#god i have residual cringe over someone i used to hang out with

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

DAVE: you guys dont know how much south park and adult animated sitcoms hurt me. my bro has watched adult animated sitcoms all day every day for half my life and everything he says is a family guy reference or something. i came out to him as trans and he literally says like "well you know on family guy they at first had a hard time with this kind of thing but later they came around. that was a good lesson" its like his religion

JUNE: somehow, the weirdest aspect of this is that watching family guy made your brother LESS transphobic.

[ditch-witches]

Eyeliner (Dean-Charles Chapman x reader)

thank you to my dear love @chokopieeater​ for the moodboard. god bless your soul, you are everything to me.

(PART TWO)

requested: yes/no (If y'all want a part 2 lemme know because I wouldn't be opposed... maybe smutty...?)

pairing: band member!Dean-Charles Chapman x reader

warnings: stUpId DiaLogUE

word count: 1,943

a/n: This brought me back to my Queen fandom days :)))) (also we can all agree that the boy isn't coordinated enough to play guitar, right?)

You slouched against the bar counter, stirring your drink and wondering why the hell you had gotten talked into attending this shindig as your friend circulated around the room, greeting people she knew from class and so on.

"Come on! It'll be fun!" Your friend smiled across the booth from you, her eyes dancing with excitement when she found out a local band was playing and she could get the two of you in.

"Yeah, what are they called again?" You asked, rather uninterested and debated making up some homework assignments to use as an excuse. She rifled through her bag rather violently, seemingly looking for the event flier one of the band members had probably slipped her in class. She was an undeclared groupie of the boys, swearing that one day they would blow up and you'd be sorry for not following them from the beginning.

"Something that starts with Revolting, I think..." she huffed, continuing to look for the crumpled green paper.

"I don't know why you're so obsessed. They're just trying to be Blink-182-"

Her head shot up, glaring at you. "Don't belittle their music. They are artists."

So there you were, head already clouded with the cigarette smoke hanging in the air and the residual smell of frat boy sweat. You sighed, thinking of the ungodly hour you had to be up the next morning and how much you would have rather been bundled up in bed watching Happy Days reruns right about now. The bartender gave you a small smile, topping off the drink you had barely touched and you gave him a nod in acceptance. You didn't look up when you heard the noise of amps being plugged in and guitars plucked, instead downing what you had in your hand and feeling your headache worsen by the minute. Someone came over the mic, introducing the band. The cockney accent sounded vaguely familiar to you, causing you to look up and lock eyes with the lead singer. You weren't sure where you met him before, maybe you just knew him from your friend's obsession.

You stood, walking over to lean against one of the beams holding up the ratty ceiling and crossing your arms as the singer smiled at you slightly, his pick tucked between his smile. How he so focused on you in a room full of crowded people puzzled you. Maybe he wasn't actually looking at you, the lights had to have been too bright. You watched his fingers swiftly moving from chord to chord, head bobbing slightly with an easy smile on his face. He was definitely in his element and you couldn't help but feel a sense of attraction to his confidence. You moved to another section of the crowd, performing an experiment of your own. His bright eyes were brought away from his instrument as he began to sing, his sight gliding over the audience before finally settling on you again, his smile brightening. You slyly looked over your shoulder to see if he could possibly be looking at another girl around you, fighting a small blush to creep onto your face as it almost felt like he was singing the unrecognizable garage band song to you.

Their set consisted of flirty glances and smirks sandwiched between the bass player fumbling around and adding solos that seemed like none of the band members were expecting, yet took in stride. It didn't seem like any of them were actually serious about playing. You caught sight of your friend, screaming her head off and jumping up and down with a few other girls that were probably just as into the band as she was. At one point one of the girls took the cigarette the lead singer was sporting and nearly screamed as they took a puff of their own. He just shook his head and chuckled at their actions. As the band made their closing remarks, you moved over to the bar, deciding that a water wasn't a bad idea for your trip home. Your friend was at your side almost instantly, peppering you with questions about what you thought of the show and what your favorite song had been. "God, isn't Dean so sexy?" she gushed, leaning her back against the bar next to your stool.

You furrowed your brows, deciding to humor her despite the fact that you had no idea which one he was. "The sexiest."

"I think we should go next time. I'm pretty sure there's a show on Thursday." You tilted your head at her words, furrowing your brows with a slight smile, but her eyes were glued to something else. The lead singer was moving through the lingering crowd of girls and---who you were assuming to be---friends of the band. He took a few pictures with people and signed a few body parts, his eyes continuously darting towards you and your friend. You rolled your own, turning back to face the bar and tipping the bartender, a man that you had grown to trust throughout the length of the night as he kept your glass filled and didn't ask for more money. "He's coming this way..." she whispered beside you, seemingly shrinking in size. You nodded, less than amused as you heard her titter slightly.

"Hey, thanks for coming out," the accent was suddenly behind you and you turned, looking at your friend taking his extended hand before she asked to get a picture and shoved her phone at you. You sighed, telling the two to smile as she hugged him tightly to her side and he obliged, lightly laughing at her actions.

"You guys sounded great tonight. I don't know if you remember me, but we have English together-" His eyebrows raised at your friend's comment, nodding his head and continuing in conversation after he finally remembered her name. You looked between them before your eyes flashed over to the crowd of girls slightly glaring at the two before you. It was quickly becoming clear to you just how popular this boy was. He leaned forward to whisper something into your friend's ear and her face lit up as he slipped her a piece of paper. You rolled your eyes as she almost bolted to the stage area, straight up to the drummer.

He leaned against the bar counter where she had previously stood and you damn near gathered your belongings to head out, but then remembered your friend. "So, is this your first show?" He asked. Despite the fact that you were sitting on a stool, he was still taller than you were, not in an intimidating way, but you made note of that fact. You also couldn't help but notice just how blue his eyes were when he was this close. For being in a grungy band like he was, you were surprised at just how pretty he actually was.

"Yeah, I came for moral support," you joked.

He grinned sarcastically. "That's so sweet of you." He put his hand over his heart and chuckled.

You couldn't help but smile. "Anything to back the cause," you quipped. "What did you tell her?" You asked, gesturing to your friend engaging in light conversation with the drummer; her smile a mile wide.

The boy next to you chuckled, looking at them too. "He wanted to talk to her. Thought she was cute, you know?" You gave him a look suggesting he was full of shit. "Okay, and I wanted the opportunity to talk to you."

You bit your lip. "And recruit me to be a groupie?" You fought not to laugh as he blushed slightly, the tips of his ears also turning a shade of pink.

"The captain position is open if you're interested?" He jeered, making you scoff.

"Tempting." Your friend rejoined your side with a huge grin on her face and bouncing with excitement. Your eyebrows raised in her direction as a smug expression made its way onto your face. You and the singer watched her compose herself. You heard him giggle quietly at her joy. "So?" You began, pretending the suspense was killing you.

She took a deep breath. "He asked me for my number."

You gasped. "That's great! Are we leaving now?"

"Rude," the boy beside you mumbled and you elbowed him, making him almost snicker. Your friend, still firmly on cloud nine, nodded at you, hugging her purse close to her chest. She thanked the boy and practically danced out of the bar and into the cab you had called. You turned back momentarily and met eyes with the boy again and he waved at you, a stupid grin sent your way to keep with you until you saw him again.

Little did you know, you wouldn't have to wait for long. The next day seemed to bring him right to your doorstep as you exited the building of your first class of the day and almost rammed into him. You tore out your headphones out of your ear and tilted your head at him. He grinned brightly. "Sorry," he muttered. In all honesty, you hadn't even recognized him in the daylight. You rocked back on your heel, relaxing slightly.

"Stalker," you jeered, starting to walk on your previous path. He turned to walk with you. "How'd you find me?"

He clicked his tongue, smiling at his shoes as he walked. "Your dear friend loves talking about you in class, and is incredibly nonchalant about dropping hints," he bit his lip slightly. "I figured I would pop by and see if you wanted company?"

"Yeah so, not stalkery at all," you stated sarcastically, making him chuckle. He looped his thumbs in the straps of his backpack.

"It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you," he coyly stated, slightly cringing at his words.

You pursed your lips to fit the urging smirk from breaking your exterior. "I bless the rains down in Africa..." you finished, causing you to break the tension in the air. He fully let out a laugh, a sound sweet and light enough that you couldn't help but grin at. It still shocked you just how soft he was, a complete hypocrisy to his appearance on stage. Despite it being a surprise, you liked it. "You look different without all the eyeliner," you quipped.

He inhaled sharply, as if nervous for your answer to his next question, his evident confidence becoming a facade before your eyes. "Good different or bad different?"

You shrugged slightly. "I like both, really. So good different, I guess," you answered and you could have sworn you saw the kid beam as you bumped his shoulder.

"Thanks, it's my mom's," he joked, making you smile again and shake your head. "I'm Dean, by the way." He stuck his hand towards you and you shook it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean." The two of you got to your next building. You were slightly later than you wanted to be but as you took a few of the stairs towards the door and looked back at the boy in the dark hoodie, you knew it was worth it.

He smiled up at you and then his brows furrowed, a hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck---one of the first blatant signs of just how nervous you made him. "Before you go," he seemed to fumble for the right words, "are you busy tonight?" His blue eyes darted up to yours and you chuckled, your heart exploding with excitement you hadn't felt since you got an A on your calculus midterm.

You leaned against one of the railings. "Depends what you're doing. You can pick me up at seven if you're not busy."

His smile made your heart flutter as his face went from a taken aback manner to one of pure joy. "I'll clear my schedule."

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Hospital/Squad Car

In which names are fucking FINALLY exchanged; Sol comes out the same way I do 100% of the time; hands are held angrily; I Don’t Know About You Guys But I’m Sure Shawn Is Fine And Safe To Be In A Car With Right Now.

Previous Parts: Teaser One and Teaser Two

TW for: cops; implied past suicide attempt; referenced familial abuse; implied/referenced homophobia; self-harm.

Also, this is long, but I chose not to split it into two parts in the interest of getting back to The Action next time. Also please note that this is not a police procedural and I care about Gay H/C, not about How To Police Work, so please forgive the no doubt glaring inaccuracies.

@whumpitywhumpwhump 

Sol rests his pounding head in the hand not attached to his dislocated wrist, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to shake the residual claustrophobia still crouched hot in the center of his chest.

 He doesnt look up at the sound of Shawn being steered into the chair next to him. Shawn winces audibly as the motion must pull at his stitches.

“Thank you for waiting, boys,” the nurse says. She sounds uncertain in a way Sol generally doesn’t prefer in his medical professionals. “A, um. An officer will be here to talk to you shortly, I guess?”

Sol grunts vaguely, too tired to protest, and he can hear the polite smile in the blonde boys voice when he says in a too-bright voice, “Thank you. We don’t mind waiting.”

The nurse scampers. There’s a moment of what passes for awkward silence in a crowded hospital hallway. Then someone pokes Sol gently in the shoulder.

“Hey,” the blonde says in his velvety voice. “How do you feel, man?”

Sol lowers his hand and raises his head to stare at the blonde, who does at least have the grace to look sheepish. He spreads his heavily bandaged hands. “How do I look?”

The blonde fidgets, moving carefully to avoid straining his broken ribs, and picks awkwardly at the bandage above his eye with the arm that is not currently in a sling. At some point someone lent him a plain white t-shirt to replace his bloody button-down, but there hasn’t been time or space for showers, apparently— is the hospital normally so busy at five in the morning on a rainy Friday?— and his hair is still plastered up at odd angles and kind of red in places. Though it’s hard to tell whose blood is whose, at this point. On Sol’s other side Shawn is poking half-heartedly at his bandaged shoulder.

“Sorry, stupid question,” the blond agrees ruefully. “I meant, how’s your head?”

Sol glares at the floor. “It’s fine. Just a little knock. Not like I’ve never had one of those before.” In a much lower voice he adds, “I fucking hate MRIs.”

To Sol’s surprise, the blond’s face immediately softens. “Yeah,” he says, and he sounds almost— fond. Then he holds out his hand. “I’m Kent, by the way. Kenton Graves.”

Sol stares down at the boy’s hand, and thinks about telling him to fuck off. He takes Kent Graves’s hand in his bandaged one instead. “Sol Michaelis.”

Kent Graves blinks. “That’s, uh, quite the name.”

Sol raises an eyebrow. “Thanks,” he says flatly. “I picked it myself.”

Kent stares at him. Sol waits. “Oh,” Kent says, then, “Oh! I’m— sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun.”

Sol squints, lets Kent squirm while he weighs that response. It’s not a bad one, and he doesn’t ruin it by tacking on a bunch of excuses, just looks at Sol, embarrassed but not defensive. After a moment Sol waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever.”

Kent’s face relaxes into a smile immediately. It’s kind of distracting. Then he leans forward to offer his hand to Shawn, too, paling a little as the movement must make his ribs and fractured clavicle shift painfully. Sol winces a little in sympathy.

“Uh— Shawn Dugan,” Shawn says distractedly. Speaking of pale, Shawn is currently the color of string cheese. 

“Nice to meet you, Shawn,” Kent says politely. “You feeling okay?”

It seems to take a second for Shawn to focus on Kent’s face, but when he manages it he smiles, looking a little… scared. “Yeah, I don’t feel so hot.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “A little. Uh. Freaked, I guess.”

Kent’s smile fades, and he massages a careful hand over his collarbone. “Yeah,” he agrees, settling back into his chair. “Me too.”

Sol glares down at his splinted wrist and says nothing. They tried to put him under general anaesthetic to reset it and he had to fight tooth and nail to keep them from putting him under. Goddamn bastards.

Somebody wearing heels clicks down the long hallway in their direction, and Sol raises his head too fast, his vision blurring out for a second. “Fuck,” he mutters, raising a hand to his pounding head.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, boys,” the person attached to the noisy heels says in a brisk, businesslike voice. As Sol blinks she slowly resolves herself into a pretty girl in a police uniform, her long black hair bound back into a tight braid. “How are we feeling tonight?”

Sol hasn’t really had a chance to look in a mirror since before he was shoved in an ambulance fucking five hours ago, but if he looks anywhere near as wrecked as Shawn or Kent, the answer to that question should be pretty fucking obvious. Nobody answers the officer, anyway. She smirks at them, hands on her hips.

“Yeah, I thought so. Well, we’ve got the okay to take you three down to the station so you can tell us exactly what happened, kids. Do any of you have anybody you’d like to inform of your whereabouts and condition before we get this show on the road?” She fishes a flip-phone out of the pocket of her not-very-flattering uniform trousers. “You can use this if you didn’t get a chance to grab your phone before we left the café. I’ve been told you left in kind of a hurry.”

There’s a moment of silence as all three of them stare at the phone. Shawn, with a nervous glance towards Sol and Kent, who haven’t moved, reaches a shaky hand out for the phone.

“Uh,” he croaks, and then he lurches forward slightly and raises a hand to his head. The officer has to take a quick step forward and grab hold of his uninjured shoulder to keep him from falling right out of his chair. He pauses for a second, and then looks up at her. Sol winces at the look on his face. Shawn is almost thirty, but he looks like a scared kid.

“I-I’d like to call my mom,” he croaks, and he’s really a worrying color under his embarrassed flush. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

The officer’s face softens at Shawn’s obvious distress, and she passes him the phone. “Yeah, of course it is.” Planting her hands back on her hips, she looks from Sol to Kent, one dark eyebrows raised. “Who’s next? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Shawn gets very shakily to his feet and wanders off a little down the hallway to call his mother in peace, using the wall for support. Sol looks expectantly over at Kent, who fidgets and then looks back at Sol for a second, and then down at the floor.

“There isn’t anyone I want to call,” he says, looking up at the officer.

Sol looks at him. There’s a muscle jumping slightly in his jaw. Interesting. Sol shrugs. “Me neither, I guess.”

The officer looks from Sol to Kent, frowning. Sol can’t really tell if she looks annoyed or— god— sympathetic. He looks away to keep from rolling his eyes. “You sure? Last call.”

Sol and Kent exchange a look almost without meaning to, and then they both look at the floor. Sol thinks of the look on Kent’s father’s face as he left the cafe. It isn’t an entirely unfamiliar one. “Yeah,” he mumbles finally. “I think we’re both sure, lady.”

There’s a long, awkward moment when the officer and the two boys listen to Shawn murmur shaky assurances into the phone and resolutely do not look at each other. Then Shawn hangs up the phone with a click and stumbles back over to hold it out toward the officer. “Thanks,” he croaks, swaying a little.

“Uh— no problem.” The officer looks from one pale face to the other, looking a little out of her depth. Then she sighs and squares her shoulders. “Okay. The sooner we get down to the station, the quicker you kids can go home. Are, uh— “ She falters a little. “Are you guys all okay to walk?”

Annoyed, Sol swings himself up to his feet, overbalances, and has to be stopped from falling by a hand on his shoulder he realizes to his mortification belongs to Kent. He wills himself not to blush and feels his cheeks and ears reddening anyway, and shrugs away. “Yes, we can walk,” he snaps, shaking his head to clear it.

The officer doesn’t quite laugh at him, but it looks like a struggle to hold it in. “Okay, sure, tough guy. Squad car’s this way.” She strides away, her non-concussed head held high, and the noisy clicking of her heeled boots drills straight into Sol’s skull, sounding much louder in his bruised brain than it probably is.

In his irritation he shoves Kent’s offer of a steadying hand away a little harder than he means to, and Kent winces away like he thinks Sol might hit him. Sol immediately feels guilty, but there’s no way to take it back, so he just stomps after the police lady, and Kent falls back to make sure Shawn doesn’t fall over, instead.

“You can call me Officer Santos, by the way,” she tells Sol over her shoulder. “I think that’s a couple steps up from ‘lady,’ don’t you?”

Sol grumbles at her.

It’s fucking freezing outside, but the fresh air feels good against Sol’s face anyway— the MRI machine had been so damn closed in, and he’d started sweating all over, and while he doesn’t feel clean and he aches all over, at least the icy wind snaps a little bit of clarity back into his poor overheated brain. 

Then he sees the squad car, and cringes a little. “You’re— not gonna let one of us sit up front, are you? he asks Officer Santos halfheartedly.

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” she says cheerfully. “My backup’s already in the driver’s seat. Back seat’s not really meant for three people, but you kids’ll fit just fine if you get a little cozy, don’t worry about it.”

She grins at him, and then practically skips over to the passenger’s side. Sol grinds his teeth.

Sol turns back to glare at Shawn, who has a hand clamped over his mouth, and then at Kent, who seems to be half holding him up, although his face is very pale. Shawn’s shoulder is resting against Kent’s collarbone, and Sol can’t keep in a sympathetic wince before he schools his features back into a glare. “You’re sitting in the middle,” he snaps at Kent. “If anybody gets puked on, it ain’t gonna be me.” He slides into the driver’s side before either of them can protest.

It takes some doing to actually get Shawn in the car, and by the time everybody is seated and buckled in, Sol and Kent are pressed together from shoulder to hip. His head starting to spin a little, Sol notes that Kent has nice thighs— slender, but with more muscle definition than he saw from far away. Sol wonders dizzily if he works out.

Shawn, who seems to be sweating king of a lot, rests his head against the window and goes immediately to sleep. Sol kind of envies him.

Officer Santos’s “backup” turns out to be a twenty-something man with shaggy hair and a carefully cultivated smattering of stubble across his chin. Sol sees that the driver very briefly reaches for Officer Santos’s hand once she’s slid into her seat, but elects not to comment.

Kent looks around at the cramped interior of of the squad car with academic interest, and Sol rolls his eyes at him. “What, you’ve never seen the back of a police car?”

That earns him a quizzical look not just from Kent but from Officer Santos, too, and he immediately regrets saying it.

“Uh— no, never,” Kent says, but thankfully doesn’t ask any of the dozen questions written all over his dumb pretty bruised-up face. Instead he reaches forward and taps against the plexiglass divider between the back seat and the front, like the one in a taxi. The little sliding glass door stands open. “What’s this for?”

“It’s bulletproof, in case you guys turn out to be violent killers,” Officer Santos says brightly.

“Soundproof, too,” the driver pipes up. “For when we have to take noisy drunks back to the station.

Kent laughs, and the sound is awkward and strained. “Oh.”

Officer Santos elbows the driver in the ribs. “Come on, backup. Let’s get these kids back to the station so we can all go to bed.”

He laughs, and as soon as he starts the car, Officer Santos dives for the radio knob. Screaming metal guitars fill the cab, but the noise dills into Sol’s temples with far too much force for him to enjoy it even a little. He throws his hands over his ears. “Jesus!”

“I agree,” the driver says, grinning, and reaches for the radio himself.

If anything, the candy-coated pop he selects is even worse, especially because he grins widely and starts singing along. Sol’s head hurts entirely too much for him to judge whether or not the driver is any good. “Christ, will you shut up?”

When Officer Santos yanks the radio back to the metal station, Sol gives up and reaches forward around Kent to slam the sliding door in the divider closed, and although the sound doesn’t entirely cut off, it at least dies down to a bearable drone. Sinking back into his seat, Sol heaves a relieved sigh, mostly for the sake of his own pounding headache, but also because even in his sleep Shawn looks fucking exhausted, sweat visible on his forehead even from Sol’s seat.

Sol rests his head against the pleasantly freezing glass of his own window and basks in the silence for a second. In fact, he makes it a respectable forty seconds before he can’t resist shooting Kent a sideways glance.

The blond is playing with the bandage above his eye, and looking deeply uncomfortable. Sol frowns at him.

“You know,” Sol says abruptly, and doesn’t stop when Kent winces at the sound of his voice, “I don’t fucking get you, kid. There’s no way they’d take you to the station if you’d called him and had him pick you up. You’ve gotta be fucking loaded, right?”

Kent’s blue eyes slide over to Sol’s face, and then he looks down at his hands, smiling unhappily. “I’m not actually sure I am ‘loaded’ anymore. He may have actually disinherited me this time.”

“What, for— “ Winking at me? Sol doesn’t say. “What’d you do?”

Kent’s answering huff of laughter is pathetic enough that Sol almost doesn’t hear it over the hum of the car around them and the faint pounding of bass from the front seat. “Uh, I dunno. Something stupid, I guess,” he says softly, and twists his hands together.

For a second, his sleeve shifts up and Sol catches a fast glimpse of a single, deep scar on his left wrist, but he tugs it back down so fast Sol can’t be entirely sure.

There’s a very awkward silence. Sol wonders if Kent knows he’s seen it. Probably not.

“It’s like a twenty minute ride to the station, man,” Sol says, when he doesn’t think he can take it anymore. “Elaborate, dammit.”

Kent winces a little and shifts in his seat, poking at the thin scar on his forehead in a way that seems unconscious. “Uh, not that it’s any of your business, but I— broke up with my girlfriend.”

Sol blinks, and waits for him to go on. He doesn’t.

“What the fuck’s that got to do with you dad?” he asks blankly, and Kent laughs and looks away, really scrubbing at his scar now in a way that looks like it should be painful.

“Uh, well, I say girlfriend but I guess the real word is fiance,” he says, fidgeting, and that pulls Sol right up short again.

“Huh? How old are you, man?”

Kent laughs again, looking everywhere but at Sol’s face. “I’ll be twenty this May,” he mumbles. “Sophie and I grew up together, and I think my father kind of decided I’d marry her when we were, like, nine. Her dad’s a business associate.”

“He what? What year is this?” Sol says blankly. “Who the hell does that?”

“My father does, I guess,” Kent says, and the way he says “father” reminds Sol of things he doesn’t really want to think about. Damn, he’s really going to town on that scar of his. Sol’s surprised he hasn’t just torn it right back open.

“So why’d you break up with her, then?” Sol says, because goddammit that’s enough with the awkward pauses. “Because you’re gay?”

Kent actually splutters at that one, and actually looks Sol in the eye for the first time in the whole damn car ride. He also colors prettily. Sol feels weirdly pleased with himself. “Uh,” Kent says, and then looks away, flushing. “Um… no, actually. Or not… entirely, anyway.” Oh, god, now he’s digging his nails against his scar. “I’m not really sure why I did it, exactly. I think maybe I just wanted— I wanted— “

Sol one hundred person does not mean to dart his hand up and wrap it around Kent’s and after he’s done it his brain catches up with him and they both freeze and sit there stock still for at least ten seconds, Sol’s bandaged fingers all tangled up with Kent’s.

Finally Sol drops their twined-together hands to the tiny space on the seat between his right leg and Kent’s left one, even though half of his brain is screaming at him to let go of the guy’s hand oh god.

“Fucking quit that before you tear your fucking face open, okay? Forget it, I’m sorry I asked.”

Kent is staring down at his hand, which is still trapped beneath Sol’s, and wow, he is red all the way down to his broken collarbone.

Sol stares down at their hands too, and is feeling his own face start to flush when he’s saved by Shawn apparently coughing up one of his lungs. They both jump like they’ve been shot, and Kent snatches his band back before turning to touch Shawn’s shoulder with admirable care.

“Hey, you alright?” Kent asks him, and Shawn, shaking with chest-deep coughs, shakes his head.

“Oh man,” he says faintly. “Dude. I feel like absolute shit right now.”

[clarketomylexa]

the holiday, chapter two

“I get it,” Lexa huffs when she is able to reclaim her breath, “no strings.”

“No strings,” Clarke parrots, assessing the sound of it in her mouth.

The weight of her coat falls off of her shoulders and the world twists.

She finds herself half-dressed on the couch an hour later, button popped and hands groping uselessly for purchase on the cushions. Her cheeks are flushed and her breathing heavy—she is sure every passer-by in a five mile radius knows what they are doing but she can’t bring herself to care.

read on ao3

The morning comes as a surprise.

Not in the sense that Clarke hadn’t expected to wake up—although with the amount of red wine she consumed it’s a wonder she isn’t comatose in a ditch—but in the sense that she hadn’t expected to wake up next to a very real, very naked Lexa.

She sits up, holding the sheet over her bare chest as she surveys the damage. There are clothes on the floor, a sea of bras and panties, her plaid pyjama pants and her bedmate’s shirt she barely remembers taking off. The quilt seems to have gone a similar way despite the draft that cools the small bedroom to freezing and more mortifying still, Fish sits in the doorway, head cocked like he knows what has gone on and a look in his eyes that dares Clarke to tell him otherwise.

She frowns. “What are you looking at?” she hisses.

Whining, he retreats downstairs in hope for breakfast and Clarke nods her head at a battle won.

The night is returning in fits and starts. Flashes of red wine and make shift karaoke, soap operas and Lexa’s late-night visit and she wills herself not to cringe at the absolute absurdity of it all. It was all too easy to be bold and empowered running on jet-lag, four glasses of wine and the sting of what Finn did to her snapping at her heels, but the cold light of morning tends to lend a new perspective to things.

She looks at Lexa stretched out over the bare mattress, a sheet draped over the dip of her spine and pinches herself when the trickle of heat begins to make itself known in the pit of her stomach again.

Now isn’t the time.

Instead, she slips her legs out of bed, willing the mattress not to creak as she eases herself off of it and goes in search of something to wear. Her suitcase peeks out from beneath the bed and Clarke takes the first sweater that she finds as she fumbles blindly around for the contents, slipping it over her head and retreating downstairs.

The living room, too, is a map of the night before.

Her cardigan, t-shirt and Lexa’s jeans have found a home on the rug and cold tea sits stagnant in the kitchen. She pads, toes curling, across the cold wooden floors to empty it out and wash the residue away with water from the faucet that takes a minute to heat up—an unfortunate by-product of living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, Clarke suspects.

It snowed in the night. The windows are patterned with flowers of frost and beyond that, a fresh layer sits in the field like a blanket lending a kind of crispness to the air that takes Clarkes breath away. She has never felt so removed from the dry heat and ever-present anxieties of LA in her life. She is seriously considering donning a coat and boots and running out into the yard like a kid on Christmas day when a phone vibrates somewhere in the depths of the cottage and she stills.

Fish weaves his way between her bare legs in an adamant bid for food and Clarke finds her phone beneath the her cardigan.

[Text from: Raven 11:46 PM 15/12] What’s the number for the pool boy? The filter is fucked again and Anya wants to use it

[Text from: Raven 11:58 PM 15/12] ?

[Text from: Raven 12:09 AM 16/12] Never mind I found it

[Text from: Raven 12:34 AM 16/12] You need to de-clutter once you get back your office is a mess

[Text from: Raven 3:55 AM 16/12] Call me when you get this.

Clarke presses the phone to her hair, waiting on the dialling tone and roots around in the cupboard beneath the sink for the dog food. She drags the bag onto the kitchen floor and uncurls the top.

“You’re alive,” Raven drawls.

Clarke groans, pulling Fish’s dish out of the corner with her toe and leaning over to fill it up with her phone pinched between her shoulder and her ear. Everything feels exponentially hard this morning. “I wish I wasn’t,” she commiserates.

“Rough night?” Raven clucks in sympathy.

“Eventful,” Clarke corrects, “it’s past midnight, why are you up?”

Raven is silent for a time and Clarke grows suspicious. “Impromptu movie night,” she says, carefully. “And what about you? You didn’t return my texts I was about to call nine-one-one.”

“Nine-nine-nine,” Clarke tells her absently. It was one of the few things she researched about England before mindlessly agreeing to move for half a month.

“Semantics,” Raven agrees to disagree. Fish yelps as Clarke holds him bag from his bowl with a clumsy leg. “Is someone there with you?”

“Not unless you count a Labrador.”

Raven makes a noise. “I don’t.”

Somewhere in the depths of the cottage a floorboard creaks and Clarke cranes her neck around the corner of the kitchen to make sure Lexa hasn’t emerged. “Actually, I did have one visitor.”

“Do tell.”

“Anya’s sister stopped by last night.”

“Lexa?”

Clarke frowns. “You know her.”

“Only what Anya’s said about her.”

“Is there something you should be telling me about Anya?” Clarke lets out a low whistle, pulling out a chair from the table and tucking her feet up onto the edge of it.

“Nothing noteworthy,” Raven insists. “But we weren’t talking about me. Lexa stopped by last night?”

Clarke nods, sinking her chin onto her knees as she watches Fish eat and starts thinking about a breakfast of her own. She banishes the first lewd thought that pops into her head at that—the image of Lexa strewn over the small bed upstairs—and turns her mind to what she might find in the fridge. “She was on her way back from the pub,” the foreign word tastes strange on her lips, “and didn’t want to drive home.”

“So?”

“So, we talked,” Clarke replies but it sounds ridiculous even saying it and she prepares herself for the inquisition.

Raven lets out a squeal. “You slept with her?”

“Sort of,” Clarke winces, raking a hand through her hair.

“What do you mean sort of? Did she fall into your bed during climax?”

Clarke ignores the hot flush of panic that shoots straight down her spine at the wording. Somehow, she thought, not being able to remember the specifics made it easier to comprehend but now, her cheeks are red and her gut twists. Fish stares at her from across the kitchen and she narrows her eyes back at him.

It’s stupid, but suddenly, she regrets forgetting to close the bedroom door last night because if push comes to shove Clarke is almost sure the dog will use what he witnessed against her.

“It just happened,” she stresses to Raven, “like spontaneous combustion, or a heart attack.”

“So it wasn’t good.”

“No,” Clarke fists her hands in her hair, painfully aware of the mixed messages she is sending; no one could ever accuse her of being a wordsmith. “I mean yes,” she corrects herself hastily, “it was amazing. I just—”  

“Hey, no judgement here,” Raven assures her with an audible grin. “Rebounding is better than the alternative,” she gives a pointed emphasis on ‘alternative’ as if to remind Clarke of what she found herself doing before Lexa knocked on the door. “I just didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I have plenty of it in me!” Clarke argues, blanching at the implication of her words. “I’m plenty capable of casual sex,” she amends in a hiss.

A grainy rendition of ‘Walking On Sunshine’ blares somewhere in the living room and Clarke frowns, going in search of it. She finds Lexa’s phone in her coat pocket—an honest to God flip phone that makes Clarke wonder what century this town is trapped in—and frowns at the name ‘Madison’ printed in bold letters on the square screen at the front of it. It rings out and the screen goes blank save for the emoticon in the corner that indicates two missed calls.

“Raven, I have to go.”

“Yeah you do,” Raven trills happily, “go get ‘em tiger.”

Rolling her eyes, Clarke ends the call.

She finds herself standing there, bare-legged and in her cashmere sweater, fifteen minutes later, the phone tucked under her chin as she contemplates. In the crisp light of day, forty-eight hours is arguably too soon for a rebound. Not even arguably, just straight up definitely too soon. Especially, it seems, if Lexa does make a habit of turning up at unwitting girls doorsteps at night and flashing her smile.  ‘Madison’ hasn’t called again but the thought there is a Madison makes her feel queasy. She’s been the butt of an affair once—she still is one—there is no way she is going to perpetuate the cycle by being the other woman.

She slips the phone back into Lexa’s coat pocket as its owner makes an appearance, beautifully tousled and suitably bashful in only her button down as she pulls her cable-knit sweater over her head and frees her hair. She finds her jeans abandoned in the living room and Clarke averts her eyes form the uncoordinated dance it takes to put then back on—if she wasn’t so apprehensive about all of this she would find it endearing but as it is she’s floundering.

She meets Lexa’s eyes with an awkward smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Lexa greets ruefully. She reaches for her coat and Clarke’s heart lurches at the thought of her phone but when she pulls her hand out of her pocket it is with a delicate grip on a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses that she opens and slips on, blinking owlishly. “I seem to have misplaced my contacts,” she explains. The unspoken ‘last night’ hangs thickly in the air and Clarke’s cheeks go ruddy as she turns her attention to the beat-up coffee machine she has no clue how to work, cursing herself for not having the foresight to put on pants. Like most things in the cottage, Anya’s instructions on how to work the coffee machine were something resembling ‘if it sticks, rattle it until it works’ but on the third try, Clarke is sure that if she rattles the contraption any more it will come apart in her hands completely.

Exasperated and painfully out of her element, she gives up.

“We have tea,” she offers weakly. It’s both a call back to last night and a peace treaty.

Not that she thinks her and Lexa are warring.

Bumbling around the battlefield wondering which way is up is probably more apt but she doesn’t think Lexa is here to hear about her similes. Or is it a metaphor? Honestly, Clarke thinks, she is an artist and not a writer for a very good reason.

“It’s a metaphor.”

Clarke feels her stomach evacuate her body, a hot flash of panic coursing through her. In the whole confusion of the morning she wouldn’t put it past herself to have recounted her entire string of consciousness out loud. “What?”

“Tea is a metaphor for life,” Lexa explains hastily, smiling beneath the high neckline of her cable-knit. “It’s a poem by Thich Nhat Hanh. I read it at university. My sister and I have a sort of joke about it,” she smiles and does a movement with her hands that Clarke can only translate to nervous energy. “‘You must be completely awake in the present to enjoy the tea’,” she quotes. “Sort of how you have to be immersed in the present to enjoy life.”

Clarke smiles, about to take the kettle off the cradle because she is neither completely awake nor in the present and as such, will not being enjoying her tea no matter how hard she tries. Lexa folds herself awkwardly into a chair at the kitchen table and Clarke roots around in the cupboard she noted last night contained the mugs.

“Where did you study?”

Lexa smiles. “Cambridge,” she admits fondly, “for both my undergraduate degree and my masters.”

Clarke’s eyes widen as she turns, “Cambridge?”

“Yes,” Lexa nods bashfully before ‘Walking On Sunshine’ invades the stagnant silence of the kitchen once again and she ducks into the entryway to check who the caller is and silence in before returning, phone in hand. The look on her face seems to say ‘we need to talk’ and ‘I’m sorry’ without actually saying anything at all. Stomach twisting, Clarke jumps in before she can open her mouth to explain.

“I know what you’re going to say.”

Lexa pauses, brow contorting. “You do?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods decisively. “It was a one-time thing. You’re completely off the hook. Never has to happen again,” she waves her hands in emphasis and watches Lexa’s face fall. “Not that it wasn’t good!” she hastens to clarify. “Because it was,” her cheeks go red, “meeting you I mean,” she frowns at the words coming out of her own mouth and at the fact she doesn’t seem to be in control of them anymore. “Meeting you was good. I enjoyed your company. You may be,” she directs an awkward arm to the door, “on your way.” Lexa blinks at her unmoving. “Unless you don’t want to be,” Clarke amends, hitting herself, “in which case you’re more than welcome to stay and watch me butcher your national drink just as well as I just butchered that sentence. And that’s a metaphor.”

Lexa smiles and it is infectious.

“It’s a simile actually.”

Clarke shakes her head, grinning in disbelief as Lexa accepts the invitation to stay with as much grace as if she hadn’t been told that sex between them ‘never has to happen again’ and goes to the fridge to fetch the milk as Clarke pulls the tea bags out of the tin.

“For the record, it was good meeting you too,” Lexa teases as the wait for the kettle to sing. “Lovely, in fact.”

Clarke feels the familiarity of their banter from last night trickle into her bones and she smiles, biting her lip. “I’m glad you remember it,” she quips, leaning past Lexa for the sugar. She catches a whiff of perfume that is simultaneously soft and somehow the strongest scent Clarke thinks she has ever smelt—which is a lot considering Finn used to plaster on Axe after going to the gym like it was going out of fashion—and she has to steady herself.

Lexa guffaws. “I wasn’t drunk,” she shakes her head like the thought is abhorrent.

“Okay,” Clarke nods, feigning a contemplating look, “you weren’t,” she brings her fingers to her chin. “Was that before or after you threatened to ‘take a leak’ on the porch?”

Lexa averts her eyes, cheeks colouring a brilliant shade of red like they did when Clarke had flung open the front door to find her crossing her legs in the half-light of the porch at eleven p.m. and Clarke loves it. In fact, if she weren’t so caught up in the intricacies of the morning she would make it her mission to elicit as many of those reactions as possible.

“It wasn’t my finest moment,” Lexa admits readily. She pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger and seems to be contemplating something. Clarke doesn’t push. When the kettle whines she pulls it off its cradle—a practiced move now—and pours into the waiting mugs, watching the tea bag steep. She thinks she could get used to the simplicity of the process.

When they are both leaning against the kitchen counter, cradling steaming mugs between their palms, Clarke takes a moment to take stock of what she knows. She is standing bare legged in a kitchen eight thousand miles away from LA with a dog that isn’t hers and a woman who definitely isn’t. Lexa likes tea, went to Cambridge and casually quotes poems by Vietnamese monks. Clarke can barely recite her Starbucks order and dropped out of medical school to pursue her art career.

It would have been an endearing meet-cute if not for the elephant in the room.

“Thank you, again, for letting me stay,” Lexa speaks to the thick silence.

Clarke shakes her head. “It was nothing.”

Lexa shrugs. Her face is tilted into her mug so that Clarke can’t read her expression but she offers a lazy shrug of her shoulders. “I’m not sure it was nothing,” she laughs.

Clarke has to agree with that.

Lexa is anything but nothing.

Clarke curls her fingers around the hot ceramic of her mug and lets the bitter taste of tea with not enough sugar settle on her tongue. She doesn’t even know if she likes it or if she is just drinking it because it is there and warm. When she is finished, Lexa sets her mug down on the counter.

“Listen,” she starts, “I should go.”

“No. Yeah,” Clarke nods, “of course.” Her stomach wobbles and threatens to bottom out on her.

Lexa goes to find her coat and slips it on, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists. She pulls her boots on next and arranges her hair into a shape that is presentable on the speckled mirror so that she looks like a version of herself that is altogether rougher around the edges than the one that entered last night. Beautifully tousled, Clarke can’t afford to think. Her cheeks are ruddy and her hair stays tucked beneath her collar, her glasses offering a far homier alternative to the contacts that Clarke is sure are lost forever. She pauses with one hand on the door handle, brow furrowed.

“I know this was a ‘one time thing’,” she posits, intentions far from malicious but Clarke flushes at hearing her own words being used against her. “But if you do want a drink,” she plays with the hem of her sweater, “or dinner. I’m a phone call away.” Her words come out thickly and Clarke can’t help but think she was bolder under the guise of alcohol too.

“Something uncomplicated,” Clarke nods, remembering.

Lexa offers her a bashful smile.

[Text to: Octavia 8:09 AM 15/12] Can you forward me the information for my return flight?

[Text from: Octavia 8:13 AM 15/12] Was the sex that bad?

[Text to: Octavia 8:14 AM 15/12] Fuck you

[Text to: Octavia 8:14 AM 15/12] What did Raven tell you?

[Text from: Octavia 8:15 AM 15/12] That you rebounded with the first English girl who turned up on your doorstep.

Clarke has the flight information an hour later and no idea what to do with it.

As she sees it, she has two options: return to LA with her tail between the legs driven by the same force that saw her fleeing to England twenty-four hours earlier or she could stay and see this through. The trouble is, both sound like a viable option right now.

She sits with her knees to her chest, socked feet tucked onto the edge of the couch and phone in hand as if praying for a sign or divine intervention.

Lexa texts some time during her ruminations. Clarke isn’t even sure when they exchanged numbers but Lexa pops up in her messages like a contact she has had for years with an offer to meet at the pub at eight, then follows up a moment later with an address and a string of works that equate to ‘I hope I’m not overstepping’ and Clarke can just picture her, flushed faced beneath the thick frames of her glasses

Her cheeks heat at the thought alone but by seven o’clock her suitcase is packed neatly by the door. It’s the first hurdle of many but she hopes that the sight of it will give her the strength to book a flight and call a cab.

It doesn’t.

She stares at blankly instead, desperately rooting for some sort of solace on the matter. She is dressed for a flight in jeans, a sweater her coat and boots, her scarf wrapped around her neck so tightly it sends a hot flush up her cheeks but she can’t bring herself to put one foot in front of the other and so she is stuck.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Fish stares at her expectantly from the rug in the living room, head cocked in challenge and she purses her lips at him. He wines.

“Well what would you do?”

He barks, then rests his head on his paws and Clarke becomes acutely aware that she is talking to an animal. She slumps down onto the couch in miserable consideration and flings her head against the headrest to stare at the discoloured ceiling.

[Text from: Lexa 7:57 PM 15/12] Just wondering if we’re still on?

Her phone startles her out of her minor crisis and she fumbles for it blindly between the cushions of the couch, letting her head—throbbing with a headache by now—fall into the cradle of her hands. She squints at the offending light of the illuminated screen, reads the messes three times over as if the meaning will change into something more easy to reply to. Short of typing ‘I don’t know’ Clarke is lost.

Five minutes later it is clear she isn’t leaving.

She has had twelve hours to stew in the possibility of booking a flight back to LA like it was a choice that was hers to make when she knows full well that Lexa made it for her when she turned up on her doorstep last night.

[Text to: Lexa 8:02 PM 15/12] Running late. See you there.

She leaves Fish’s dinner out, squatting on the floor in front of his bowl to scratch behind his ears and make him ‘promise not to tell’ before she slips the front door key onto her key-ring and leaves for town.

It gets dark quickly here; she watched the sun set over the ridge of the paddock three hours ago but she is still shocked at the intensity of the darkness that greets her beyond the yellow-gold halo of the porch lamp. It’s thick and heavy, a kind that is non-existent in LA with its light pollution and obnoxiousness and strangely calming in the way it blankets the mile or so of countryside between the cottage and the pub, leaving no room for doubt or uncertainty as she picks her way from streetlight to streetlight.

By the time she rounds the bend of main street to see a squat, brick building in the middle of a block of shops, her cheeks are chapped and her toes ache in the tips of her boots but she tamps down the feeling regardless. The warm fug of the pub is a welcome change and she pauses for a moment, just inside the door to allow her body to adjust. It’s dim inside, the walls are dark-panelled wood and the lighting is low. If she peers close enough at the row of men in tweed jackets hunched over their tumblers at the bar she can almost imagine it as a scene out of the period novels Bellamy spends days stuck into, but for the garish beer mats tacked to the walls in neat rows.  A Union Jack flutters gracelessly from the ceiling, in the path of the bulky heating unit that spews out a fog of warm, stale air and recycled cigarette smoke every few minutes. Nose wrinkling, Clarke side steps to avoid it and survey the din of the space for Lexa’s familiar frame.

A desperate coil of panic takes root in her spine a minute later when she can’t find her. She is struck with the realisation that there is nothing about Lexa that is inherently ‘familiar’, hell, she is surprised she can remember what she looks like through all the haziness of last night. She thinks that, maybe, this was the wrong choice after all.

“Clarke.”

Craning her neck, Clarke tries not to be overcome with relief as she sees Lexa sliding out of a leather booth in the corner with a private smile. Clarke ducks her head at the kindly man who has been asking if she needs to help and fleas over to Lexa, accepting the hug she offers and sliding into the seat opposite her.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly, unwinding her scarf from her neck. She suddenly feels flushed and out of her depths, her coat can’t come off fast enough when she tugs at the fastenings.

Lexa is in a thick, tweedy turtleneck, skinny jeans and to Clarke’s surprise, her glasses—Clarke thought she would have replaced them with contacts the minute she got home this morning but here she is, fiddling with the tortoiseshell frames like the slow show of her fingers isn’t driving Clarke insane.

“If I’m being honest,” she starts, cheeks ruddy, “I started to wonder if you were coming at all.”

“I was considering my options,” Clarke smiles coyly, trying to regain some semblance of the allure she is sure was shattered after her utter lack of ‘playing it cool’ this morning.

“I see,” Lexa smiles with a demure duck of her head. She lets her fingers wander over the laminate encased menu, perusing options like ‘cornish pasties’, fish and chips and tap beer, all of which seem so far removed from LA life it throws Clarke into a state of culture shock. “Am I allowed to say I’m glad you chose me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, it was you or Coronation Street,” Clarke admits, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

She winces at herself and hopes Lexa understands via osmosis.

“I’ll do my best not to let it go to my head.”

Lexa walks her home.

Clarke isn’t entirely sure it isn’t another excuse not to drive home after a beer and a half but she seems altogether more coherent than last night. If anything, Clarke is riding a stronger buzz than her—her toes and fingers are pleasantly warm and her mind feels sticky, as if she is in the realm of making bad decisions.

They talk about mindless things; Lexa’s aversion to livestock despite living in the middle of nowhere and Clarke’s choice to drop out of medical school. In her loose-lipped haze she delivers an entire history of her relationship with her mother she is sure she will live to regret come morning, but Lexa, as sweet as she is, nods religiously, hands tucked into her pockets as she steers them over the unseen path. The heel of Clarke’s boot hooks itself into a crack in the concrete and Lexa nudges Clarke upright with her elbow.

When they stop outside the front gate, Clarke squints at Lexa in the din glow of the kitchen light seeping out from between the curtains Clarke is thankful she has drawn, trying to pick out familiarity in the half-light. Her jaw is locked so that a shadow falls handsomely down the ridge of her cheeks and Clarke feels bold enough to stroke a shaking finger down the line it forms.

Lexa is still.

“What?” Clarke giggles as they stand, mirroring each other, “do you only kiss on the first date?”

Lexa has the good sense to took mortified and Clarke finds it within her to frown.

“Listen, Clarke,” Lexa says. Her voice is low and it is enough to sober Clarke to the bone. She furrows her brow as if the solitary motion of it will drain the alcohol from her veins. “I need to apologise. My behaviour last night…” she brings a palm up to rub the back of her neck, pulling the lip of her sweater down over her clavicle in a way that makes Clarke’s stomach flip. “My behaviour was unacceptable and I would very much like for you to know that it won’t happen again.”

Her words are so unbearably earnest that the restless energy in Clarke can hardly stand it. She reaches up on her toes to tentatively slide her arms around her neck.

“What if,” she posits softly, “I want it to.”

Lexa is close enough to her that Clarke can feel it when her breath hitches. It’s a tiny movement, one that sends the cavity of her chest collapsing inwards and a little huff of air cascading over Clarke’s cheeks. Lexa arches her neck into the press of Clarke’s palm and drifts closer.

“Then I would say, that that would be acceptable.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The gate squeals in protest as they stumble over the threshold but between the fumble of numb fingers in her pocket for the front door key and the raw heat of Lexa’s hands traversing the length of her spine beneath her coverings, Clarke can’t bring herself to notice.

She kicks the door closed behind her, panting wildly for breath. Lexa slips her fingers beneath the collar of Clarke’s coat and Clarke moans into the graze of finger son the nape of her neck. It feels like ten volts to the chest and she is left reeling with the intensity of it.

“Wait,” she chokes, stilling Lexa by the shoulders. “I can’t do this.”

Lexa recoils las if she has been burned and Clarke chases her, fingers digging desperately into the lapels of her coat. “No,” she breathes into the space between them, “not like that.” She shakes her head dumbly and wishes words into her mouth that she can’t seem to find. Her mouth tastes like tap beer and over salted fish and chips and the world spins a little beneath her feet. “I can’t be in a relationship. My ex…he blindsided me.” Fingers antsy, she hooks them into Lexa’s jaw and kisses her hotly.

“I get it,” Lexa huffs when she is able to reclaim her breath, “no strings.”

“No strings,” Clarke parrots, assessing the sound of it in her mouth.

The weight of her coat falls off of her shoulders and the world twists.

She finds herself half-dressed on the couch an hour later, jean button popped and hands groping uselessly for purchase on the cushions. Her cheeks are flushed and her breathing heavy—she is sure every passer-by in a five mile radius knows what they are doing but she can’t bring herself to care.

Lexa’s fingers are heavenly.

Her mouth even more so.

She floats, angel-like above her, drenched in lamp light so that when the hot, aching thing snaps in the pit of her stomach, Clarke thinks she has ascended. Blindly, she fumbles for the cool of Lexa’s hand and interlocks their fingers, desperately seeking something that will keep her from drifting off into the atmosphere.

She drags Lexa up her body, head spinning at the easy slide of skin on skin, hair tickling her neck and sending a spray of goose bumps over her chest.

“Feel free to do that again,” she urges Lexa to tuck herself into the nook between her body and the arm of the couch.

Lexa huffs a tiny breath of laughter, “touché,” she piques a weary brow.

She takes a moment to sooth the burgeoning bruises littering Clarke’s neck with reverent lips, then rests her forehead against Clarke’s.

“Hey,” she hums in drawn out appreciation as Clarke traces her fingers in loose, lazy figure-eights over the dip of her chest. One of the best things about Lexa, apart from her accent the drunk half of her brain firmly decides, is how vocal she is. If Clarke could bottle all of the delicious noises she has earned over the course of the past hour she would have an arsenal on her hands.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to know that you’re not missing out on anything.” Lexa twists to face her where she lays, brows poised into a thoughtful frown. “Relationship wise, I mean.” She cards a hand through her hair and Clarke fixates blindly on the damp curls at her hairline. “My life is crazy, I—”

“You don’t need to explain,” Clarke hushes her, ignoring the way her stomach swoops and dips.

Lexa ducks her head into a smile that Clarke doesn’t want to think is relieved. The memory of Madison grows like a stain on her subconscious that she hurries madly to blog away but to no avail—her mind wanders.

How many other girls has Lexa given the same speech to?

How many other Madisons?

Lexa tugs slowly on her bottom lip and Clarke shoves the thought of betrayal away with heavy hands, refusing to listen.

[weelittleweasley]

City Girl Part Two | Archie x Reader

Prompt: After telling Betty and Veronica about your crush on Archie Andrews, you know that the situation has been somewhat relieved, but intensified at the same time. You knew that you weren’t ready for a relationship, nor were you qualified to be in one, even though that’s what Archie wanted. Hopefully, you can find a way to make things work before things begin to fall apart.

                                                                                                                         Tom O’Daly, Alex Bryan, Carter Owens, Joe Santiago, Louis Durmont, Nate Harrison, Kyle Argenzio—a few from the list that has been accumulating since eighth grade. All of those boys attached to your name had the privilege of hooking up with you. Nothing more, nothing less. New York is a fast pace city. You needed to keep up with it all whether it was school, work, family, friends, and especially boys. You couldn’t have a boyfriend tie you down where there was so much happening.

But now that you’ve moved to Riverdale, is it time for you to think about slowing down and finding that “special someone?” The idea was foreign to you. How do you know if someone was boyfriend material? You couldn’t just ask around like you did with guys you would hook up with. Usually, you’d go to your friends and ask them if they heard if any guy was available to hook up with and if there was you’d ask them if he was any good or if it wasn’t worth it. It’s not like you could go up to Veronica and say “Oh, by the way, is Archie good boyfriend material? Is he good in bed? Thanks, bye!” That was just against your morals.

Whatever was going to happen, you needed to make sure you tackled to situation appropriately and effectively.

The gang and you were hanging out at Archie’s. His dad was away in Chicago to finalize the legal papers of the divorce, so you all came over in hopes to raise Archie’s spirits. It was nice just to hang out all together with no one to impress, just talking and drinking dollar cola out of a can. “Thanks for coming over, guys. You really didn’t have to. I’d be fine with just myself and Vegas,” Archie tries to reason as all of the friends smile.

“Arch, please. We wanted to come over and hang with you. We are your friends,” Betty jokes, softly touching his shoulder as Archie softly smiles, whispering a thanks under his breath. “This has been fun, but if I’m not home by midnight, the Momster is gonna come after me.”

Jug stands up, following Betty’s lead. “I’ll walk you home,” he says before giving Archie a warm embrace. Slowly, everyone started to file out before it was just you, Archie, and Veronica. The air was so awkward it made you wanna cringe.

“Do you know when your dad gets home?” Veronica asks in an attempt to lighten up the atmosphere.

“Sunday,” Arch replies. “I got two days left to myself before order returns.” His comments makes you two girls lightly laugh. “Maybe, I should host a party!” Archie says, causing Veronica to roll her eyes and laugh as you remain confused.

Veronica says, “Oh, God. Don’t even joke about that. Archie made an attempt to throw a small party for Juggie’s birthday, inner circle only. Mind you, Jug hates his birthday already. And then, Cheryl aka Satan’s incarnate decided to announce to the whole school that it was an open house and that was havoc took over.” Archie scratches the back of his neck, obviously guilty. “One of the worst parties ever.”

“Well, hopefully not the worst night ever,” Archie tries to reason, again you remaining confused. “The second half of the night was quite memorable for me. What about you, V?” he asks.

Veronica’s face growers paler as Archie’s eyes search for an answer. Something. Anything. You knew that that night must have been a special night for them. They must have gotten together that night. Your heart sinks a little bit and your mouth becomes dry. Veronica notices the concern wiped across your face and knows it’s time for her to leave. “Um, you know what? I have to head home, actually. I just remembered my dad needed another signature for the company. I’ll just show myself out. (Y/N), call me when you get home please,” V says, searching your face for some clarity. You give her a small nod and she exits, relieved that you aren’t angry with her.

And then it was just you and Archie. “Let me help you clean up,” you start before Archie can say anything you don’t want to hear.

“(Y/N), please. Don’t be silly. It’s only a few cans of soda and the majority of them are from Jughead. He’ll be back soon from walking Betty over to next door. The only reason he’s late is because they’re most likely making out,” he teases as he grabs the empty bowls of chips, scattered throughout his living room area.

You toss some soda cans in the recycling. “Just like you and V did that night, right?” you say under your breath, not meaning for him to hear it. You close the side door, turning around to see a confused Archie. “What?” he says.

“Nothing. I said nothing,” you smile and wipe your hands on your jeans, getting any soda/chip salt residue off your manicured fingers. “I’ll see you in tomorrow,” you say before making your escape. But Archie grabs both of your arms, stopping you from moving any further.

“(Y/N), I’m not falling for that. You said something about me and Veronica. What did you say?” the red head tries to pry as you gently push him from you, grabbing your phone from the coffee table.

Tucking it into your jean’s pocket, you reply, “Archie, it’s no big deal. I really need to get home now.” Archie grabs your hand, pulling him back to you, his brown as searching yours for answers.

“Tell me or you’re not gonna get the answers to the AP Bio homework!” he tries to joke, but it earns an eye rolls from you. “(Y/N), please. Did I say something?”

You huff at his naïveté and run your fingers through your hair. “Fine. I knew coming here that you and Veronica dated. Fine. Okay. That’s in the past. But the fact that you are trying to see if she still wants you is disgusting, considering the fact you have another girl that has pining for you since you guys have met!” you exclaim in distress.

“Betty and Jughead are dating, (Y/N)! Betty isn’t pining for me!” Archie tells you as you laugh at how oblivious he is.

“Oh my God, you can’t be this idiotic. Archie, it’s me! I like you! I’ve liked you this whole time!” you reveal, basically screaming at this point.

Archie realizes everything that has just been said and he opens his mouth to speak, but words don’t come out. “Really?” he says after what seems like nine years.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, For Christ’s sake,” you puff before grabbing his face and kissing him. You press your lips against his and his arms immediately hold your waist, pulling you close. His lips were more callous than you expected, but it felt so natural to have them on yours. His cologne was that boyish scent—clean, yet musky. His grip on you was tight and warm, making sure that you weren’t going anywhere. It was just you and him in that moment.

Pulling away, you kept your eyes closed, too embarrassed to look at him. Slowly, you peeled your eyes open, looking at his face which had a goofy smile that made you laugh. “Well, I wanted to be the one who kissed you first, but I guess this will do,” he joked before pecking you again.

“So, you don’t like Veronica?” you asked, wanting to hear those words from his mouth.

“No, I don’t. I just got caught up in the moment, you know? I’m sure it’s happened to the best of us,” he says, rubbing your hips with his thumbs. You smile, biting your lip at his comment. “Are you done interrogating me?” he says as you scoff. He laughs and presses his lips to yours, holding each other in his living room. As you softly pulled on his hair, he groans, pushing his lips harder onto yours as you open your mouth for him. He backs you up against the doorframe as you pull on the hem of his shirt.

Before he can pull it off, the door opens to reveal Jughead standing there, taken aback from this moment. “Oh, well. Okay. Well, then. I. Am, uh, gonna go see if Betty, um, needs any help, um, climbing the stairs. I’ll, uh, leave you guys to it,” he says, awkwardly before closing the door and running off. As he does so, you can hear him whisper shout to Betty about what you and Arch are doing.

Two weeks go by and you and Archie are better than ever. You hang out at his house, hook up during off periods and after school, and the best part is that no one cares. Back home, everyone gossips about who is having sex with who and who blew who and who did what. Here, it’s just whatever if you just so happen to hook up with someone. It took some acclimating, but it was an easy transition.

You were in Archie’s bedroom, laying across his bed in his tee as he plucked on his guitar. He groaned in frustration, “What line should follow ‘The silence is deafening?’ Should it be, ‘It’s tearing me apart’ or ‘It’s tearing us apart?’”

Kissing his shoulder blade, you reply “I don’t know. You’re the mini Lennon here.” He laughs and puts down his guitar, looking at you. He kisses you sweetly and says, “I got lucky with you.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?” you say, straddling his lap, planting a kiss on his shoulder, making your way up his neck before kissing his pink lips again.

He chuckles into the lips and grabs your waist, biting his lip. “I got a girlfriend who is not only a smoke show, but is smart and funny. It’s like a three-for-one deal.”

Your heart stops. He used the g-word.

You just sit there, in shock, your eyes slightly widened as Archie laughs. “What, babe?” he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “(Y/N), what?” he says again, concerned this time.

“Girlfriend?” you repeat, with no emotion.

Archie smiles. “Yeah. I mean, we’re together. Right?”

You clear your throat and climb off his lap. “No, yeah, we’re together. But we’re not together together,” you tell him as he tries to pull you back onto his lap.

He’s the confused one now. “Wait, what? (Y/N), I thought you liked me?” he says.

“No, no, no. I do, Arch. I really do,” you say, grabbing his face, kneeling upright as you look down at his face. He breathes a sigh of relief. You then hop off his bed, taking off his shirt, leaving you in a bra and panties as you scurry to find the rest of your clothes. “I just. I didn’t know we were gonna move this quickly. I mean, we kissed. The next thing I know you’re calling me your girlfriend,” you ramble, hoping up and down to put on your jeans.

Archie stands up, looking incredible in just boxers that you have to force yourself not to stare. “Hold on, I thought you wanted to date me. I really like you, (Y/N). And I thought you liked me, too. I thought that this is what we both wanted.”

You straighten your top and look at his face. He looks confused and so sad. The image just breaks your heart. “Archie, I do like you. I like you a lot,” you say, not finished, but he interrupts to anyway.

“Then why don’t you wanna be my girlfriend?” he shouts.

There is a long pause.

Why don’t I wanna be his girlfriend? You think to yourself. (Y/N), the last relationship you were in didn’t end well for the both of you.

You avert your stare from his eyes to outside the window to the world that awaits you. “Because I can’t be in a relationship. Not again. Not ever again.” Before Archie can try to understand what happened, you press one more kiss to his lips. “Bye, Archie. I’ll see you in school.”

And with that, you left his room, his house, leaving a confused teenage boy to himself. You leaving as a crying teen who left behind a potential “special someone.”

[lalka-laski]

Are you afraid of lifts? Yeah I’m terrified at the thought of getting stuck in one. Or something breaking loose and sending it flying. 

Who did you last talk to in person? Is that person attractive? A patient who just walked in. And she is quite beautiful, actually!

Have you ever had a deep, personal conversation with a stranger? Yeah fam, it’s called a bar

On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your own appearance? Why? I am totally the wrong person to ask about this. And my confidence has been zilch lately. (Good thing I have a self-esteem workbook arriving in the mail today...) 

Who was the last person to send you a message on Facebook? When was the last time you saw that person? Lol weirdly enough, it was Glenn. We never use traditional texting with each other because we just find FB messenger easier. (And that’s how we first started conversing anyways so why make the switch?). Last night I was in bed before him & remembered something we had to add to the grocery list so I messaged him in the other room. (If you’re curious, that “something” was chips and dip. I’ve been craving them something fierce lately)

If you decided, at this moment in time, that you were going to make a sandwich, what would you put on it? I recently discovered the delicious joy of putting Italian dressing on sandwiches! I can’t believe it took me 27 years to figure this out! So I’d put a few slices of cheese (almost any will do), lettuce and dressing.

Let’s talk about the person you had your first kiss with. Do you still talk to that person? If so, do you still like them? Would you kiss them again? I actually ran into him last summer and we had a fun chat. We never dated or anything but were always friends, so it was fun to see him!

When was the last time you saw your ex? I saw one of them at a St. Patrick’s Day bar crawl recently

Are you good at controlling your emotions, or do you tend to let them get the better of you? Oh they control me, no doubt. But I’m working on it. Therapy is powerful!

At this moment in time, what do you want the most? I’ve been feeling insecure and just down on myself lately, so I’d love those feelings to dissipate. But again, therapy is powerful for that and I’m getting there. 

How many times have you cried over the person you love/like? Several. But more often than not it’s a happy cry! And the only times I’ve cried “over” him were when we got into little spats and I feared losing him. Ya know, because I’m not used to a healthy relationship where we communicate and resolve our issues instead of just jumping ship. 

How exactly are you feeling right now? Why do you feel the way you do? My stomach doesn’t feel great. It may have something to do with the 3 chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of milk I had right before bed last night but... can’t be too sure :P

What’s the relationship status of the last person that put their arms around you? He’s my soulmate and my future husband. He is my ~boyfriend for the time being although that term makes me cringe a little. Sounds very high school.

Has the last person you held hands with, ever told you that they love you? Multiple times a day 

Is there someone you used to hang out with all the time, and now you don’t anymore? If so, do you ever miss that person? Why do you think your relationship changed?   I have several friends that have drifted throughout the years. Sometimes you just grow up and grow apart. There’s no one I have residual beef with.

Who was the last person you talked to, whose name started with ‘H’? What color are that person’s eyes? I honestly couldn’t tell ya

Who was the last person you talked to, whose name started with ‘M’? How did you meet that person? It was a patient yesterday. And I met her because well, she’s a patient here.

The person you love/like is offered a job in another country. Would you let them go, or try and convince them to stay? I’m not even gonna entertain this question because it’s so implausible. Glenn is way too family-oriented to ever move that far away from home. And I’m grateful for that because so am I. 

Is there anyone you dislike so much, that you actually can’t stand to be around them? Yeah... 

When was the last time you wanted to cry, but didn’t, because you didn’t want to show that you were upset? Why? Shame for my emotions has never been a problem for me. I’m not afraid to cry when I need to.

If you found out that someone had been talking about you behind your back, would you confront them? Probably not

Which do you think is the worst - saying something and then wishing you hadn’t, or not saying something and wishing you had? Probably the former, just because it usually comes with feelings of embarrassment and shame, which I find worse than regret. 

Do you know anyone who seems almost incapable of showing their emotions? Lots of people. And I’ll never understand them.

What are 3 things that are guaranteed to make you smile, or put you in a good mood? Hannah, Samantha, Aubrie. My baby girls. 

When was the last time you saw your grandparents? It’s been several months and it looks like it’ll be several more months thanks to Covid. Not that I see them *that* frequently anyways, it’s still sad. 

Have you ever felt really attracted to someone, but been deterred because you found out they didn’t have a very nice personality? Of course

Have you ever hugged/kissed someone you’d only just met? Glenn’s family is Italian so I am required to hug and be kissed by every family member and friend upon introduction. It’s weird for me coming from a British/Polish background where we only hug for special or serious reasons. I love the affection his family shows but sometimes I’m just like “haven’t y’all ever heard of a handshake?!”

Where is the person you would most like to see/be with? I really want to see one of my kiddos. Being away from them has actually been one of the hardest parts of quarantine. 

When was the last time you bought a CD/DVD? Which one was it? Oh God, I have no idea

Have you ever gone against someone’s advice and then regretted it? Of course

Would you ever apologize for something that wasn’t your fault? I do that frequently. I just hate conflict so much that I’d rather take the blame for something and resolve the issue

What’s been the best thing about your day so far? It’s only 8:30 and I’m at work. But I will say that the weather was delightful this morning. And I’m really looking forward to the rest of my day. 

Has anyone ever cried in your arms before? Yes

Who was the last person you talked to, whose name started with ‘C’? Is that person older or younger than you? My sister Candice. She’s 6 years older. 

Do you keep a lot of things from your parents? I’m very private with them and that stems from some childhood trauma (not involving them). They’ve frequently asked me to be more open with them but I have to warm up to that.

Who was the last person you confided in? Do you regret it? Glenn, and of course not. Never.

What was the last film you watched, that you hadn’t seen before? What kind of film was it? What did you think of it? Honestly I have no idea. I’m not a movie person and I especially don’t have the attention span for movies right now with the state of things.  Have you ever had an argument with the last person you hugged/kissed? Yeah. It’s only natural 

Using one word only, describe the day you’ve had so far. Pleasant