almost everywhere you turned! Yes, the plaid design is typical of flannel. These clothes are made of heavy-duty cotton, making them suitable for falls and winters. But you really would not mind to lend yourself to the benefit of styling during summers as…

[defulles]

02.25.21 Imagine

this is my new goal for the end of junior year.

yes i know i’m gonna sound like a bitch and an attention whore for this but i honestly couldn’t give two shits at this point. i deserve so much better than her. if i had actually given in to her i would just be settling for some crusty bitch who isn’t even worth the time or energy.

but basically here’s my head canons for my dream of making this girl suffer

her feelings about it:

imma have a glow up. like huge. literally become the woman of her dreams.

she just CAN NOT get over her feelings for me. they would just become worse and she would become even more obsessed than she is now.

bruh the thrill of rejecting someone just fucking slaps.

and she KNOWS i know she’s still obsessed w me. but i literally wouldn’t care at all (bruhhh that would be so much fun)

my appearance:

clothes -

open red flannel

completely ripped up black jeans like absolutely demolished

just a fucking black sports bra and thats it

untied black high top converse

white nike socks

backwards baseball cap

hair JET BLACK, wavy and kinda messy but still put together

chain necklaces, slit eyebrow (i’m an eboy now ig)

triple piercings on my ears, plus cartilage (maybe tongue or bellybutton piercing???)

DOG TAGS.

random bracelets that you would somehow just collect over the years (like the string ones you’d get from summer camp or the rubber ones from a fund raiser or something)

body -

since this is gonna be me next year, i’ve definitely worked out a decent amount since

i have abs (not like a fucking six pack) but it’s there

i’m gonna start lifting more consistently soon, my arms are gonna be kinda bulked so when i roll up the sleeves of the flannel my forearms fit the shirt like perfectly bc of the muscle (idk why but i love it when a shirt is kinda tight bc of muscle)

and bruh

my thighs.

they’re gonna be fucking. H U G E.

yes that’s my ideal body type and what i want to look like by this time next year

imagine/group dynamic:

(this is probably stemming from the fact that were kinda in a band but not really and i’ve always wanted to play bass BUT i’ve had this image stuck in my head for too long)

i’ve finally learned to play the bass

i’ve moved on to another group and we made a band thats wayyy better and more successful

we’re performing w lights and everything and shit but were still kinda small so its only like a local venue

and she’s there in the crowd obviously

and i’m just the really hot bassist who’s really fucking good at it

blue purple and red lights from the stage

what kind of music?? rock. just pure rock. all kinds, every sub genre, ranging from classic to hard metal shit.

just absolutely JAMMING on the bass

and my two best friends are backstage and she tries to come up to me after but i just ignore her and go straight to them

and i’m also dating someone now

she doesn’t know

and they come out onto the stage at the end when we’re packing up and shit (maybe they’re also in the band idfk) and we just hug or kiss or show some sort of affection for each other and she's just kinda standing there watching it happen

this is gonna happen i swear to god. and if it starts become close to the end of the year next year, and i don’t see it happening, i’m gonna make it happen. 100%.

this is so fucking brutal but i need this, this girl does not treat me right at all and were not even in a relationship.

okay but actually tho just imagine fucking rocking out on the bass w lights and a whole crowd just jamming out and shit holy fu-

[clarketomylexa]

that’s what best friends do, chapter two

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“I’m gay,” she says, just like that. It’s as simple as if boiled down to a definition, poetic as Gatsby’s ending and Clarke opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to say other than what they are told in health class but all of that seems too wrong when faced with Lexa looking at her like this.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers.

read on ao3

At Clarke’s behest, Lexa details her in all the things she forgot to tell her about camp; the color war, ‘swim the lake’ which Lexa finished in record time in the seventh week of her session after training every day with a group of twenty other girls, and Costia who lives in Connecticut and writes Lexa every week of the school term, hoping she will come back to camp next summer.

She reads one of the letters aloud one day after school as they sit on Clarke’s bed. Clarke is cross-legged with the back end of her pen in her mouth as she noodles through a workbook and Lexa hangs halfway off the narrow mattress with her wet hair in a drooping top knot, laughing at sentences Clarke thinks must be inside jokes. She has taken up swimming three days a week this year and Clarke won’t admit it but she loves going to the pool on Saturday mornings to watch her train.

A picture printed on glossy photo paper falls out of the bottom of the envelope when she looks. It’s of Lexa in a tie-dyed tee and tiny denim shorts, clinging to the back of a wiry redhead with the bandana Lexa now keeps pinned to her bedroom wall, tied around her head. Both girls are soaked and covered in what looks like colourful powder, set against the backdrop of a picturesque lake complete with an intricate dock system and sailboats anchored at the bank, the girls around them armed with plastic water pistols.

Clarke tries not to be too happy when Lexa announces one day in late May that she won’t be going back to camp this summer. She comes to the lake instead but wears her camp tee instead of her piñata socks and because of swimming, when they go to put on their usual life vests to go boating, Lexa’s doesn’t close properly and Jake teases her about ‘bulking up for the season’. She goes bright red and apologises profusely but Jake laughs it off, hanging it back on the hook and Clarke is antsy the entire way into town to buy a new one.

She blames it on the syrupy heat and the fact that on their second day they still haven’t gotten onto the water.

It’s neither of those things.

When Clarke is fifteen their double-bed shrinks.

It doesn’t literally shrink of course; Clarke is fully aware she is the one doing the growing. Aware of it too much maybe because the growth spurt may have been the start of it, it certainly wasn’t all that puberty had to offer and ending Freshman year in a C-cup was an uncomfortable experience to say the least.

Lexa has grown too—even more than she had when she returned home from camp two summers ago with the beginnings of abs beneath the skin of her midriff—as Abby prophesied she has well and truly grown into her lankiness and the extra inch or so she has on Clarke when they stand side-by-side.

The discovery that she doesn’t have to make a conscious effort to be touching Lexa when they sleep isn’t exactly an unpleasant one, but neither of them wear novelty pyjamas now or pug socks. It’s all Clarke’s middle school track t-shirt and foraged sleep shorts and sometimes Lexa doesn’t even wear pants at all, lamenting that the heat is stifling and sliding into bed in her camp tee and Calvin's that forces Clarke to banish blush-worthy thoughts from her head. In fact, she almost hates herself for thinking them in the first place.

Having both started at the same high school at the beginning of the last school year, it became easier and easier for Clarke to shove the unbidden feelings into the back of the proverbial closet and shut the door tight as they settled into the routine of pop quizzes and high school hierarchy. Lexa had swimming, Clarke had lacrosse. They tried to find each other in the cafeteria but with different lunch hours any sort of midday reunions had been hard to find. Other than Mr. Ramon’s fifth period math class, it was almost as if they were still at schools half a county away.

Summer had come as a breathless reprieve.

She lies next to Lexa in a bed that seems to be growing narrower by the day—wincing at the way Lexa’s toes brush the bottom of the mattress—and hates the way the world is encroaching on their little Eden.

They have a bonfire down at the lakefront, three houses down where the bank gives way to a patch of grainy sand. Abby has begrudgingly decided that at fifteen they are old enough and by the time Clarke and Lexa wander down after dinner

The flames are four feet tall and paint what they can see of the lake in the dusk in a hazy purple that looks syrupy and thick.

Clarke raided both of their suitcases to find an outfit, landing on a skimpy jean skirt that made Jake’s eyes bulge and Lexa’s ACDC t-shirt to make up for it—she takes a handful of the fabric and ties it into a knot above her belly button as soon as they get out of eyeshot of the house and she catches Lexa eyeing her fingers as she does it but doesn’t say anything. Lexa on the other hand is wearing her jean shorts and a baggy striped long-sleeve that she has tucked into her waist band. She is altogether different from the Lexa that Clarke met that Sunday morning but the string friendship bracelet that Clarke gave her after spending the better half of a month weaving it out of thread from Abby’s sewing kit sits faded and worn against the tan of her wrist like a reminder of how much they have grown.

When they arrive a bottle of cheap wine has already been cracked open and is being passed around, and open cans of beer sit wedged in the sand. Couples sit clinched together, lazy and drunk on one another in the way that the couples at school seem to be as they pin each other to the metal of the lockers or duck into empty classrooms when they think they are being inconspicuous and music is being wired in from somewhere, the generic kind from the radio that will leave Clarke humming for days.

They are greeted where they stand, fingers locked on the lip of the bank, by the flannel-wearing junior and Lexa drops her hand so quickly, it’s as if she has been scalded. Clarke shoots her a frown but doesn’t manage to catch her downcast eyes and tries not to let the sinking feeling that she has been plagued with for a while now pull her under.

Whenever she brings the sense of impending doom Abby assures her that people change as they grow but Clarke is never satisfied with that answer. Lexa isn’t supposed to change. They’re supposed to live next door to each other, and have summers together and visit each other at college and buy houses in the same town and still be here come July twenty-second when they are eighty years old and their children’s children have grown up, it’s a truth that has kept Clarke afloat since the moment she met her best friend. The sudden realisation that her mom is right is not one she signed up for at seven-years-old, but she can’t stop the thought that maybe it’s true.

Because, try as she might, she can’t seem to fathom living out the plans that they have made like they planned them anymore.

They sit side-by-side on the sand as the wine bottle is drained to play spin the bottle—Lexa passes diligently on her sip but when it reaches her, Clarke grasps the bottle by the neck and takes a swig of what tastes like a cheap version of what she had at her cousin’s twenty-first and backwash and winces.

“Don’t let Abby see you,” Lexa nudges her with an elbow, “you’ll get a lecture on liver health.”

Clarke laughs but can’t bring herself to reply.

The bottle is laid down and a junior with dirty-blonde hair and hard, angular features leans forwards to spin it—she has a scuffed leather jacket on over a tight-fitting tank that makes Clarke irrationally angry because in the heat of summer, there is no way she has put it on because of the cold.

The jacket is a calculated move.

She lets the bottle go with an inelegant flick of her wrist, shucking her sleeves up to where they hang against her forearms and Clarke watches it spin—the bottle-green blur like a harbinger of certain doom, panic flashing white hot down her spine as it lands on Lexa where she sits cross legged in the sand, leaning back onto her hands so that she exudes an aura of confidence Clarke knows it an act. She can read Lexa better than anyone. Even despite the way she has refused to look at Clarke almost since they sat down, Clarke can see the tension in the cords of her neck.

A boy lets out a low whistle and Lexa’s cheek go red. Leather-jacket grins cockily and crawls across the awkward circle they have made, planting her hands on either side of Lexa’s thighs so that she hovers over her, brow piqued as if to dare Lexa to say no.

When they kiss, Clarke looks away. Something ugly knocks on the underside of her skull and she has to pretend to find interest in the knotted hem of her shirt to stop herself from acting on it until a sharp cheer goes up and leather-jacket is pulling away to retreat back to her seat, wiping a thumb over her mouth as she does and Clarke tries not to think of the fact that her lip gloss now shines in the dip above Lexa’s top lip where the line of her scar sits.

When Clarke gets banished to a game of seven minutes in heaven an hour later, as immature as it is she has all the intentions of asking to sit it out. The boy she has been paired with is in her grade, with hair just on this side of too long and an oil-stained flannel on over dark wash jeans. He rubs his hand over the nape of his neck in what Clarke thinks must be a nervous tick and she is sure if she asked he would say yes without question but a desperate, restless thing grips her as they round a thatch of trees so that they are out of sight of the bonfire and when he does ask what she wants to do she pulls him by the collar of his flannel in a move that is supposed to be somewhat sexy but just ends up clumsy and awfully amateur. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline in what she hopes is pleasant surprise.

She’s kissed two boys before. The first, Octavia argues, hardly counts because in the sixth grade Miller went around kissing every girl in their class on a bet after Murphy started spreading the rumour that he saw him and Nate kissing in the boys bathroom. It’s a thought that seizes so terribly in her chest every time she thinks of it and she refuses think that it’s for any other reason than Miller is her friend and he took so much shit for those rumours that he didn’t come to advisory for a week. But it  puts Clarke on par with Octavia though so she includes the rushed half-peck in her tally whenever asked.

This, however, is altogether different.

She lets him prop her against the nearest tree, his hands sure on her waist as she sighs into the hesitant brush of lips on lips, their noses bumping as Clarke flushes, head spinning at the taste of what she thinks is cheap beer on his lips and she plants her hands atop of his to ground herself. He asks her if she’s ‘okay to do this’ and she nods eagerly and leans in again. She loves the way his steady frame feels beneath her hands when she curls her finger into the shoulders of his flannel. His hair comes untucked from around his ears and they tickle her forehead where their shallow breaths rally it between them. Every so often they stop to breathe, laughing softly into the stagnant night air—tinged with a cool wind off the lake and flushed cheeks from the heat of the fire—and Clarke lets the simplicity of it soothe away the confusion she feels when she thinks about Lexa. She doesn’t know this boy. She doesn’t know his name or where he lives. There aren’t any expectations that will come out of a stupid game of seven minutes in heaven other than maybe a smile at the end of the night and she feels exhilarated.

It’s easy.

She likes easy.

By the time they make it back to the bonfire it has been decidedly longer than seven minutes but Clarke feels ascended nonetheless. She ducks her head against the raised brows they receive as she eases herself back onto the sand—next to Lexa who keeps her eyes on the tips of her shoes like Clarke knows she does when something is bothering her—but at this stage in the night, couples have mostly paired off anyway so she takes their knowing looks with a grain of salt.  

Across the circle, leather-jacket smiles lazily at Lexa and on impulse, Clarke grabs flannel-shirt’s hand.

The rest of the bonfire is passed in restless silence on both of their behalves and when Abby texts to warn them of their curfew drawing ever near, flannel-shirt puts his number in Clarke’s phone under ‘Finn’ with the flame emoji next to it. She laughs at it when he does and waggles her eyebrows, but Finn insists that it’s nothing more than to remind her he is the boy she met at the bonfire so she takes his word for it because she’s sure he’s too sweet to think of it any other way.

He texts her a short ‘hi’ when they are halfway back to the house and, hands tucked into her armpits, Lexa scoffs at the burgeoning smile that tugs at her lips.

“What?” Clarke snaps, face turning stony. Aside from the gentle lap-lap of the lake on the bank, the cicadas and the occasional bird call, the lakefront is silent as they traverse the lengths of the two or three properties that lie between them and the Griffin’s house. The night air is thick with the heavy scent of smoke and all the way around the lake, lights sit in the windows of houses like tiny flames. She plants her feet into the grass and watches Lexa’s face contort into a horribly unaffected pout that is contrived at best, genuine at worst.

She can’t decide which is better.

She thinks the answer might be neither of them.

Lexa swallows hard. “Nothing,” she grumbles, finding a dip in the soil with the toe of her sneaker and digging into it. The rubber connects with something hard, making a low thunk every time she hits it. The sound grates on Clarke.

“It’s not—will you stop that!” Annoyed, she grabs Lexa by the forearm. Lexa blinks in shock, yanking her arm away and tucking it back into herself as they stare at each other hard, chests heaving. “It’s not nothing,” Clarke repeats, softer this time. “You haven’t looked at me all night.”

“Good that Finn couldn’t take his eyes off you then,” Lexa fires back.

Clarke frowns, willing the hot, rattling thing in her chest to stay where it is. “Is that what this is about? You’re mad because I kissed him?” When Lexa won’t answer, she takes it as a confirmation. “It’s not like you were such a saint either,” she retorts hotly, “you kissed that seventeen-year-old no problem!”

“Kissed, Clarke!” Lexa all but yells. “I kissed her! I didn’t suck face with her for half an hour!”

“Why do you care, Lexa!”

For a moment it looks like Lexa is going to yell again and Clarke braces herself for an impact that never comes. Instead, Lexa leans forwards and presses her lips to her and Clarke feels herself burning over and over again until she is sure there is nothing left to her, to the lake or the house or the town beyond it, other than ash. She can taste the syrupy-sweet strawberry lip gloss and roasted marshmallows and Lexa’s lips tremble when Clarke stills enough to feel it.

It’s over as quickly as it started and Lexa is staring at her—eyes red and bottom lip trapped between her teeth, fists wound so tightly in the hem of her shirt her knuckles are white like it will keep her from doing it again. She looks at Clarke like she’s imploring her to understand but Clarke is dizzy and she thinks the wine and cheap beer has gone to her head. She tries so hard her eyes water and her throat burns but all that she can see is the minute quiver of Lexa’s lip and the haze of the lake and it builds up in her chest until she’s gasping for breath and looking away.

When she looks up, Lexa has shoved her hands into the depths of the pockets of her jean-shorts and is retreating, leaving Clarke oddly on edge, like she’s riding a rollercoaster and waiting for the stomach-flipping drop that isn’t coming.

It’s off putting and a little bit nauseating and Clarke thinks she may just explode, or implode—she can’t remember the difference. She’s sure that if she were to ask, Lexa would give her the textbook definition and then some, but as they enter the house through the open French doors, Abby asks them if they had a good night and Clarke can’t bring herself to reply so she doesn’t. Instead she lets Lexa shower first and stands under the hot stream when it’s her turn determined to scrub the scent of burnt-wood and Finn’s cologne off of her.

She lays next to Lexa in painful silence, toes tucked into the end of the bed, hating the thought that they are outgrowing themselves.

It rains the next day and Clarke can’t explain the inherent restlessness that she feels.

It’s all encompassing, leaving an awful, sickly film on her tongue and she wishes so badly she can reclaim the things she said to Lexa and shove them back into the depths of her chest where she keeps her other ugly feelings but it’s too late now.

She feels like all of her dirty laundry has been aired out to dry and it’s in bright neon orange so that it’s impossible people haven’t seen it.

Abby tuts at the weather over serving them waffles pried out of the iron and sliding the syrup across the counter and Jake emerges from the bunk room with a stack of board games in tow. He doesn’t see the way Clarke’s stomach positively flips at the sight. She wants to spring away from the breakfast nook and burrow into her bed until she suffocates herself but Lexa is staring at her and something about it screws her to her stool.

They play monopoly until Clarke’s brain bleeds. She’s so eager to do something that she drowns herself in properties and in turn, debts that she can’t pay off and bankrupts herself almost immediately and they listen to the old CD’s Jake fishes out from the dusty bookcase in the hall until she is sure the thing growing inside her will crawl up her throat and spray itself across the walls. She stands up from where she sits on the wooden floors, staring dumbly at her Clue cards like—the knife, the ballroom, the reverend—like they could be a tarot deck, legs screaming in protest. Her parents stare at her, a collective frown hidden beneath obvious concern, but Lexa just cocks her head and peers at her from the ground.

The rain beats at the windows, hard and sharp and with no intention of stopping considering the thickness of the heavy clouds that hem in the lake and the syrupy heat clogs up her lungs until she can’t breathe. She crosses the room with sure-footed intent, flinging open the doors, all trembling hands and pent up anger until she can feel the cold needles of rain on her face and her tee sags, waterlogged under the weight of it.  

Lexa’s fingers find the hem of her shirt, begging her back inside but she garbles something childish like ‘last one in’s the loser’ and takes off, across the deck, down the stairs and over the grass at terrifying speed, rain in her eyes and mud underfoot. Her hair is soaked and it hangs thickly off her lashes and somewhere beyond the loud thump-thump of her heart in her ears she thinks she can hear Lexa behind her, heavy big breathes and screaming at her to stop.

The hard wooden planks of the jetty come as a shock and they jar something loose in her chest. All of the terrible feelings come spilling out and she can barely see past the opaque sheets of rain but she launches herself off the end and this time, the ice-cold impact of the water does come.

She sinks like a stone fully clothed, water roaring in her ears and when her bare feet brush the silt at the bottom of the lake, she kicks off and surfaces a second later, blinking water out of her eyes to find Lexa standing at the edge of the jetty staring at her.

Suddenly, the memory of being in this exact position eight years ago hits her hard enough to knock the breath out of her—Lexa’s striped swimsuit, the tire-swing and the high-on-life feeling of elation when she surfaced to see Lexa cheering for her.

“Come on!” Clarke hollers over the rain, shielding her eyes with her hand as her legs fight to keep her afloat.

Lexa scoffs and shakes her head but unlike last night, Clarke thinks it’s a smile hiding beneath the curve of her lip. “You’re crazy!” she laughs in disbelief but she has this look—this lopsided, word-splitting look—on her face and Clarke knows she has her.

When she jumps in, the world somehow rights itself and Clarke is sure that the sun will come out again with the sheer force of Lexa’s smile.    

They go from Juniors to Seniors and, despite Clarke’s valiant effort to make it fit, they grow out of their double bed.

Jake offers to make up the bunk room but Lexa respectfully declines, electing to sleep in their usual room on the trundle bed and Clarke is not-so-silently grateful. She laments mournfully that Lexa needs to stop growing, poking her in all the soft places that make her squirm as they lie upside down on the too-small bed, as if wishful thinking will make them seven-years-old again.

Lexa is already thinking about college—she has her sights set on UPenn or even Harvard and while Clarke knows without a doubt she will get in, the thought of Lexa being hours away makes her chest uncomfortably tight.

“I won’t be any more than a couple of hours away,” Lexa hums, catching Clarke’s offending fingers in her hot hands. “Even if I get in to Berkeley it’s only a five hour flight.”

Clarke peers at her in faux-concern. Berkeley was a late comer on Lexa’s college radar but when the guidance counsellor suggested it might be a good idea to apply on the West Coast, she had taken it on board. Clarke is thinking more liberal like NYU or BU. She hasn’t told Lexa yet that her mom has a contact at CalArts and that—after surveying the portfolio she put together for an school exhibition—they said she was a shoe in for early admissions. If Lexa doesn’t get into Berkeley she isn’t sure she could make the five hour journey and leave her best friend a whole country away.

“You and I have a very different idea of what ‘only five hours’ means,” she groans, laying back on her back and tucking her head into her best friends shoulder. They still have senior year left to decide. Her mom tells her that that’s what it’s for but Clarke can hardly stand all of this not knowing and ‘end of an era’ bullshit that their principal had starting spouting in the last week of Junior year. As if they needed a reminder that next year might as well be the most important of their life. The opposite of invigorating her for her future, all it has done is make the hot ache inside her chest grow stronger; it’s almost over and Clarke can’t help but feel like she has less than nothing figured out.

“Will it really be that bad?”

It seems Lexa has a bad memory.

“Do you remember summer camp?” Clarke asks pointedly and when Lexa nods, she grins, “case and point. And college is longer than an eight-week summer session.” She settles when Lexa taps at her own shoulder again with her pointer finger; a wordless invitation that Clarke takes up eagerly. They haven’t talked about the kiss since the bonfire two years ago.

In fact they haven’t talked about it hard enough—almost made a point not to bring it up—that Clarke has managed to convince herself it didn’t happen.  

She plays with the soft hem of Lexa’s tee and closes her eyes against the smell of washing detergent and summer and roots far enough into Lexa’s shoulder that she is sure she can stay that way. Lexa laughs and she can feet the vibrations against her cheek, then even stronger when Lexa, in the midst of a soft chuckle says, “I love you.”

Clarke cocks her head at the odd cadence of her voice. “I love you too, dork,” she says because ‘that’s what best friends do’, “even if you are leaving me for a better climate.”

Lexa grumbles absently that ‘nothing is set in stone’ and ‘applications haven’t even come out yet’ but settles beneath Clarke regardless. They eke as much as they can out of the evening before Lexa has to retreat to her trundle bed and Clarke turns the light out, feeling aloof and untethered without the warm mass of Lexa’s body next to her.

Usually she longs for the quiet moments—the nights she spends with Lexa in their Eden of floral sheets and patterned wallpaper but instead, she finds herself restless and searching for something she isn’t quite sure how to find.

She wants to go to into senior year on solid ground, not feeling like she is wading through molasses but the truth is, as the summer wanes on, she isn’t any closer to finding her feet. They swim and sunbathe and eat sticky marshmallow straight from their sticks—Lexa gets it stuck above her lip and Clarke leans over to wipe it off with her thumb.

Jake takes them out on the boat and Abby comes with them into the dinky little eatery in town that has outdoor picnic tables and Lexa spams her phone with pictures of Clarke in a summer dress and a straw hat, hair in a single, twisted braid. It’s all wonderful and quintessentially summer but it isn’t what she wants.

While Lexa spreads herself out on a blue and white blanket with next year’s reading—it’s not like she didn’t read ‘The Great Gatsby’ in the eighth grade on a whim because Clarke liked the cover art depicting the ‘eyes of God’—Clarke finds Finn. They stand in the woods, not far from where they kissed the first night at the bonfire, with fervent hands on each other and weird energy rattling in her chest. Her heart isn’t in it when he places hot mouthed kisses along the column of her neck and she lets him ruck her shirt up over her chest just because he looks so earnest when he asks her. She knows it’s not at all a good reason to—as mortifying as it was her mom had been thorough when she sat Clarke down at the beginning of sophomore year to give her the talk and although it was more clinical than touchy feely she did make sure to instil a sense of its importance in her. It wasn’t that she shouldn’t be in charge of her own body, it was just that she should be careful who she is in charge of it with.

But all that feels so utterly faraway right now, like a picture just out of focus.

He smells like Axe body spray and even though she’s sure neither of them are wearing it, the sticky scent of sunscreen hangs in the air. She wrinkles her nose against it as he sucks down her collarbones and frowns at the hard, scrape of teeth, tugging him away by the hair at the nape of his neck with a sharp hiss.

“Ow,” she breathes.

“Sorry,” he huffs, flashing her a brilliant smile. He roots his hands back under her shirt. “I almost ignored your text when I got it this morning,” he hums against her, “I nearly deleted your number after the bonfire. Atom said you were too good for me and that you’d never text me back.” He raises his brows as if to say ‘let’s show him’ and Clarke is immediately repulsed.

“Finn,” she whines, high pitched and breathless as she tries to pull his hands off her. His fingers catch on her belt loop and she unhooks his thumb before giving his chest a light shove. “I need to go.”

He frowns. “But—”

“I have to get back,” she shakes her head decisively. “Bye Finn.”

There’s no other way to describe what she feels as she hikes back up the back to the house than ‘icky’. She has enough sense in her head to know for sure that she is anything but a summer conquest and, she thinks, if Finn wants to impress Atom so badly maybe he should feel him up instead.

Lexa is where she left her in her short-sleeved linen shirt and denim shorts, hair in its topknot and glasses perched on her head as she skims Gatsby’s tragic death and laments over Daisy’s poor character choices. She quells the itchy dizziness within Clarke immediately and as soon as she makes it over, she collapses down on the grass, rolling easily onto her back and landing her hands on her stomach with a heavy sigh.

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“I’m gay,” she says, just like that. It’s as simple as if boiled down to a definition, poetic as Gatsby’s ending and Clarke opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to say other than what they are told in health class but all of that seems too wrong when faced with Lexa looking at her like this.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers. A three letter word isn’t going to change that—she hopes against hope that Lexa didn’t believe it would—but there are tears clinging to Lexa’s lashes like dew on the spiderwebs they used to find under the picnic table when they were seven and the sight sticks in Clarke’s chest, so painfully it’s all she can do to pull her into a hug. She hooks her arm over Lexa’s shoulder and pulls her into her chest, letting Lexa root into her shoulder until she thinks nothing could separate them. “Oh, Lex,” she coos, “you’re okay,” and more than that, “we’re okay.”

When Lexa pulls back she’s trembling. The breeze is hot today but Lexa looks as if she is in the middle of a tundra in a swimsuit because her shoulders shake and her chin quivers and is it bad of her to think that right now she is the prettiest that Clarke has ever seen her?

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispers.

Lexa nods, her chin wobbles.

“How long have you known?”

Clarke doesn’t know why she asks other than that it seems of the utmost importance. It’s awfully dramatic but she feels like her entire life will rest on this moment, like she will look back at it through the lense of experience to either wallow or regret or point to it as the thing that changed everything. She only hopes it’s the latter. Lexa’s eyes are seven different colours through the prism of the tears held captive at her lash line and it’s all Clarke can do not to let it take her breath away.

“Two years.”

Clarke feels the air evacuate her chest. She feels like she is on fire, her body tingles and she is relatively sure she isn’t a whole person—not yet at least, not with Lexa looking at her the way she is—but half of one, made of nothing but open nerve endings and raw want. It all knots inside of her and swells until it is impossible to ignore.

Clarke kisses her.

She grasps Lexa by the shoulder, the linen of her shirt crushed against the heat of her palm, and leans in with her mouth open and a fervent kind of desperation she hasn’t kissed anyone with in her life. It’s heavy and bold and oh so desperate. Lexa’s brows shoot to her hairline before coming back down as her fingers find the hem of Clarke’s tee and fist in it like she needs something to keep her from inevitably floating off into space.

Clarke knows the feeling.

It feels like every single moment of her life has led to this point, and now that she’s here, she is sure she isn’t. Her hand comes up to rest on Lexa’s jaw and she takes stock of what she knows: the colour of Lexa’s eyes; the shape of the scar above her lip; how she scrunches her eyes when she is happy and throws her head back when she laughs, and when she is troubled by something, she gets a look on her face that is both devastating and beautiful.

It’s there now, caught in the place between her eyebrows.

It makes Clarke nervous.

She feels clumsy and inelegant but Lexa tangles their fingers together. She tastes like summer and everything good, Clarke feels drunk on it.

“I love you,” she whispers because that’s not what best friends do.

“I love you,” Lexa says.

The entire world feels encapsulated into a heartbeat Clarke thinks it might just be her last.

Maybe she doesn’t like easy after all.

[nadjaofstatenisland]

my opinions on 3x04 that no one asked for

KJ as Fred

They really did a great job making KJ look like young Luke. Having said that... I don’t buy him as young Fred. I just can’t see this being the ensemble of a kid who drives a shitty VW van and has a band he named after himself. However, I really do dig the cuffed jeans and socks. I just need my Fred in flannel and a t-shirt. The hair is way too neat for my taste.

Cole as FP

He just... still looks like Jughead to me. Sorry. He looks like someone took away his beanie and Archie let him borrow his jacket. Sure, Cole looks enough like Skeet to pass as his son, but to pass as him? Mmmm. Sticking him in a white t-shirt doesn’t give me young Skeet vibes at all. Sorry. 

Lili as Alice

I was so ready to be really critical young Alice, but I love this look. I hate how much I love this look! The outfit, the make up, the hair... This came right out of my head. However, I just know they’re going to make Alice do stuff I don’t like in this episode. I do have an issue with Alice wearing her serpent jacket to school because, you know, no school would ever allow students to wear gang attire in school. But this is Riverdale so I don’t know why I expect that to be an issue. 

Camila as Hermione 

I’m confused. Cami looks adorable in the uniform and glasses, but what’s happening here? Did Hermione just transfer to Riverdale High from Catholic school? Why does she have on a uniform at all? Is she still a mean girl, because it looks like they’re trying to dress her as a nerd.  I love the straighten hair, because it’s a very Hermione feel. But then there’s this newer still (not sure the source but i got it from @inthemoodforchaos) of her with Hiram where she’s actually looking very Veronica-esque and I don’t know how to feel. She ditched the glasses and the uniform and there is Hiram putting pearls on her. I’m just very confused what is going on here.

Michael as Hiram

I can talk about that Thermos for hours, I swear I can. But holy shit, this is so perfect. Getting Mark’s son to play young Hiram is the best thing about this episode. Possibly the only good thing about this episode. Since he doesn’t play a kid on the show already, he’s the one person who won’t have to worry about everyone confusing him with his child counterpart. Also... can we talk about how that jacket is too big for him? I’m going to die, it’s so cute. 

Madelaine as Penelope

We’ve been blessed. The idea of Penelope dressed like Cheryl had me cringing. I had no idea what they would do to her, but this is amazing. Nerdy Penelope! I swear, I couldn’t breath when I first saw these pictures. The glasses, the denim jumper, the yellow blazer. My heart stopped. I can really look at this picture and forget about Cheryl. I want to protect this girl with my whole heart. Just please, don’t make Mads and Trevor kiss because that will ick me out so hard. 

Also, never forget that Mads is just playing Penelope, not Mary.

Ashleigh as Sierra

I was really afraid they’d try to make Sierra look like Josie when I always really wanted her to be like Robin’s character in Head of the Class. And damn, I get such strong Darlene vibes from her outfit and hair! I love. I have so many questions about the fortune teller though. Is it part of the game or was Sierra just that girl who went around telling people’s fortunes? Are they typically called fortune tellers or is that a regional thing? What do other people call them? How is she so adorable? 

Casey as Tom

No. Just... no. This is just Kevin having a bad hair day. Fuck, that is an shirt Kevin would probably wear. I don’t dig this. At the very least they could have lightened Casey’s hair a little. Maybe thrown glasses on him. I just can’t unsee Kevin here. They need to Tom him up a bit. 

Trevor as Clifford

Look... Trevor doesn’t look a goddamn thing like Barclay. Like at all. But I am so desperate for him to be on this show, I will allow this. Trevor is so slim and Barclay’s a broad guy, but I don’t really expect them to bulk him up or anything. This is all very strange, but my only real complaint is I hate the idea of Clifford being the same age as the rest of the parents. How did no one know about Claudius in that case? Barclay is like 15 years older than Nat in real life. I’m really hoping he’s just... visiting Penelope in school? I don’t know what I’m hoping. All I know is Trevor better have some fucking lines. 

Charles as Marty

We know fuck all about Rick and Marty yet, but I adore everything about this look. This is a Reggie look if Reggie went to school in the 90s. A denim jacket with only one sleeve rolled up over a jersey. The dayglo backpack. The chain. The sunglasses. All he’s missing is a thick sweatband. This is amazing. I don’t care if this is his only scene and he doesn’t look like a thing like the guy who plays adult Marty. I love this. Like I had no interest in him even being in this episode, but this is just too fucking good to not love.

??? as Hal

??? as Mary

Don’t even get me started on these two. Ugh.

Overall, I am actually pleasantly surprised with a lot of the looks. Maybe I’m just being very forgiving because this episode has already let me down more than any of you can understand. The aesthetics are the only thing I have to look forward to now, so I guess I’ll take them.