#beating heart in her chest..THE HORRORS...........

[deadrlngers]

what if violante talked gale out of the whole ascension to godhood thing. and what if she died at the end of it all. and what if gale, crushed by the insurmountable grief, decided to use the crown. and what if he brought her back from the lands of deads. and what if violante is insanely angered with him for that but also fond of that feeling that brought him to defile the laws of nature. and what if she's forever bound to him now, and she hates him but she loves him and it's going to be eternal

[kukinkrim]

the exception

saja boys x manager!fem!reader

theme: love (?), fights, unfinished.

notes: can be interpretrd as platonic love/familial love, contains spoilers from the movie. might make a part 2 if this gets enough love lol

part 2.

"shit," jinu hears someone whisper from beside him and he was sure it was abby. the rest of their chants stopped abruptly, the other three turned sharply, catching the edge of abby's panic. "of course, she's fucking here."

there was something about abby's fear-stricken expression that made them hesitate. afraid, perhaps, of what it meant for their usually easy-going fellow demon to be the complete opposite. tense. panicking, maybe. perhaps, even afraid.

"who?" it was mystery who asked quietly, scanning the crowd to see what caused his fellow demons to react. it wasn't long before his eyes sees her too and he swore his heart froze at the sight as fear washed over him in waves. what abby felt at the moment was clear as day to him; as if he and abby had one heart, beating so fast in anxiety it would explode at any moment.

"why is she here?" baby managed to ask, barely a whisper but they all hear it anyway. he could feel anger clawing at his chest. red, hot, and searing. "she isn't supposed to be here!" if not for romance's hand on his shoulder, he would have stomped his way over and dragged her somewhere far away—yell, probably, at her stupid face for being here when she wasn't supposed to be.

a paid leave.

after that horror show of a stage where the nation's top girl group publicly broke up, the saja boys were, of course, automatically crowned the winner. despite all the depressing things that happened a dew hours ago, they were happy enough to give their manager a much deserved paid leave for the day. 'you deserve a break, manager-nim!' they exclaimed, enthusiastic, as if they weren't planning the demise of the entire country just a few hours later.

she wasn't supposed to be here. she's supposed to be at home, in her pajamas, holding a bucket of ice cream and binge watching her brainrots all night long. at the safety of her home three hours away from here. not here, not in this last concert.

but she's here, and she's walking unknowingly towards her own eternal damnation. too close to the stage than they would have liked.

just because she loved them too much, grown too fond, always the supportive one behind the scenes. she came because she wanted to watch them shine, yet—"she's going to fucking die."

romance doesn't flinch at the glare that baby sent him, even when he aggressively shook his shoulder to get his hand off his skin. baby was anything but scary—the fire behind them, however, is another story.

while he doesn't care if gwi-ma punished them for straying too far from their mission. if they became too close with a mortal than they were supposed to. he can take a decade more of suffering and he's sure the other four too, as they are stronger than they seem.

gwi-ma could lash him with fire, chain his soul in eternal hell, tear open his memories and make him relive the worst of them on repeat.

he could survive it.

they would.

but she's human. their manager. she's soft and too good for the world. if gwi-ma can no longer hurt them, the leash on their necks becoming too lose, then he'll find other ways. and he's no doubt not above using other people to get what he wants.

he could feel the purple tattoos on his skin pulse. searing, burning his skin as it glows underneath his robes. a warning. gwi-ma is noticing the hesitation, sensing the doubts that's been planted in their heads. he's sure the others could feel it too.

continue, gwi-ma whispered to their ears. if you value your lives, continue.

feed me.

sing.

but their hesitance was all what gwi-ma needed to grumble in fury. he roars, angry, and all five demons crouched down to cover their ears at the sheer intensity and volume of their king. terrifying. his flames licked barely at the skin and it already felt like they were melting. their tattoos glowed purple, leaving pain in its wake.

gwi-ma was angry.

"no–" mystery mutters as he holds his arms in a poor attrmpt of self-comfort, but his attention was somewhere else. in the center of arena was a portal, like a throbbing wound in the shape of a god’s hunger, an extension of gwi-ma's body as the honmoon tore. "no no no!–" his outburst dragged the rest of them out of their stunned daze, and they watched in horror.

hundreds of demons were crawling out of the portal—feral, fang-ridden, spine-bent monsters from the deepest pit of their world.

and more were still coming. thousands. maybe worse.

and they're all headed towards you.

it was jinu who was the first to move.

it was like he was flying. his entire body launching toward you, fueled by nothing but pure instinct and that shattering sense of knowing he'd never forgive himself if somethimg had happened to you right infront of him.

he collided with you just as one of the creatures came too close, claws raised.

his arms wrapped around you, tight and trembling, and then you were both hurtling through the crowd, crashing into stunned, half-conscious bodies, rolling until your momentum died in the chaos.

jinu was shaking. pain shot through his shoulder. his whole body was screaming as his tattoo pulsed once more, warning him of his mission. it burns it burns it burns—

but you were still in his arms. alive.

"you're safe," he whispers as he shields you with his body. it didn't matter if you couldn't hear him in your state, still brainwashed under their song. all that mattered was you were and will be kept safe from harm.

behind him, footsteps followed.

guttural screeches. the sound of claws tearing through flesh. adisgusting gurgling, like the demons were choking on their own corrupted blood, and then ash.

surrounding him was the four demons he's grown close to. their fangs bared, eyes burning with need to protect. their tattoos, like his, were flaring like war paint but the pain didn't matter.

all eyes were on you; their manager.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, oral sex, overstimulation. pussydrunk!jisung, bestfriend!jisung

It’s almost 1 a.m. and you’re both still wide awake—half-slouched, half-curled on Jisung’s bed, the glow of his laptop screen flickering shadows across the room. The horror movie he picked is objectively terrible—low-budget effects, scream-heavy soundtrack, and a villain in a mask that looks like it was bought at a gas station. But he’s watching it like it’s peak cinema, one arm propped behind his head, the other busy fishing popcorn out of the massive bowl balanced between you.

“You cannot be serious,” you mutter as a girl on-screen runs straight into a shed full of clearly dangerous tools. “She just watched her boyfriend get blendered and thought, ‘Yeah, let me hide next to a wall of chainsaws.’”

“She’s resourceful,” Jisung says with a straight face.

You shoot him a look. “She’s an idiot.”

He shrugs, grinning like a little shit. “That’s what makes her relatable.”

You snort. “That’s what makes her a red smear on the floor in five minutes.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then a truly absurd scream echoes from the laptop speakers—over-the-top, guttural, too long to be taken seriously. You burst into laughter, nearly knocking over the popcorn as you double over.

“Was that supposed to be scary?” you gasp.

“It was art,” Jisung says, trying to sound offended, but he’s laughing too, his head dropping against your shoulder.

The two of you dissolve into giggles, your bodies leaning into each other like it’s instinct, like it always is. It’s comfortable—too comfortable. You've spent enough late nights like this to know the rhythm by heart. Banter. Touch. Teasing. But tonight it feels… off. Not in a bad way. Just different. Quieter, maybe. Slower.

The movie plays on, forgotten. The popcorn ends up on the floor somewhere between your third round of arguing about which horror tropes are the worst and the moment he lets out a dramatic sigh and flops sideways onto the mattress.

“Okay, real talk,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re trapped in a haunted house with a killer clown. What’s your move?”

You blink. “Why’s it a clown?”

He shrugs. “It’s always a clown.”

“I’d cry and accept my fate.”

Jisung laughs. “You wouldn’t even try to fight back?”

“I can’t fight a clown, Jisung.”

“What if I was the clown?”

You glance over at him. He’s lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that same dumb sparkle in his eyes that makes everything he says sound like a dare. You match his stare.

“Then I’d definitely accept my fate.”

His smile cracks wider, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, that playful light in his eyes softening by degrees. The shift is subtle. Natural. You barely notice how the space between you gets smaller—how your knees brush under the blanket, how his fingers toy absently with the frayed edge of your hoodie.

His fingers are still fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie when the tension in the air snaps.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. Maybe the air between you just catches fire and you both lunge toward the spark.

One blink, one breath, and then his mouth is on yours.

No warning. No pause. Just heat and pressure and everything happening at once.

Your brain flatlines.

Jisung kisses you like he’s starving—like the silence cracked something open and he couldn’t hold it in a second longer. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s clumsy and urgent and real, and you gasp into it, eyes flying wide before fluttering shut.

Your hand fists in his hoodie before you can even think about it.

And for a moment, it’s chaos. The kind that’s been building for weeks. Maybe longer.

His fingers are in your hair, your legs tangle under the blanket, and it’s impossible to tell who moves first, who deepens it��just that neither of you stop.

Jisung jerks back like he’s been burned, chest heaving, lips slick and red, eyes blown wide with panic.

“Shit—I—fuck, I didn’t mean—” He’s breathless, already pulling away, already regretting it, voice cracking. “That was stupid. I’m sorry, I—god, I shouldn’t’ve—”

You grab him by the collar and haul him back down.

No room for second thoughts. No space for guilt.

You kiss him like you want to erase whatever apology was about to fall from his mouth. Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan—and then he’s kissing you again, harder, like you flipped a switch he didn’t know existed.

His body presses flush against yours, hips slotting between your legs like it’s instinct, like he needs to be closer. His hand finds your waist under your hoodie, fingers trembling as they grip your skin.

You bite his bottom lip and he gasps—this desperate, broken sound that shoots straight down your spine—and then he’s grinding against you like he can’t help it, like he’s chasing the friction without thinking.

A shudder wracks through him the second his hips roll down, like the contact alone scrambles his thoughts. His hands flex on your waist—like he wants to stop, like he should stop—but then you rock up against him, and any restraint he had vanishes into thin air.

“Fuck,” Jisung chokes, voice rough, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your lips, shivering and uneven. “You—” He swallows hard, hips stuttering against yours. “You can’t just—”

“I can’t just what?” You whisper, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

He groans—frustrated, desperate—and surges forward, capturing your mouth in another breath-stealing kiss. It’s messier this time, all lips and tongue and teeth, nothing careful about it. His hands slide up your waist under your hoodie, fingertips pressing into bare skin like he’s mapping out something sacred.

Your thighs tighten around his hips, and he hisses through his teeth, a whimper slipping free before he can stop it. “Oh, my god—”

The words break off into a moan as you rock up into him again, the friction making your head spin. He’s hard already—you can feel him, pressed thick and throbbing against the heat between your legs, barely separated by layers that feel more and more unbearable by the second.

“Fuck—fuck—” Jisung pants, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I swear, I just needed—just for a second—” But he doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop grinding down against you, his entire body trembling like he’s strung too tight.

“You’re a liar,” you whisper, voice wrecked, hands scrambling at his hoodie.

Jisung nods against your skin, barely coherent. “I know—fuck, I know—” He gasps as you rock up against him again, hands spasming on your waist like he’s barely holding on.

You’re both a mess—panting, flushed, desperate, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

Jisung pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. His hands slide down, fingertips tracing the bare skin of your thighs under the hem of your hoodie. “Please,” he breathes. “Fuck, please let me—” His voice breaks off into a whimper as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, then another, dragging down toward your neck. “I need to taste you.”

Your stomach flips, a heat blooming low in your belly that makes you arch up into him. “Jisung—”

“I’ll be good,” he rushes out, mouth brushing your collarbone. “I’ll make you feel so fucking good—just—please.” His fingers dig into your thighs, thumbs stroking over sensitive skin like he’s trying to soothe you even as he trembles with need. “I—I need to—” He swallows hard, exhaling shakily against your skin. “I need to have you on my tongue, please.”

The way he begs—raw, unfiltered, desperate—it makes your head spin. He kisses his way down your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath heavy and uneven against your flushed skin. His desperation is palpable, pouring into every kiss, every trembling touch.

You can barely breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair as he trails lower, lips ghosting over the dip of your collarbone, then lower still. His hands push at the hem of your hoodie, shoving it up with an urgency that makes you dizzy.

“Please,” he whispers again, lips brushing just above your ribs. His voice is wrecked, hoarse with need. “Please, baby, let me.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, tongue flicking against your skin, and you swear you feel your pulse between your legs.

You whimper, arching into his touch, and his grip tightens. “Jisung—”

He groans at the sound of his name, like it’s unraveling him completely. “I wanna make you come on my tongue.” His voice is thick, slurred with need, hands sliding down to squeeze your thighs. “Wanna taste you—wanna feel you—” He nuzzles against your stomach, breath hot and uneven. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your head tilts back, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. The way he’s begging, pressing his need into your skin like a prayer, has you aching. “Then do it,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his hair. 

He lets out the filthiest sound, something between a moan and a whimper, before he’s slipping lower, hands dragging your thighs apart, lips trailing a burning path down your body.

Jisung doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even pretend to think about what this means.

He just moves.

One second, he’s mouthing at your stomach, breath hot and uneven against your skin. The next, he’s yanking your shorts down in one rough motion, taking your panties with them, groaning the second you’re bare beneath him.

"Oh, fuck—" His voice is barely there, just a breathy rasp as his hands splay wide over your thighs, spreading you open like he needs to see, like he’s been dying for this longer than he even realizes.

And then his mouth is on you.

You barely have time to process before he licks a broad, desperate stripe up your slit, groaning so deep it vibrates against your skin. It’s not tentative. It’s not slow. It’s hungry—messy and uncoordinated, like he can’t pace himself, like the taste of you just wrecked him on the spot.

"Holy shit—" Your head slams back against the pillow, breath punching out of you. "Jisung—"

He doesn’t respond—doesn’t even slow down. He just moans into you, burying his face deeper, tongue flicking, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks with an obscene, wet sound.

He’s getting off on this.

You can feel it—the way he grinds into the mattress, rutting against it like he’s the one being touched, like eating you out is sending him to the fucking edge. His hands tighten on your thighs, fingers flexing like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel under him.

"God, you taste—" He cuts himself off with another groan, eyes fluttering shut as he laps at you, tongue dipping inside, drinking you in like he’s never going to get another chance. "So fucking good—so perfect—"

You gasp as his lips close around your clit again, sucking hard, the pressure making your entire body jolt. "Sungie—fuck, oh my god—"

He whimpers against you—actually whimpers—hips stuttering against the bed, getting himself off just from this, from the sounds you’re making, the way you’re trembling beneath him.

"Shit, you’re so wet," he groans, pulling back just enough to breathe, lips slick, pupils blown. "I can’t—fuck, I need—" He surges forward again, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue in a way that makes your back arch.

You’re close. Too close.

"Jisung— I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he pants against you, voice wrecked. "Come for me, baby, please—please, wanna taste it—wanna feel you—"

That’s all it takes.

Pleasure slams into you like a live wire, your body tensing before shattering completely. You come with a sharp cry, thighs shaking against his grip, head tilting back against the pillow as waves of heat crash over you.

But Jisung—he doesn’t stop.

"Oh my god—" You jolt as his tongue keeps moving, dragging over your oversensitive clit, his lips sealing around it like he’s determined to wring every last drop from you. "Ji—fuck, I—”

He just moans against you, messy and desperate, tongue fucking into you, one hand slipping down between his own legs to press against his cock, grinding into his palm like he needs the friction.

"Too much," you gasp, trying to push at his head, but he just shakes his head, groaning against you like he’s lost in it, like he can’t stop himself.

"Can’t," he breathes, barely pulling away. His lips are red, wet, eyes completely dazed. "I can’t stop—fuck, I don’t wanna stop—" He licks another filthy stripe up your slit, groaning like he’s savoring it, like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

His fingers press into your thighs, dragging you closer, keeping you spread for him as his tongue flicks over your clit again—relentless, messy, focused like he’s on a fucking mission.

"Fuck—fuck— Jisung—" Your legs shake, hips jerking against his mouth, overstimulation hitting you hard, but he loves it. Soaks it in. Feeds off it.

He’s panting against you, his own hips grinding down into the mattress, chasing relief he’s not even fully aware of. "Please—please, again—" His voice is wrecked, lips dragging over your slick skin. "Just one more—wanna feel you come again, please—"

He drags two fingers through your folds, groaning when he feels how fucking wet you are, before pressing them inside—curling just right, working in sync with his tongue, pushing you toward a second orgasm so fast it makes your head spin.

"Come on, baby," he begs, eyes wild, desperate. "Please—please, I need it—wanna taste it—"

And then you’re gone again.

The second orgasm rips through you, even harder than the first, your whole body shaking, breath punching out of you as your back arches off the bed.

Jisung moans as you come, tongue lapping up every last drop, fingers still fucking into you, hips still grinding into the mattress like he’s about to come just from this.

Only when you physically push at his head does he finally—finally—pull away, panting, lips swollen, chin dripping.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice ruined, eyes hazy. "That was—" He swallows hard, shaking his head. "—so fucking hot, holy shit."

You can barely move. Barely think.

And Jisung—he looks wrecked. Completely undone. His hoodie is bunched up around his waist, his sweatpants pulled tight over what is definitely a very hard, very leaky problem.

He licks his lips, still catching his breath, and then—

"Shit." His expression shifts. Clears. Reality slams back into him all at once. His eyes dart up to meet yours, and you both realize—fuck.

This just changed everything.

[yasministration]

Dear diary - George Weasley x gf!reader, perv!Ron weasley

summary: Ron can't help his crush on his older brother's girlfriend, and catches himself in some inconvenient situations cw: SMUT, exhibitionism a little bit wc: 2.3k+

Ron was officially jealous of his older brother. Not that he hadn’t been before. George was the taller, funnier, more athletic version of himself, who was loved by everyone around him but the exceptional slytherins. But most importantly, George was loved by you. Despite you being two years older than Ron, in the same year group as the twins were, his delusions led him to believing that in some universe, he had a chance with you. It was never an option in his mind that you’d end up with one of his brothers. In fact, he’d never seen you speak to either of the twins until you’d strolled into the common room one day, hand in hand with the one and only George Weasley. 

Ron was a jealous man by nature, but seeing you with George made him resent his older brother. Whenever Ron smiled at you in the hallway before you’d started dating George, you’d always had the decency to at least acknowledge his presence, however now you were so preoccupied by cozying yourself into George’s side that you didn’t even avert your gaze from him. Ron watched as you led George onto the couch in front the fireplace, letting him sit down before sitting yourself right next to him and threw your legs over his lap. George snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you leaned your head on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. George’s second hand came to rest on your exposed calf, caressing your leg up and down. Ron averted his gaze from his brother to you, and your cotton shorts that allowed Ron such a view of your legs.

Ron felt the couch dip down next to him, and he only removed his stare from your figure when he heard Hermione’s warning of “Don’t let any of your brothers catch you staring at her. If Fred finds out, then so does George, and if George finds out… Well.” Ron furrowed his eyebrows, mumbling “What do you mean?” but Hermione only gave him a knowing look.

As the months went on, Ron only hoped that you and George would finally break up, and that some months later you’d magically realise that he was the wrong brother for you, and that Ron had been waiting for you the entire time. George would have to get over it, Ron thought. However, to Ron’s horror, you and George had made it all the way to the summer, and after meeting his parents, Molly and Arthur had insisted you stay at the Burrow for a while over the holidays. Ron was dreading the two weeks you’d agreed on staying with them for, and had even complained to Ginny that the Burrow was too full, but she’d only snapped that it never seemed too full when his friends were staying over.

Ron was the first of his siblings to make it onto the platform when the Hogwarts Express arrived to the station. He made the most of the hugs and kisses his parents showered him with, sure that from the moment you’d walk off the train, all the attention would be on you. And Ron stood correct. Laughing along with Fred and George about something they’d said, Ron immediately noticed the arm George casually had around your waist, keeping you close to him as you carried your bags across the station to meet his parents.

Unsurprisingly, Molly had immediately started gushing over you, and had gone on about how lovely it was to see you again. You bathed in the flattering comments, returning the compliments to the woman, who encouraged you to head to the Burrow with George by apparition. Ron had scowled at her words, imagining what you’d do once you got home alone. Would you let George kiss you deeply, push you on the couch while he praised your body, or would you only let him peck your lips softly, asking him where to put your belongings. Ron had discovered that he was wrong on both accounts. You hadn’t done either of these things, instead leaving your luggage by the stairs, allowing George to lead you outside and show you nature’s glory all around the burrow.

Ron made it a point to avoid you throughout all your stay, Hermione’s words stuck in his head. What would George do if he found out about Ron’s crush on his girlfriend? No matter, he’d rather George think he disliked you than liked you. Besides, you had Ginny there to give you all the attention in the world, so happy to have another girl in the house that George often found himself trying to steal you back from her.

Ron sat in the living room while you helped Molly bake some goods in the open kitchen, letting the twins play a game of Quidditch in the yard. Ginny sat at the kitchen table, in charge of making entertaining conversation while you and Molly spoke about the recipe. Though at Ginny’s question “Are you and George going to get married?” Ron felt the energy in the entire room shift. His eyes glanced up from the sports magazine he read to see the look of shock on your face, eyes wide and jaw slack. Molly gasped, immediately scolding the young girl for her invasive question. “It’s fine Mrs. Weasley,” You reassured, adding “I don’t know Ginny, that’s kind of a loaded question.”

Your response was timed just right, because two seconds later, Fred and George came walking through the door, all sweaty from their match. You straightened your posture at the sight of your boyfriend, traveling the small distance of the kitchen so that George could easily whisk you away into a tight hug as soon as he walked into the kitchen. He used the grip on your body from his hug to spin you around, blocking you from his mother with his big back profile to dip his head down and give you a lengthy kiss. Ron, seated at just the right angle to have a perfect view of the kiss — and the cheeky squeeze George gave your ass — huffed in his chair, envy stirring inside him.

When the cookies you made were safely in the oven, you excused yourself upstairs, where George and his twin had retreated to shower. Knocking on the twins’s door, you were welcomed with a view of your shirtless boyfriend, aggressively drying his hair with a towel. George grinned at you, shutting the door behind you when you entered, and leading you to his bed. George hugged you close to his chest, pressing fluttering kisses on your forehead while Fred finished his shower. “I don’t think your younger brother likes me.” You mumbled, drawing shapes on George’s bare chest with your finger. “That ridiculous, sweetheart.” George answered, a laugh bubbling in his chest. You pulled away from him, an offended look on your face. “Baby, wait!” George laughed, tugging you back into him. “It’s ridiculous because Ron has the fattest crush on you. Read it in his diary.” 

The bathroom door opened, and Fred stepped out in a heap of steam from his hot shower. “Hey, don’t take credit for that!” Fred called out, imitating his brother's movement of ruffling his hair with a dry towel. “Right, excuse me. Fred read it in Ron’s diary, then brought me the diary, and then I read it in the diary.” You chuckled, pushing yourself up on the bed, looking back and forth between the two twins. “You promise?” You asked, watching as Fred nodded his head in reassurance. “What do you mean ‘you promise’? You want my brother to have a crush on you?” George asked with a frown. “Well I’d rather he have a crush on me than dislike me.” George scoffed, shaking his head. He unraveled his arms from around you, standing up and leaving the room momentarily. You blinked slowly and sat up straight on the bed, wondering if you’d upset him. “Don’t worry, he’s going to get the diary.” Fred said, turning his back from you to get dressed.

It was only seconds later that George came back, a scrappy red notebook in his hands. He spent a while flicking through the pages until he finally held a finger up, as if to silence you. “My most recent problem is that I have the fattest crush on my brother’s fucking girlfriend.” George started, and you covered your face with your hands, predicting the horror of what would come next. “She’s got a great smile, great legs. Honestly, everything about her is great. I just wish that she was sleeping with me instead of Mr. George fucking Weasley.” Your jaw went slack, and Fred giggled from where he stood, listening to George beginning to flick through the pages again. “So George’s girlfriend is staying with us over the summer break for a little while, which is going to be an absolute - uh what does that say?” Fred joined George to inspect the handwriting before they called out “Nightmare!” In synch.

“An absolute nightmare, because I’m going to be hard the entire time she’s there, but my only source of relief will be seeing her with my brother. I swear to godric, if I hear them have sex and she moans George’s name, I’m going to cry. Oh hey, I don’t remember reading that bit!” George added, putting a hand on his hip and humming apprehensively while he thought for a moment. You and Fred shot each other a look, and he grinned boyishly at you, commenting. “Well, I’ll make sure to leave you guys the room for a little bit.” You felt your cheeks heat up, eyes trained on George as he tossed the diary to the side, climbing back over you on the bed. George pushed your hair to the side, putting some of his weight on you as he started pressing kissed on your neck. “Yeah, and have him call us down for dinner, will you?” Your eyes widened in shock, letting George push you down on the bed as he continued his attack on your neck, barely acknowledging Fred, who finally walked out of the room, letting you have temporary privacy.

George pulled the blanket from under you, separating from you to pull his trousers off. Luckily for you, he hadn’t put on a shirt yet, and was making quick work of taking yours off. “Baby, isn’t this a little cruel?” You asked him, accepting the kisses he left on your lips, and arching your back so he could slide his hands underneath you, unclasping your bra. George nodded in agreement, tossing your bra so it landed by the door. “It’ll help him get over you.” He responded, tugging your trousers and underwear down your legs. “What, to see me naked?” George laughed, balancing himself over you as you helped him remove his boxers. “No one is going to be seeing you naked but me. What’s going to help him move on is to see me on top of you. And to hear you screaming my name.” He whispered against your lips before pecking them softly, feeling your hands trail up to grip his muscular biceps. “Yeah? You plan on making me scream?” George didn’t answer you this time, only bringing his fingers down to your clit, where he began making small circles. 

At your small gasp, he smiled, gripping his cock and bringing it towards your entrance. George spread your legs wider, making more space for himself between your thighs. In a few curt thrusts, he sheathed his cock inside you, biting his lip harshly and letting his head fall into the crook of your neck as he tried to adjust himself inside you, calming his breath down while listening to your little moans. “Shit, that was harsh, I’m sorry baby.” He apologised, cupping your cheeks and bringing you into a soft kiss. “Wasn’t harsh, feels good. Can you move?” The slow drag of George’s hips had your jaw going slack, head digging into the pillow behind you as your eyebrows furrowed. George grunted, abs constricting with pleasure with each snap of his hips against yours. Absentmindedly, George reached back to pull the blanket over his torso, covering your naked body from view. The sounds coming from your mouth however, were free for anyone to hear.

As George increased the power and speed of his thrusts, so did the volume and frequency of the sounds you made. You desperately gripped onto George’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin while a string of moans flowed out of you. The most recurring sound you made? His name. And that was the first thing Ron heard when he cracked the door open to come fetch you both for dinner.  Everyone was already outside, the dining table laid out under the night’s sky, but Ron was shooed away to call you down for dinner. Ron froze, hearing the high pitched cry of his brother’s name escape your mouth, back arching so your chest pushed against your boyfriend’s. Even worse, Ron could hear the sound of his brother’s hips driving into yours with every thrust, and the soft encouragements he told you. “That’s right, say my name baby.” He groaned into the crook of your neck. Ron loudly slammed the door shut, turning his back to it as he processed what he saw.

The slam of the door barely reached George’s ears with the way you screamed his name as you orgasmed, cunt clamping down on his cock so hard that he could only see white, whimpering your name in a manner he will deny ever happening. Your pussy milked George’s orgasm out of him, making him pant heavily against you, and you ran your fingers through his hair when you finally recovered from your own orgasm. When George also recovered, he slowly pulled out of you, pressing a loving kiss on your lips before slumping against you once more. You giggled teasingly, saying “All that for him not to even show up.” But your comment only backlashed humiliatingly when a George scoffed, saying “Oh no, he showed up alright.”

[sweetstrawberryys]

"In the Mirror”

Summary: You're just chilling when Ghost sends you a cryptic message. But no worries, your house is only haunted by one Ghost.

Rating: light teasing, domestic vibes, mild language, Ghost being a menace, a lot of warmth

Masterlist

---

You: I just saw your husband.

Ghost: What?

You: I'm not married, where did you see him?

Ghost: In the mirror.

You stared at your phone, blinking once. Twice.

A beat of silence passed. Then—

“Oh, you cheeky little—”

The door creaked open and there he was, all six-foot-something of smug British man wrapped in black joggers and one of your pink sweaters.

Yes. Your pink sweater.

“I stand by my statement,” he said, unrepentant. “Saw your husband just now. Dashing bloke. Strong jaw. Really into this new pink look, too.”

“You’re awful.” You couldn’t help the grin, though, as you tossed a throw pillow at him. “You can’t just text cryptic shit and make me think there’s a ghost in the house.”

“I am the ghost in the house.”

He caught the pillow mid-air, tossing it back with lazy aim. It thudded harmlessly to the side as you crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes.

“You scared me for a second, you know?” you said, voice dipping into a soft whine.

Simon’s smirk faltered. Just slightly. Enough for the tender to peek through.

“Didn’t mean to.” He stepped forward, crowding into your space like the possessive bastard he was. “Was just messin’.”

You looked up at him, trying not to melt at how domestic he looked—stubble unshaved, hair mussed from a lazy afternoon nap, your softest sweater stretching across his broad shoulders. It was a rainy Sunday kind of look. A “we’ve been together for years and this is the man I wake up to” kind of look.

And God, he wore it well.

“Well…” you murmured, poking his chest, “next time you want to be weirdly poetic and mysterious, just say you missed me.”

He leaned down, resting his forehead to yours. The grin that ghosted over his lips was softer now, less cocky. The kind he saved for you and you alone.

“I did miss you,” he murmured. “You left me alone with a mirror and too many feelings.”

“Oh no,” you said dramatically. “The horror. Self-reflection.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “I looked in the mirror, and there I was. Standing there. In your jumper. In our flat. And I just thought… shit.”

“Shit what?”

“That’s her husband.” His voice dropped lower. “Me. I'm her husband.”

You stared at him, heart going off like fireworks in your chest.

You weren’t married. Not yet.

But sometimes he’d drop little things like that. Like he’d already made up his mind. Like the choice was made the moment you met. You’d learned by now not to tease him for it. Every time you did, he’d retreat into that skull of his. Lock the doors and throw away the key.

So instead, you smiled.

“That mirror’s a smart one,” you whispered.

He kissed you then. Softly. Slowly. Like it was the first kiss all over again. One hand on your cheek, the other wrapped around your waist, warm and anchoring.

“You’re wearing my jumper,” you murmured against his lips.

“You left it out,” he whispered back. “Which means you wanted me to wear it.”

You chuckled. “Or I just didn’t fold the laundry.”

“Potato, potato.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Slid his tongue between your lips like he was trying to memorize the taste of home. And maybe he was. Maybe that’s what this all was to him.

Because to Ghost home had never really been a place. It was something he built from the pieces he was given. A couch with a sunken cushion. A kettle always warm. Your laugh from the other room. Your toothbrush next to his.

A mirror that, for the first time, reflected back a man who had something to lose. Someone to love. Someone who looked at him and saw husband instead of monster.

“You’re thinking again,” you whispered when you finally broke apart. “I can feel the dramatic brooding radiating off of you.”

He groaned. “Can’t get anything past you.”

“Nope.” you reached up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. “Tell me what’s going on in that haunted head of yours.”

He sighed. Rested his chin atop your head like it was his favorite spot on Earth.

“I was brushing my teeth,” he said slowly. “Saw my reflection. And for the first time, I didn’t flinch.”

You froze, barely breathing.

“I saw a man,” he continued. “Not a mask. Not a monster. Just… a man. In love.”

Your eyes welled instantly. “Simon…”

He pulled back slightly to cup your face in both hands, thumbs brushing under your eyes.

“I’m not good with words. You know that.”

“You’re better than you think,” you whispered.

He huffed a smile. “But what I saw in that mirror—it was the man you see. The one who laughs with you. Holds you at night. The one who tries to remember to put the seat down.”

You laughed wetly.

“So yeah,” he said. “I saw your husband. And it made me want to keep being him.”

“You always were him,” you whispered. “Even before the mirror said so.”

You stood there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other like an old love song. The kind that plays softly in the background while life goes on.

Then, in true Simon Riley fashion—

“You’re still doing the dishes though.”

“Oh my God—”

“You think just because I got sentimental I’m doing the plates? Nah, sweetheart.”

“You said my jumper. This is a pink tax. You owe me.”

“I am your pink tax.”

You threw another pillow at him. He caught it again.

And just like that, the moment shifted—from soft to silly, from heart-clutching to heartwarming. Because love wasn’t always declarations or mirror metaphors.

Sometimes, love was pink jumpers and teasing texts.

Sometimes, love was looking in the mirror and liking what you saw.

Especially when it reminded you of your other half.

---

This was inspired by this post . Thanks for giving permission to use the prompt. Hope you enjoy!

[hencheri]

— rotten heart

▸ 18+ mdni.

jay and jake have always been fighting for you until the day you finally chose jay. that day will forever be jake's downfall, but he will take what he believes to be his, even if it means bringing you into his downfall as well.

| pairing. husband!jay x fem!reader x vampire!jake

| warnings. horror, noncon/dubcon (reader is not herself), physical violence, depiction of blood, implied death/murder, dark!jayke (even though jake's clearly worse).

a.n.: uummm yes so there it is. i have a love-hate relationship with this fic lol.

fresh blood is dripping from jake’s open lip, the rusty taste of metal filling his mouth, becoming almost overbearing as jay’s knuckles keep violently colliding with his face. fury burns in the man’s eyes, but jake doesn’t cave in, he refuses to even as jay’s fist slowly but surely deforms his once flawless features. the sound of bones cracking—whether it’s coming from his jaw or jay’s phalanges—doesn’t phase him either. he won’t talk. 

jay takes a step back from jake’s sitting form, tied up there to the chair by one of his guards earlier. his chest heaves up and down rapidly, his breathing ragged and short, his anger flaring up. he’s frustrated, but nothing can compare to his desperation. the desperate need to avenge his wife—to punish the man who hurt you, who dared to put his filthy hands on you.

but jake is having none of it. he turns his head to the side and spits the excess of blood out of his mouth, looking back at the man standing in front of him as he throws his head back out of exhaustion. 

he thinks it’s funny how jay wants to punish him for something he himself desires as much as him, for something that you liked, nonetheless. but a man only knows how to be selfish. and so does jake.

“if you don’t tell me what you did to her-” jay threatens, gritting his teeth as his bloodied fists clench by his sides. 

“how is she?” jake interrupts, his question making the other man frown. “tired, i suppose? poor girl probably doesn’t remember a thing.” his voice is calm, infuriatingly so. despite having his face beat up, black eye decorating his pale skin with a crooked nose, he still keeps his cool. 

with his jaw set in a hard line, jay lunges forward and hits jake across the face with his fist. he shakes his hand after that, his knuckles surely in similar shape as jake’s cheek; totally ripped up, exposing the more sensitive skin underneath, blood escaping the wound. “fuck,” jay curses under his breath, seeing the state of his right hand. it’s bad, but it’s not nearly enough to make him want to stop. 

“you know i have no problem with keeping on destroying your face, huh? won’t be as cute anymore with a fucked up nose,” jay snarkily remarks, massaging his knuckles with his thumb. he watches the man struggling to recover from the hit, a string of spit mixed with blood hanging from his lip, looking down at the floor as he breathes in and out through his mouth with difficulty. “i swear to god, you won’t get out of this house alive if you don’t fucking tell me what you did to my wife.” jay says the last two words with a stern voice, but it’s said with anger, sounding like a growl. 

he clasps his hand around jake’s chin, tightening enough to make the other wince in pain. they both look into each other’s eyes, and if perhaps there was still a friendship between them, some respect, there’s none anymore. it’s only a visceral hatred for one another. 

“she was never yours,” jake whispers, maintaining eye-contact with him. “not completely.” 

jake’s tendency to not answer his questions drives him crazy, and he raises his hand again, jake scrunching his eyes in anticipation of another hit, but he never feels it. someone comes into the room, one of jay’s guards, pausing the less than civilized conversation between the two men. 

“sir, it’s your wife. she woke up.”

—-

kneeling beside your bed, jay takes your hands in his, closing his fingers firmly around yours. he stares intently at you, brows knitted together in worry. seeing you hurting is the worst thing he could ever endure, it pains him so much to be powerless, so clueless on how to save you. 

jake’s been tied up for an entire day in his basement and he still hasn’t gotten him to talk. he curses himself for being so useless. it’s his duty, his goal in life to keep you safe, but he failed to do that. failed to do the very thing he swore to god, the promise he made when marrying you. 

he kisses your hand and you weakly smile at him, his heart clenching at the precious sight. he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, especially when you’re still so sensitive, but he needs to know. he has to—it’s how he’ll be able to help you, he hopes.

“baby,” he begins, sounding oh so desperate, “my love… do you- do you remember what happened? do you know?” he asks carefully, eyes wide and shiny.

“i don’t… i don’t know.” 

he sighs, shaking his head and looking down at the sheets. you’re telling the truth, he believes you, but for some reason, he feels like something’s escaping you, like the answer is just there, but you can’t quite grasp it. 

“has jake done something to you? i’m begging you to tell me,” he pleads and with his eyes full of water, you feel bad for not remembering anything. to your knowledge, you felt sick earlier and needed to lay down for a bit, only waking up now, still very much dizzy and confused. 

“jake? no- i haven’t…” you murmur, looking away from your husband for a brief second. “...seen him.”

jay grows frustrated and stands up, your hands slipping out of his hold. “no, baby,” he says, as if scolding you, “you have to remember. he did something to you, i just need you to tell me.”

your own eyes start to water. “i don’t know… i’m sorry, jay.”

your husband glances down, passing his hand through his black hair before rubbing his chin pensively, clearly bothered. you watch him pacing around anxiously and he finally exits your bedroom, leaving you alone and in the dark on what’s happening. 

—-

the night is cold, but you feel hot, extremely hot. sweat is dripping from your neck and your nightgown is sticking to your back. you keep rolling on your stomach, changing a second later to lay on your back, then on your side, facing jay. 

he’s sleeping, his chest moving up and down regularly, quietly. you look at him, eyes trailing down to his lips, which are slightly parted. 

you need to get up, need to get out of this room. and that’s what you do, the wooden floor creaking under your naked feet as you walk down the hallway and go down the stairs. the house is quiet, the moon casting light through the windows, illuminating your path to the basement. you’re not sure why you’re going there, but that’s where your feet are bringing you to. 

you switch the lights on and you head down, walking the stairs one by one, holding the railing with your hand as you do so. you don’t know what to expect, or who exactly. when you reach the last stair, you glance at the closed door to your right, and without any more thought, you open it. 

what you find startles you. a man tied up to a chair in the middle of the room, his head hanging low, his body leaned over like holding the weight of his own body on his shoulders is too much. splatters of blood are staining the concrete below him and you can only imagine that it belongs to him. 

despite your heart beating faster in your chest, you get closer, and you gasp when you think you recognize the man.

“jake?” 

at the sound of your voice calling his name, he looks up very slowly, seemingly in pain. the worry is evident on your face as you discover the many bruises and cuts littering his face, the work of your husband. you never thought that’s what he was doing when he wasn’t with you. 

“i’m sorry you have to see this,” he says with a groggy voice, visibly exhausted. he’s squinting his left eye, his eyelid puffy and red, purple all around where he got hit. 

you bend a little to take a closer look at his face, your hands hovering over his face, wanting to touch him, but holding back, scared to further hurt him. “jay did this to you?” you ask, and your tone is so soft, so delicate, it soothes jake. that’s what he needed to hear through the constant silence of the basement and the harsh sound of jay’s knuckles beating him up. 

jake shakes his head slightly, his adam’s apple bobbing as he gulps down. “it’s nothing,” he murmurs. 

“jake…” you whine, feeling bad for him, knowing he’s like this partially because of you. 

“i’m fine,” he reassures you, “i just… i just need you right now.”

“... need me? how?” 

jake is silent for a moment. his gaze lingers down your neck, your slender throat, soft and sensitive skin, so easy to tear apart. 

“untie me,” he asks.

you open your mouth then close it, suddenly unsure.

“jay said you did something to me,” you tell him, glancing down at your feet. “he was pretty certain, in fact.”

he shakes his head again like he’s disagreeing with you. “nothing,” he answers bluntly, no hesitation shown. “i did nothing that you didn’t want me to do.”

jake sounds genuine, he seems to be saying the truth, but deep down, something tells you the truth he believes in isn’t the real one. but how could you know, you don’t remember anything.

you don’t remember images, but you remember some sensations. a feeling of pleasure—of filthy, sinful pleasure. the ghost of fingertips brushing up your thighs, something hard sliding between your legs. it’s all blurry, nothing precise. who should you believe, someone who remembers what happened or vague sensations that could be nothing, yet anything?

“sweetheart,” jake’s voice brings you back to earth and you look back up at him. “untie me, please.”

“i can’t.”

he’s taken aback by your refusal, but he doesn’t let it show for more than a second. he stares blinkly at you for a moment, licking his lips, eyes dropping to your neck again. your hair has fallen out of the way, exposing your flesh, the most tender area of your neck, right where your jugular pulsates under. 

and there it is; his past bite mark. two dark red dots, the exact size of his canines. it’s beautiful, and just looking at it makes him hungrier, more eager. he pulls slightly on his wrists tied behind his back, his tongue passing between his lips once again. 

it’s like his eyes pierce through you as he gazes at you, like he can read your mind, like he knows everything about you. you feel tingles throughout your body from the top of your head to your tiptoes. the feeling is electrifying, almost addictive. 

“come here, i need you, baby,” he says, eyes now begging, eyebrows frowned. “i need… to taste you.”

and then, it’s like he can convince you with just one look. 

his teeth dig into you and you whimper, watching the ceiling and the single buld hanging from it. you can hear it buzzing loud and steady like when your ears ring. you can hear your blood being sucked out of you as well and jake swallowing it down his throat. it stings, but you don’t mind it. 

jake’s skin is cold, there’s no warmth emanating from him as your hands touch the back of his neck. he has no pulse either, but maybe you just can’t find it because jake is very much breathing—you feel it as he’s sucking on your blood, face hidden in the crook of your neck. it’s strange, everything seems weird… but it’s also familiar. you’ve experienced this before. with jake. his hands were free, though, and they were on you, touching you in ways he shouldn’t—in ways he doesn’t have the right to because you aren’t his. 

but you are now… you’re bound to him like you’d never be with jay. 

you’re straddling his thighs and if it wasn’t for the strong desire you strangely feel right now, you wouldn’t have him inside of you. your hands wouldn’t have unbuttoned his pants and you wouldn’t have aligned his cock with your entrance. but this desire is driving you, it’s thinking for you. 

you don’t like jake, he’s not your lover. jay is, he’s your husband, the love of your life. but tonight, none of this matters. all you can think about is jake filling you up, his teeth breaking through your skin and feeding himself off of your blood. you wish to be nowhere else. 

—-

your cold, unmoving body isn’t what jay expected to wake up to. 

if he thought seeing you hurt was the worst pain possible, having you dead in his arms is nothing comparable to it. the pain is heartbreaking, literally so. his heart is in pieces and he wishes he was also dead, not in your bed hugging your corpse, crying for the love that was so suddenly ripped away from him. 

life shouldn’t have been taken away from you so soon, not before jay could do anything about it. not before he killed jake himself.

jay looks down at your face, eyelids shut and lips parted, skin as cold as ice. his whole body is shaking because of his sobs, his tears obscuring his vision. he cradles you in his arms, the same arms that held you so many times before, slowly rocking you, bringing your head up to his.

he goes to kiss your forehead, your lips, but marks on your neck catches his eye. two dots one above the other. jay looks at it long enough that his tears reach his jaw, falling down and seeping into the white fabric of your nightgown. 

when he realizes, the sadness he was feeling transforms into uncontrollable anger. his head snaps to the door of your bedroom and a deep crease appears between his brows, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth together. 

jake. the only man cruel enough to steal what’s most precious to jay out of pure jealousy. 

storming off into the basement, his guards behind him, jay kicks the door open, ready to put his hand around the man’s neck and tightens until life leaves him.

but he’s met with an empty chair. 

the rope that was holding his wrists and legs together lies on the floor like someone just untied him. jay shakes his head from side to side, slipping his fingers through his hair and gripping it tightly, staring at the ground wondering how this could have happened. how could he let this happen.

the murderer of his wife is free and left his house without him noticing. he knew he was dangerous, he knew it was his fault, but he still let him flee. 

while jay flips back the table, throws the chair in the corner of the room, screams at his men to find the monster who killed his wife, your body is still upstairs, lying limply in your shared bed. 

the sun creeps through the curtains and lights up the bedroom, kissing your face and the tip of your fingers. as it rises higher in the sky, the sunlight covers your arm and your chest. one of your fingers twitches, as if the sun is tickling it, and then it moves a second time. 

your eyes open and with a gasp, you sit up on the bed. you’re alive, but you’re not who you used to be.

you get out of bed and slowly make your way to the mirror hanging above your dresser. you don’t recognize yourself; you look ill, your lips are cracked, you have horrible dark circles… you look dead but you’re alive. 

you don’t feel cold nor warm, you’re not scared anymore, your teeth hurt and you’re inexplicably hungry for blood.

[solecize]

°⛧  ‧  ₊   　 　⠀mnemonic 　⠀⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀⠀ [2]

　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 　⠀　 *ੈ  ✩  ‧  ₊  ˚  .ೃ

⇢ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: swimmer!jk x female reader, college au, slow burn friends to lovers to ??, fluff, angst, slice of life, coming of age

⇢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, substance use, college party and hookup culture, mentions of greek life hazing, characters experiencing just about every feeling a lost college student goes through, depictions of and discussions surrounding mental health (depression, anxiety, substance abuse), disgusting amounts of yearning and clueless pining, yes he's her tutor at one point, yes they're in denial, also features other third gen idols, dare i say found family, there is a beach episode and a fireworks festival too lol

in which a little box of memories tells the story of how you and jeon jungkook slowly, but surely, fell in love against the backdrop of the growing pains of your college years. jungkook presents this box to you as a final gift at graduation and each item in the box is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing the forces that brought the two of you from strangers to friends to more. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐱: masterlist. / prologue. / the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop. / ticket to the haunted horrors house (admission for two). / a worn out deck of cards. /handwritten no-bake cheesecake recipe. / cd soundtrack for stand by me (1986). / travel brochure to derry beach. / a clipping from the school newspaper. / pieces of confetti. / one empty tequila shooter. / epilogue & the final item.

⇢ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: see masterlist for chapter summaries if u want also i edited this while fried so was it really editing

the loyalty points card from the campus coffee shop

 the first time he ever saw you was at the cafe at the student union centre. 

 the bean was situated at the bottom floor of the student centre building and was the most popular stop for pre-class caffeine. it was a pretty spot, as sunlight streamed in through floor to ceiling windows and overlooked the quad. at all hours, it was bustling and filled to the brim - the morning of the first day of classes was the worst of them all. the entire shop teemed with figures, some hunched over laptops and others pondering at the menu. you knew it would be busy, ignored the fact, and that was why you stood in line for a latte with a pained expression on your face.

 “i’m going to be late,” you muttered under your breath, barely able to peek over the shoulder of the person in front of you to see just how far you were from the front counter.

 there was only about ten minutes until the first ever lecture of your college years and there was still three people ahead of you in line. by your estimates, it would take about five minutes to get to the hall, maybe a solid three if you sprinted. sacrifices had to be made and something told you that you shouldn’t have stayed up all night with your roommate, doyeon, the night before. you needed coffee and you needed it now.

 It was just a relief in general that you got along with her. one of your biggest fears going into college was even making friends after leaving your hometown. you dove headfirst into a new life in a new place and the least you could accomplish was befriend the person you were going to live with for the rest of the year. these were the thoughts that swirled your mind first thing in the morning as you got ready for class, which is why you were late in the first place. 

 by the time you placed your order and received your iced vanilla latte, you could have transformed into usain bolt. you were more than determined to get a running start out of the bean - a little too determined. 

 “ah! oh fuck, i’m so sorry.”

 when you turned around, ready to make the sprint, you’d bumped directly into the most gorgeous man you’d ever seen in your life. you could say that with your chest, too. he was tall, extremely beautiful eyes, and something about the way his smile reached them made your heart skip a beat. it was a sheepish grin, embarrassed by the collision. his dark hair fell just around his eyebrows, one of them adorned with an eyebrow piercing. needless to say, you did, in fact, have a type and this guy fit the bill like a glove. 

 “no, shit, i’m sorry!” you managed to sputter.

 unfortunately for you, as glorious this meet cute would have been perfect at literally any other time, you were running late from class and your latte was now spreading across the floor. thankfully, none of it ended up on either of your clothes. you could physically feel your life drain from your body, knowing that you were going to fall asleep in the lecture within the first couple minutes without your coffee. 

 the empathy in this man’s eyes knew this, too, and they suddenly lit up. he then thrusted his own plastic cup in your direction.

 “here, do you wanna take mine? i’m not in a rush,” the mysterious man insisted and you could have jumped into his arms, giggling like a school girl.

 the very first time jungkook caught your eye, you felt like you had been struck by a lightning bolt. then, the sharp electricity itched your chest and planted sparks of a feeling you’d never felt before. it was a repetition of thunderous growls that sunk beneath your skin, booming quietly over the years and as you fell in love with him. it was sparks in your bones and in your veins, of jungkook who permanently rumbled in your being. 

 in this moment, you remained collected. there was no way you were going to act like a total fool in front of this beautiful stranger. you took an extra second to give him a once over, he wore a hoodie that read ‘springfield university swimming’ and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

 you feigned reluctance. “oh, no, i couldn’t - it’s my fault anyway.”

 “no, seriously, you look like you’re in a rush,” he shook his head rapidly. “i insist. it’s just a regular iced coffee, but you should have it!.

 as much as you wanted to stay at the bean and flirt your way into getting his number, the reality struck that you had about two minutes to make it to your lecture. 

 finally, you nodded and smiled gratefully. “thank you, thank you - you really just saved my life!”

 “no worries, have a nice day!”

 as you ran off, you could only wish that you got his name. little did you know, you would run into him again and again and not only would you get his name, it became the one constant in your life for the next four years. 

 by now, it was two weeks into the semester and you found out that your roommate, doyeon, was a type a brainiac. she also happened to be in the same major and declared that she would help keep you on top of your work. despite the quiz for your intro to sociology class carrying a very low amount of weight for your final grade, she insisted that the two of you hold a study session a few days prior. 

 it was by luck that jungkook would be one of the few souls lingering around the bean in the late evening. the early september sun hugged all corners of the coffee shop with its curtains streaming in from the darkening skyline, as you gazed out into its streaks of ember and rose. you sighed, wishing that you were outside instead of studying for your first quiz. 

 “it’s literally friday night, why are you studying?” a random voice quipped. 

 you eyes shot up, seeing two guys approach your table. the one who spoke looked somewhat familiar, but the first bit of college had been such a blur. you were introducing yourself in all your classes to dozens of faces and were meeting all kinds of people on campus, in the dorms, and just about anywhere else. you didn’t expect your first semester to be so high-paced and you were struggling to remember names. 

 the second one, though, was definitely familiar. something nagged at you and you weren’t sure what. you hoped that you weren’t staring, but you were trying to calculate where exactly you’d seen him before. his eyes trailed over to you and recognition began winding at the back of his head. then, it hit you.

 he was the one who you crashed into on the very first day of the semester, the mysterious man who selflessly sacrificed his coffee for you before class. your heart dropped and you wanted to shrivel up and hide because that meant it was the same boy who watched you throw up outside the dorms last weekend.

 doyeon looked up and rolled her eyes upon their appearance. “because our free time isn’t being taken up by pledging for those kappa gamma losers like you, seokmin.”

 the boy - seokmin, as doyeon called him - laughed. “it’s kappa alpha psi. i won’t be such a loser in a few weeks when you’re begging me to get you into one of our parties,” he said.

 “sure, sure,” she replied, not convinced. “oh, y/n. this is seokmin, my cousin. seokmin, this is my roommate, y/n.” doyeon gestured to him, already looking back at her notes and disinterested in the conversation.

 seokmin and doyeon could not be more than complete opposites. from the first moment that you met doyeon, she gave you sophisticated, old money vibes. she just looked like her parents owned a beach house on the coast and spent her summers at country clubs. it was intimidating at first, considering your family’s financial background was the complete opposite, but she ended up being much more down to earth than you expected.

 meanwhile, seokmin wore expensive yeezys with mud stains on them, his polo shirt had its collars popped up and his tennis bracelet could blind you. that didn’t take away from his character, though, as he held out a friendly handshake. 

 “hi, nice to meet you,” seokmin flashed a smile that reached his eyes. “this is jungkook, we’re on the swim team together.”

 “we’ve met,” you and jungkook both said in unison, which forced you to resist a wince. 

 jungkook, instead, chuckled at you. “i didn’t take you to be the type to study on a friday evening.”

 you sighed, feeling the embarrassment creep up on you in the form of reddening cheeks. to your left, doyeon was confused and looked between the two of you. you figured that you would tell the story instead of giving her questioning look a silent answer. 

 ***

 last weekend, you came to the conclusion that college was going to be really, really fun - or so, you kept slurring, as your other roommate, yeri, helped you into an uber. it was the end of the first week after moving in and she convinced you that it was a good night ot get loose. she was definitely the party girl out of your trio that dormed together and was ecstatic when you accepted her invitation to join you at a bonfire party that night. it was one of the first things she said to you actually, as you met just ten minutes before the party - yeri was already a social butterfly by the first week of school and had been getting up early and leaving late nearly everyday.

 “it’s so fun, i love it here,” you sang, as yeri giggled at you and pushed your legs into the car.

 earlier that week, on the very first day of move in, you had an inkling you would wind up in this sort of situation.

 it was apparently a well-known fact across the student body that stratton hall was one of the least desired residence buildings. it was a poorly designed dormitory with strange floor layouts and an air-conditioning system that worked on a system of luck, maybe some prayers. the walls were also notoriously paper thin. worst (or best, depending on what kind of student you were) part of it all was that it was a party hall. students were loud and loved to have fun. that was definitely why some students hated stratton, or that it was the only dormitory that had three people rooms. 

 the idea didn’t really occur to you to mind. it would have made more sense that you would, as you were an only child and never had to share a space in your life. if anything, you were a bit desperate for friends.

 a strange feeling pooled in your stomach after your mom dropped you off and you were left alone with no one to even share the news with. you walked away from your hometown and didn’t look back on your old life, which meant the people in it were also a memory put behind you. 

 the falling out you had with your childhood best friends after high school ended was not only timely, but deceivingly painless. it came at a time where you had to pack up regardless, so you made sure the change wasn’t something to dwell on. you figured you would make new friends in college, but nobody could have prepared you for how empty you would feel on the very first day. 

 there was no one to tell about how you were now eighteen and on your own, which meant that you could do anything you wanted. buy a lottery ticket and some cigarettes. if you ever failed college, you could go ahead and sign up for the military. you could get one of those butterfly tattoos you keep seeing on your pinterest feed. the possibilities were endless. . .but, no one to share these thoughts with.

 “oh!”

 a pretty girl with dark hair hauling a louis vuitton suitcase burst into the room, as if she didn’t mean to open the door with such force. her eyes were wide like a doe and she caught her balance by clutching onto the timber door. 

 for a second, you forgot that other people would be living in this room. after shooing your overprotective mother away, you dragged all your boxes inside by yourself. the room was just as small as you expected, but the scene outside framed a view of the quad and let sun pour in a way that made the eggshell white walls sparkle. there was a bunk bed and one twin bed. you claimed the latter, not feeling bad about it. you had just plopped down to test the mattress for how cardboard-y it would feel, when she walked in. or, rather, nearly fell in. 

 “hi,” you started. “er, doyeon?”

 it was a lucky guess, a real fifty-fifty chance based on your papers from the housing department, and you got it right. she nodded with a smile that belonged into a toothpaste commercial. you liked the sunglasses perched on top of her head, they were tiny black circle lenses and pulled back her hair in a way that just the perfect amount of strands fell out in the front, framing her face. she had long eyelash extensions and wore jean shorts with a plain t-shirt. 

 doyeon walked up to you, not even blinking at the fact that you took the twin bed. “nice to meet you,” she extended her hand.

 you were grateful for her instant warmth. otherwise, you would have probably second guessed every single interaction, hoping that she didn’t secretly hate you. doyeon made it clear that she was genuinely looking forward to living with you.

 making friends on the first day of college was akin to making friends on the first day of kindergarten. everyone was hopelessly trying to make friendly eye contact and propped their doors wide open, crossing their fingers that the people passing by in the hallway would say hi. most people filled out their “get to know us!” piece of paper and pinned it to their doors by the end of the week. 

 you and doyeon became friends as fast as any kids on the playground. the first day of college was just like the first day of kindergarten, where these things came fast and naturally.

 after a bit, it became obvious to you that doyeon was struggling with meeting new people, but she also wanted to try hard. she seemed shy and you admired that she wanted to move past it. 

she admired your confidence that shone in your easy smile and casual suggestions of what you wanted to do together, automatically considering her a friend. the two of you went to the dining hall together for the first time ten minutes after this meeting. 

 “do you know anyone else here?” you asked, digging into your mess of a salad. the salad bar in the dining hall had an insane amount of options and you piled a little bit of everything onto your plate. 

 honestly, you panicked. you’d never seen so many choices at once and the line moved at lightning speed. you were pretty sure you ended up putting three different dressing onto your meal. 

 doyeon picked at her lasagna. “my cousin, that’s it,” she replied. “i hope we meet our other roommate soon.”

 “do you think she’ll also want to do a spa night with us?”

 “maybe she can braid our hair since we don’t know how to.”

 you thought for a moment. “that would be nice.”

 there were some signs of life from your third roommate - kim yerim - but, never her actual presence. by the time the two of you returned from the dining hall, she had moved her belongings onto the empty top bunk and claimed a desk. she put up her taylor swift records on the wall and laid out pink, satin sheets on her mattress. after that, she seemed to constantly come home later than everyone else and wake up earlier, leaving before either of you could have a conversation with her. you saw her several times in the middle of the night, her figure turning on the top bunk and it felt like she was a sleep paralysis demon that only appeared at ungodly hours. by the time the sun rose and your eyes fully opened, she was always gone.

 at this point, you were starting to wonder if she was a weirdo or she hated the two of you. maybe she didn’t like the fact that the two of you claimed your beds. but, she was leaving cute little post-its on the door that said “have a good day!<3” and she filled out the get-to-know-me form. you discovered that she preferred to be called yeri and that her favourite movie was legally blonde. all green flags. 

 you and doyeon had been speculating that entire week about when you two would finally meet your third roommate. it was nerve wracking to share a space with two other people for the first time in your life and you’d hit it off with doyeon, so you were praying that yeri wouldn’t turn out to be some obnoxious monster that you would have to be stuck with for the rest of the year. it was a little scary, how she snuck in and out like a shadow without being seen for the entire week. doyeon had a habit of staying up late to read and even she had yet to meet yeri when she came home.

 the behaviour was bizarre and you thought she was going to be insane.

 instead, yeri turned out to be a blonde ray of sunshine that bursted into your room at around six pm on the first friday of the semester, clutching a box of muffins that she bought for you and doyeon. she apologized for not being around, since she was determined to attend every single orientation week event, and introduced herself with a smile. 

 with one glance at her seemingly boundless energy, you finally understood. she was practically bouncing off the walls in excitement and you could totally see how she could survive off of three hours of sleep if her body was so naturally full of energy.

 doyeon chuckled awkwardly. “i was thinking you weren’t real.”

 “i’m an early riser! oh, and my parents didn’t leave after helping me move in until today,” yeri explained. “they insisted i crash at the hotel a few times.”

 she had just entered the dorm and both you and doyeon thought you were seeing a ghost, not believing that it was actually yeri in the flesh. apparently, she had made an effort to explore campus and do just about everything offered to freshmen.

 it was easy to talk to her, though. yeri swung her legs happily as she sat at her top bunk, chatting with you and doyeon like she’d known the two of you her whole life. in addition to attending all the orientation week events, yeri also made it her mission to seek out just about every extracurricular activity at the club fair. 

 “i’ve signed up for model un, cheerleading, the pre-med students association, ceramics club, acapella. . . “

 you blinked. extracurriculars hadn’t even crossed your mind since arriving at college. maybe it was something worth considering if you wanted to make new friends. 

 “were you home-schooled or something?” doyeon blurted out, genuinely concerned. 

 meanwhile, yeri giggled at the statement and shook her head.

 your roommates to be completely different from you, yet you would find out that these girls would become your closest friends and would complement you in ways that you’d never found in people before. the three of you spent the next thirty minutes formally getting to know each other. 

 you learned that doyeon was, in fact, loaded. she said her dad owned a “few” businesses and that was all you needed to know. yeri had all brothers, which was why she was so excited about living with the two of you, even if it was in the dreaded three person dorms. you mentioned casually that your parents just got divorced earlier in the year, but didn’t delve too much into it. not yet.

 introductions wouldn’t last long that night, though, as yeri told you and doyeon that she was off to a bonfire party and invited both of you out. of course, doyeon declined, opting to stay in and read a book. on the other hand, yeri’s sparkling eyes were difficult for you to say no to. 

 and, in a matter of time, yeri was cheering you on by the murky local beach water, as you took a shot of vodka straight from the bottle. and again. and again. the person encouraging you and helping you walk?

 jeon jungkook.

 this boy just showed up everywhere, it seemed. 

 “you’re really good at this!” yeri exclaimed, as if your face wasn’t scrunching into one of complete disgust after the first. 

 the sun was already slowly going down by the time you arrived, as the first glimpse of the stars danced in the sky and twinkled upon you. you didn’t think hard enough to dress properly for the occasion, as yeri left your dorm wearing just itty bitty jean shorts and a tank top, but she didn’t seem to be as bothered by the sea breeze as you were. you chose to wear baggy jeans and a tube top, which was exactly what you were donning all day, and ended up being left shivering as soon as you arrived at the beach. you tried to stay close to the bonfire, which was difficult to do when the crowd began increasing as the night went on.

 this went on for hours and if asked today, you couldn’t remember too much of it. you remember college kids lamely singing along to pursuit of happiness on someone’s busted up bluetooth speaker. at some point, a random beer was shoved into your hand and you hated every sip of it, but felt awkward without anything in your hand, so you kept it as a prop. yeri introduced you to all kinds of people that were blank faces in your memory that night. 

 all blank, except one.

 “jungkook! i didn’t know you were here!” yeri waved happily to an oddly familiar man, along with his friend. “y/n! this is jungkook! we went to high school together.”

 when you looked up and saw who jungkook was, it took you a second to recognize him from the bean. he didn’t seem to realize, though, which you attributed to the mystery liquid swirling in the red solo cup clutched in his hand. he was as incredibly attractive as he was the first time you saw him, now wearing a maroon hoodie and jeans. 

 “nice to meet you,” jungkook said, “oh, this is jaehyun, my roommate.”

 jaehyun didn’t seem like the type to enjoy people on a cold beach with drunk people. you thought he was initially pretty shy, hands stuffed in his pocket and the eyes behind his black frames often gazing into the distance during conversation. he had on a polite smile, but didn’t spoke unless spoken to. 

 meanwhile, the other male was more at ease. you noticed he was chatting with a few other partygoers before yeri approached him, easy jokes and chatter flowing out of him. he’d been in a pretty laid back mood, sipping on the disgusting jungle juice that someone brought. he greeted yeri with a familiar side hug and then, he noticed you.

 right then and there, jeon jungkook wasn’t entirely drunk.

 though he was introducing jaehyun, his own eyes remained fixed on you like glue. for a moment, time seemed to stop, even if it were for a split second. it was a foreign feeling warming your chest when his eyes were locked on yours, just as it was when you met at the bean. you tried shaking it off, but it wasn’t necessarily unwelcome. the feeling was inviting and so were jungkook’s eyes.

 nobody seemed to notice this synergy except yeri, whose lips stretched out into a devious smile. “do you guys want a shot?” she offered, pulling a flask out her back pocket. you didn’t even know she had that. her sneakiness elicited a laugh out of you and that was when you realized that you were properly tipsy.

 without hesitation, you nodded enthusiastically and she handed it to you with a sly smile.

 “what is it?” jaehyun asked, just as you brought the opening to your nose and gagged at the sharp attack on your senses. 

 yeri laughed, “don’t do that, silly! that’s the last thing you wanna do. c’mon, y/n, it’s all you!”

 you caught jungkook’s amused expression watching in the corner of your eye and realized that there was no going back now. even yeri’s face read ‘don’t you embarrass yourself in front of this cute guy,’ so you squeezed your eyes shut. 

 the liquid burned your throat and you nearly gagged it back up once you threw your head back with the flask. your newfound friends were the only reason why you didn’t, as they cheered you on. without opening your eyes, you held out the flask for the next person to take.

 “let’s go, jungkook!” jaehyun let out an amused chuckle, clapping.

 you watched jungkook take a healthy shot out of yeri’s flask like a pro, in spite of the shudder he made after completing the job. as yeri and jaehyun took their turns, jungkook turned to you in low conversation.

 “i’m not a big drinker. . .” you admitted, as the warmth of whatever liquor you drank began to spread across your body. 

 your parents were always the strict type and upon choosing a college hours away from home, you made it your mission to try and do things you were never able to do. go to parties late at night. drink until you were drunk. all sorts of things that you wanted to shape your ‘college experience’. taking shots out of anything was a new development for you.

 he flashed one of those dangerous boyish grins at you, the kind that mothers warned their daughters about.

 jungkook said, “nah, you did good. going out of your comfort zone tonight, huh?” 

 truth be told and although you would never admit it aloud, you entered college blazing and desperate to make friends. this was a new start and you were more than eager to forge a friendship with yeri, with whoever sat next to you in lectures - hell, you were trying to even make friends with the janitor in the science building. 

 “something like that.”

 the ‘something’ ended up being several more shots until standing straight became a chore. 

 you were having the time of your life, taking polaroids and playing volleyball until the time swept by like wind. at some point, after one drink too many, you took a look at your phone and when the words kept moving in your line of sight, you mustered enough self awareness to call it a night.

 you liked this. maybe you could get used to college. subtracting the way your stomach churned after all those drinks would also be nice. 

 at this point, the party split up into different groups by nightfall and you were nestled in a small circle with her and a few other people. others were slowly starting to leave due to the bite of the sea breeze picking up by the shoreline. the party was still lively, as animated conversation weft between everyone with music continuing to play in the background.

 “yeri, uhmmm, i think i should go back now,” you poked her arm. “i’m not feeling too, erm, well.”

 thankfully, she agreed in an instant to return to campus with you. yeri took one look at your face and didn’t hesitate. 

 “of course! i’m getting cold anyway,” she said, completely ignoring the jacket loaned to her from the random boy sitting on the left. 

 at the same moment, sitting in the same circle around a small fire, jungkook noticed the two of you getting up to leave and also stood up. he mumbled something to jaehyun, busy wedged in a conversation with several girls fluttering their eyelashes at them,. he nodded and bade his friend goodbye.

 jungkook already caught up to you before you got too far, eyebrows raised.

 “you guys going back to campus? i’ll order the uber,” jungkook offered, stifling a laugh at yeri, who was fumbling with her phone - too drunk to get past the passcode screen.

 looking back, it took a while to realize that it wasn’t just you and yeri in the uber, but jungkook, too. he’d been the one to open the door for the two of you, ensuring that nobody left anything behind, and even managed to get into yeri’s phone for her to text whoever she needed to. even if he was several drinks in himself, his watchful eye put you at ease.

 midway through, you had no choice but to roll down the window of the uber, desperately needing fresh air or else the contents of your stomach would surely end up on the floor of the car.

 “erm, so you guys are high school friends?” you asked casually, hoping it would take your mind off of the impending disaster in your body.

 by now, yeri was actually knocked out in between you and jungkook. her phone was still lit in her lap and she seemed to be mid-text, now with her eyes closed and mouth hanging open. you thought it was actually cute and a weight was lifted off your shoulders - you were grateful to find a friend in your roommate. you had a feeling that you and yeri would stick around each other for a while. meanwhile, jungkook looked over at her and snorted.

 “actually,” he began, “yeri used to date my older brother. we’re not super close, but we know each other enough - she’s the only other person from our high school to come to school here.”

 that was surprising, as you thought they were actually friends, but you’d also stick by any sense of familiarity if you had someone like that. you came to college without knowing a single person and it’d been one of the most stressful experiences of your life, regardless of whatever adventure your parents promised you would embark on.

 “are you from somewhere far?” you asked.

 jungkook hummed in confirmation. “yeah, out of state. what about you?”

 “about four hours away down south,” you answered. “still so crazy to me. . . how so many people here are from all sorts of places.”

 you were definitely a little bit too far in the deep end if you were swinging your feet, making philosophical remarks out of your ass. jungkook either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, instead entertaining your thoughts with meaningful nodding. 

 “i was a bit nervous about coming here, worried i’d be weird or stick out too much since i’m not from around here.” 

 that was one of the first thoughts you had when you arrived at school. you were second guessing every move, every word you said, because you were so concerned with making friends and creating a good impression on everyone you met.

 you sighed. “so, i’m not the only one?”

 “i almost wanted to turn back when my parents left me alone in my dorm room,” he revealed.

 “that’s a bit hard to believe,” you commented, which made him raise an eyebrow at you. “we just met, but you seem like the kind of guy who’d make friends and get through college just fine.”

 jungkook said, “oh yeah? why so?”

 maybe you had it all wrong. you always thought that beautiful people could have everything they could ever want in the palm of their hands. you found it to be one of those natural abilities that pushed you towards success in life - having people drawn to you, being personable, and not wandering around like a fly on the wall. it took quite the amount of liquor for you to even muster up the courage to not be so shy.

 jungkook was just that. he’d been making random people laugh all night and took shots with strangers like they’d been best friends for years. but, then again, so were you and you weren’t that kind of person.

 when you didn’t answer, jungkook smiled. “my brother told me all about how college is the place where you find yourself and blah blah blah. but, honestly, maybe he’s onto something.”

 those words were the same ones stuck to you like a tattoo. it made you smile - you weren’t alone in clawing for some semblance of a new identity.

 “didn’t realize fresh starts would be so nauseating,” you murmured, now clutching your stomach after the driver went over a particularly bad bump in the road.

 jungkook laughed. “you’re real funny, y/n.” even though you were thoroughly inebriated, the compliment still made your cheeks burn and momentarily made you forget about how the car ride almost just made you throw up. 

 thankfully, the bump happened just seconds before the driver pulled up to your dorm building. you breathed out a sigh of relief now that you were free from the sickness of the car ride. after thanking the driver, you nearly burst out of the car.

 at this point, jungkook shook yeri awake and she groggily stepped out of the car. 

 “hey, when did we get he - oh! y/n, are you alright?”

 yeri scurried over to where you dashed to, now down on your knees and hurling the contents of your insides into the nearest container you could find. unfortunately, it was a pot of daisies outside of stratton that fell victim to your drinking. 

 she didn’t hesitate to come over and hold your hair back. you couldn’t hear much, except her words of encouragement and the feeling of her rubbing your back like a mom. 

 “i’m - ergh,” you were cut off by another round of vomit, “never. drinking. ugh - again.”

 little did you know, this would be a moment between you and yeri that you would never forget. she would bring this night up about as often as she could for the next four years.

 meanwhile, jungkook walked over to the nearest vending machine, conveniently housed just outside of stratton hall, and bought a bottle of water. before he generously handed it over to you, he had also taken a few gulps. you didn’t notice, still heaving over the damn potted plant.

 “shh. . .good job. now, drink up!” yeri said, putting the bottle in your hand, before alarm flashed in her eyes. she frantically patted down her pockets. “crap! i lost my keys.” 

 you groaned. “shit, i’m so sorry - i left mine on my desk.”

 yeri scratched her head. “aw man, i hope doyeon doesn’t hate us for this. . .i’ll call her now,” her shoulders dropped, as she walked away to make the call. luckily, you knew doyeon wouldn’t mind. 

 “i’ll stay by until you guys get into your floor,” offered jungkook, who was now sitting on the bench beside you. “i live on the third floor here with jaehyun.”

 you forgot he was there and now you were embarrassed that he witnessed all that. jungkook didn’t seem to mind, though, completely unaffected. he was too focused on examining your face, as you became initially self-conscious that he was just randomly staring at you. you clocked in that he was also not sober yet either. you realized he was in deep thought when he finally tilted his head at you.

 “i know you. we met at the bean,” he concluded, as if solving a riddle.

 “recognized my look of distress?”

 “i seem to keep giving you beverages whenever i run into you.”

 you laughed, making a crackling sound when you squeezed the water bottle. “yeah, that was me,” you said. “thanks for that coffee, by the way. you saved my life.”

 “i was hoping i’d run into you again,” he mused. by now, you realized that he was conversing with you as you were still hunched over the potted plant, so you swiftly rose to your feet as smoothly as you could.

 you cleared your throat, trying to act casual. “why so?” you asked slowly, unsure what the tone implied was. there was no way he was. . .flirting with you? no, it was the liquor playing games on you. 

 “y/n! doyeon is coming down to let us onto our floor!”

 you and jungkook both jumped at yeri’s shrill voice. she might have woken up the entire block with that yell. 

 the last thing you wanted to do was keep doyeon waiting, considering it was three in the morning and even if she was awake, she was likely tucked in bed. but, there was also some nagging part of you that didn’t want this conversation with jungkook to end. you weren’t sure why, but you just seemed to be lost in a trance with him. he also seemed disappointed that you were to leave, as his shoulders fell slightly with yeri’s announcement. 

 he smiled. “have a good night, y/n.”

 “hold on.”

 jungkook raised an eyebrow at you, as you fiddled around for your wallet. you thankfully found the piece of cardstock that you were looking for right away and handed it to jungkook.

 “what’s this?” he asked, examining the front and back.

 “it’s the loyalty card from the bean. i bought four coffees, so the fifth one is free,” you explained. “you can have it - i owe you one, don’t i?”

 when you walked into your dorm room that night, yeri was already fast asleep, despite having only been a few steps ahead of you. doyeon was, like she said she would be earlier, reading and tucked into bed after unlocking the door for you. you offered an apology, but she only waved it off with a giggle, clearly amused by you two. 

 before drifting off into sleep, you noticed how bare the dorm room walls were and decided you would buy some posters the next day. thoughts of string lights and polaroids wrapped your mind, as you wondered if you would see jungkook again.

 ***

 and that was the last you remembered of jeon jungkook from that night.

 now, he was standing in front of you, at the very coffee shop where you first met and you watched as the memories played back for him in front of his very eyes. eventually, his recollection came back to him and he couldn’t help but chuckle.

 this was your third meeting now and you wondered if it was this easy to run into someone on a campus full of thousands of undergraduate students.

 (you realize by junior year, after watching several friends falling victim to unfortunate situationships, that running into people you would rather die than see is, unfortunately, common.)

 doyeon and seokmin looked between the two of you strangely.

 “uhm, jungkook and i met at a bonfire at the beach last friday,” you explained, eying him. “he’s the one that called you, doyeon, to help yeri and i get back into the building when we were locked out.”

 he was too kind for his own good, considering he waited patiently to ensure that his barely an acquaintance of his brother’s ex girlfriend and a random girl would make it home safe. 

 “oh! that was you?” doyeon nodded slowly. “thanks for that, you’re really nice for helping out.”

 jungkook chuckled, “no big deal. it’s nice seeing you again, y/n.”

 his eyes fell on you and you stifled an ugly, nervous laugh. 

 you managed to swallow down the weight of embarrassment. “are you off to another party tonight?”

 “nah, we just wrapped up practice and shit was tiring as hell. we’re just gonna call it a night, maybe game,” jungkook said. “not all of us are party animals like you.”

 that was definitely far from who you were. the morning after the bonfire, you continued to further swear up and down that you would never drink again. even now, thinking about alcohol made you shudder and you were convinced that you needed several more business days before you could even consider going out, whether there was alcohol involved or not. 

 “hilarious,” you laughed dryly at him.

 meanwhile, doyeon was just growing irritated with her cousin. ”you made the swim team?”

 “pft, obviously.”

 “you’re awful. you couldn’t even get a scholarship,” she shot.

 seokmin rolled his eyes. “that’s what walk-ons are for, stupid,” he said. “kook’s the scholarship, though, he’s freakin’ amazing.”

 as the two went back and forth, you and jungkook shared an entertained look. they fought like siblings and their clashing personalities didn’t help. 

 “anyway, no party tonight, but we’ll be going to the tailgate next saturday, though!” seokmin continued with enthusiasm.

 doyeon began to grumble. “seokmin, you know i don’t go to those things,” she began to wave him off.

 “what tailgate?” you asked.

 jungkook shrugged. “it’s the parking lot party before the big football season opener. campus security doesn’t really care about drinking at these things, so it usually ends up being crazy every year.”

 “you’re so boring, doyeonie, just show up once,” seokmin pleaded with his cousin, before turning to you. “y/n, tell her!”

 “can you leave us alone, we’re trying to study,” she snapped before you could answer and it was more of a command than a request.

 both you and jungkook were not prepared to get in between them, instead continuing to observe the argument with amusement. eventually, doyeon cussed at seokmin enough for him to concede - at least he did after she physically swatted him out of her space.

 “hey,” jungkook spoke up, which made you turn to him. “if you change your mind about the tailgate, let me know.”

 it took a second to realize that he was now pulling a random notebook out of his backpack. jungkook then tore off a random page and began scribbling on it. it was his number. 

 now, you were not the kind of girl to throw up in front of someone you just met and have the confidence to hang out with them again. in fact, you could have probably gone without seeing jungkook ever again for the next four years out of sheer shame. however, you were too preoccupied with the fact that a boy was giving you his number. you were also fixated on the fact that he’d written it down, old school - who does that anymore? these days, guys only ever wanted a girl’s snapchat or instagram.

 you gingerly took the paper, still baffled that it just happened. seokmin and doyeon were still bickering next to you, before jungkook took it upon himself to finally interrupt.

 “let’s go, seokmin,” he insisted, exasperated that they were still going back and forth. 

 seokmin rolled his eyes, but gave up. “yeah, yeah, i’m coming,” he said. “bye y/n, nice meeting you!”

 as doyeon muttered profanities under her breath about her cousin, you were trying to not make it obvious that the piece of paper with jungkook’s number literally burned into your palms. you could have squealed like an idiot. instead, you slid it into your anthropology binder and pretended to go back over your notes for the quiz. 

⇢ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @fancypeacepersona @petiteparler @lanie97 @httpjeonlicious @bleumornings @rpwprpwprpwprw @kikiflwr @kissyfacekoo @knivesdoingcartwheels @joyjunk @jksusawife @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona (reply to be tagged and if i forgot to tag you!)

[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 09: Underground

Day 08 • Day 10

⟢ I was getting confused with this prompt. As—underground could mean so many things, depending on the context. But one idea kept clawing back into my brain—corpse AU. And oh, dude. I got way too hyped about it. Turns out, @ghostlyglimmer and I had the same deliciously dreadful idea! Go check out her hauntingly good work here! As for mine? Uhh, well—I turned Danny into uhh—something a little more post-mortem than usual (duhh). Think like—half-dead, half-ghost, full-on corpse aesthetic. Possessed corpse? Danny as a ghostly remnant that crawled his way out of his grave. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Horror • TW/CW: Death — Memory Loss — Identity Loss — Emotional Distress • AU — OOC

Danny was dead. He just didn’t know.

His eyes snapped open to pitch black—thick, suffocating, endless. The silence was too loud.

Then—

A green eerie light. A flickering glow bloomed somewhere in the dark. Acidic light pushed into retinas that no longer needed to see, searing across nerves that shouldn’t be burning. He gasped, or… he tried to. But his lungs didn’t move. His heart didn’t beat. No air, no space. Just… cold.

There was nothing. No memory. No name. No life.

All he knew he was trapped.

I need to get out.

He reached upward, lifting his trembling hands—and they met something rough. Wooden. Dry. Pressed against his palms like a lid. A box. Too small, too tight.

A memory sliced through the fog—white light, searing heat and pain. A scream that never ended.

His.

“No,” he rasped, his voice cracked like brittle glass. “No, no—”

Panic shot through him. His fingers clawed upward again, splinters digging in—except… they didn’t. His hand passed through the lid. Not touching it. Just… slipping.

“The fuck…?”

His breathing quickened—but there was nothing to breath. His chest rose on instinct, not oxygen. There was no warmth, no blood. But something churned inside him, rising from deep within the center of his chest. Something icy. Wild. Terrified.

Realization crept in—this was a coffin. A grave. He was underground, sealed in silence and death.

Six feet under. Buried. Gone.

“I’m not—I’m not dead!”

His body shuddered. A jolt of agony ripped through his spine.

He screamed, and then—something changed.

His clothes tore into black and white in a blur of flickering energy. He didn’t feel it happen. He didn’t mean to. He just panicked—and something inside him answered.

He clawed his way upward, intangible, through dirt and soil and death. His body no longer felt like his own. Cold. Weightless. Wrong.

He burst out of the earth and soil with a gasp he couldn’t feel. And when he looked down at his hands—they weren’t the same. They were covered with white gloves, faintly glowing, trembling. His hair was pearl-white, catching the corner of his glowing green eyes.

And finally, he understood.

He was a ghost.

But he didn’t know who he’d been, didn’t know what he’d lost, didn’t know how he got here or why his bones felt weightless and hollow. Didn’t know what came next.

All he knew was that he’d died… and death hadn’t stuck.

They’d buried him alive—or so it felt. But no… he’d been dead. Truly dead. And now he was back—aware, conscious, no longer rotting in silence. No longer sleeping in that box meant to hold him forever. And now? He was alone, hollow, lost. With no memories, no name, and nothing but the weight of death clinging to his… skin, he had to piece together a life he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not… I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m still here. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t need to breathe—I don’t need oxygen. There’s nothing inside me. No heartbeat. No warmth. Just this… silence and… cold. I’m a ghost. I’m a fucking ghost. Fuck. No. Why? Why wouldn’t you just let me die? Why couldn’t you let me rest in peace?”

He swallowed hard, even though he didn’t need to.

“What do I remember? I remember… a flash—no, a blast—of… of white light, ripping through me. I remember the pain—so much pain—tearing through every nerve like… like fire. I don’t… that’s all. That’s all I have left. There’s… there’s nothing else.”

He grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling so hard like it might help him get his memories back. Confused… he was so confused. Panic consumed him again. He could still feel—but it was hollow, empty. Feeling devastated. Like remembering emotions he couldn’t place. The physical sensations were gone. No pain, no nerves. Just… nothing.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The only thing he felt was weightlessness. Like gravity had let go of him. Like the world no longer needed to hold him down.

He let go of his head, lowering his translucent arms as he slowly turned around. His eyes landed on the stone sticking out of the earth—the one he’d just crawled from.

There was a name carved into it.

“Daniel James Fenton.”

He stared. The letters made sense. He could read. So… not all of his memory was gone. But the name—it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t feel like his. He could still speak. That was something.

“The fuck is happening to me?”

His knees gave out. He sank to the ground, one hand sliding up to the gravestone. His gloved fingers traced the curved lettering with a kind of detached reverence.

“Was that… me?”

He asked himself. But no answer came. He sighed—a useless motion, but it came anyway. Muscle memory, maybe. A mimic of something human.

His fingers hovered over the name like it might spark something—some memory, some feeling. But there was nothing. Just letters. Just stone. Just silence.

“That… is me?”

He whispered again, quieter this time. But the wind didn’t answer either. He stared at the name like it belonged to someone else. Someone real. Someone who was loved, who laughed, who had a life. Someone human.

But that wasn’t him anymore.

Whoever Daniel James Fenton was… he’d been buried six feet under. And what clawed out of that grave wasn’t the same.

He sat back, knees sinking into the soil, the chill of death wrapping around him like a second skin. His white hair drifted in the still night air. His chest didn’t rise. His body didn’t ache. His heart didn’t beat.

But something deep inside him did hurt. And he didn’t even know why.

“I don’t… I don’t know who I am.”

He said, voice barely above the wind, like a broken echo. But the grave didn’t answer.

And neither did the boy… who once lived.

⟢ That second part wasn’t planned—it just came out of nowhere. And I really needed to stop myself before I ended up writing an entire phic about it, lol.

[sunnami]

❝like the grass wants to grow, i want to run anywhere that you go.❞

summary. 'a tiny butterfly flapping its wings today may lead to a devastating hurricane weeks from now.' or alternatively, it takes six lifetimes for you to find each other.

pairings. poly!marauders+lily x reader.

word count. 8.9k (i tried to keep it short. i really did T-T)

tags. hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, happy ending. reincarnated/regressor!reader. no specific gender described. not proofread, we die like lucerys velaryon.

cws. brief depictions of death and war, themes of mental health and trauma.

note: lmaoao, as per the poll, here is the time-traveler!reader fic! i didn't cry during the angsty parts so it's probably not that bad.

YOU WAKE UP to a familiar weathered stone ceiling, owls softly hooting beyond the curtained windows, sunken in the mattress of a canopy bed with low snoring on either side of you. There’s a wilting candle on your nightstand, alongside an unfastened leather journal—a whiff of spilt ink under your nose. In your limp embrace, is a plush capybara with a turtle attached to its head. The quilt blanket is entangled between your thighs, the early morning breeze flurrying past the exposed stretch of your belly where your oversized granny-square jumper has ridden up.

It’s only then, when you try curling your fingers and wiggling your toes, that you realize that your body feels as though it had been hit by a shrinking charm. 

You sit upright instantly, heart skipping a beat from fright.

No.

You can’t have.

You reach for your brass handheld mirror, tucked away in the bedside drawers. 

There is no way you are this unlucky.

Yet staring back at you, is your eleven-year-old self.

Naturally, you end up screaming in frustration—startling the robins idle on the windowsills and all but waking the entirety of the Gryffindor castle. Prefects burst inside the dormitory, wand at the ready and crust in their eyes, in search of a threat only to find you on the verge of hyperventilating.

Bloody hell. 

Not again! 

Merlin, Morgana and Arthur—you are not going through puberty a sixth time.

“Oh, fuck me,” you mumble defeatedly as you fall back onto the patchwork pillows. Your roommates are gawping at you in horror, the sound of heavy footfalls echoing in the halls outside. 

Months ago, you had heard about the gruesome passing of Dorcas Meadowes—you weren’t necessarily close friends with the girl, despite being sorted in the same House, but you would grieve where grief is due. 

YOUR FIRST LIFE came to an abrupt end at the age of nineteen, in a quaint coffeehouse where the owner knew your name and the baristas wore a sunlit grin everyday. That day, no one had expected for Death Eaters to wreak havoc in Diagon Alley—it could have been anticipated, if only the Ministry was competent during the onset of the war. But with the extensive list of Muggleborn and half-blood casualties after that incident,  Ministry officials had no choice but to restrict certain areas and propose the ‘lesser-breeds’ go into hiding for their safety. This alluded to many families; most condemned to be blood-traitors. 

(There had been fleeting whispers of her dying at the wand of Voldemort himself.) 

Then, you’d woken up in the four walls of your dormitory. The sensation of being ever-so cruelly struck by the killing curse burning in your chest—a scorching fire, yet bitterly cold all the same. You had sobbed wretchedly, curled up in a shuddering ball of tears until your roommates had called for the prefects. It got worse when they tried to console you—you felt everything still. The panicked cries and screams of the wounded ceaselessly echoing in your head.  You remembered the shards of glass sinking into your skin as you dove for cover, Unforgivables apathetically hurled in every direction. 

It was not until Madam Pomfrey administered a Calming Draught and an elixir for dreamless sleep that you finally went out like a light extinguished.

Your second life was relatively longer—you had spent it under the supervision of mind healers at St. Mungo’s, after all. For the next thirty years, you’d been confined to a ward on the fourth floor. (Later, you would share this space with a couple who went by the names of Alice and Frank Longbottom.) Regardless of the bleak walls, it was not so bad. The quilts were warm and the assigned matron, Madam Strout, was kind and fussed over you regularly. While the healers had done everything they could, you continued to struggle with discerning what appeared to be your ‘first life.’ (Which one was your true reality? The first? Or the second?) Eventually, all the poking and prodding wore you down. Your fingertips had bruised and brittled. You could not look over your shoulder in fear of finding a Death Eater staring back at you. Night terrors plagued your dreams. 

(Your parents who had always embraced you with loving arms—they could not look you in the eyes now.) 

Memories bled into newer memories as the days went by. You haunted the corridors with a plagued stare, quickly becoming a woeful canard amongst the residents of the hospital. ‘The hysteric fortune teller,’ they called you. You who spoke of wars and rebellion at the age of twelve—but whose words nobody cared for when Voldemort began rising to power. You who’d gone mad and overwrought. In the end, you believed everyone else. 

(See? It must have been all in your head—a wayward spell that unfortunately damaged your memories.)

You’re unsure of how you died, but perhaps, you were never even alive in the first place. There was only so much Draught of Peace you could take before you inevitably became a soulless, sleep-walking husk of a person.

You woke up in the Gryffindor tower once more—this time, you’re careful enough to smother your cries.   

If you flinched every time Marlene McKinnon coarsely bellowed Dorcas’s name in the middle of the school hallways, or if you averted your gaze at the sight of Alice Fortescue and Frank Longbottom’s intertwined hands—it was nobody’s business but your own. In this life, you kept your head down, breezing through your homework and exams—although you had seen no purpose in it, at this point. Each morning that you woke up, you wondered if this was a favor from the Gods, or a relentless hell so meticulously-crafted for you.  

(But what sins had you committed for them to spit on you as they had done? Surely, you would be granted peace after two deaths.)

You could not tell your family, nor could you ask anyone else in Hogwarts if they remembered fragments of their past lives—for the last time you had done that, you were met with vindictive laughter and cruel gazes. 

(At that moment, you had understood Xenophilius Lovegood a little bit more. You never knew how many sought to trample on the wallflowers of the castle.) 

And so, you’d kept your head down until the end of your time in the castle. You stayed away from Diagon Alley and surrounding areas, and you willed yourself to perfect the art of apparating—a skill you wished that you had learned earlier. 

On the first of November 1981, witches and wizards had come to celebrate the fall of Lord Voldemort—which ultimately meant the death of James and Lily Potter. (You could not come to their funeral the first time around, seeing as you were chained to your hospital mattress that day, inebriated on the third dreamless sleep potion administered to you.) 

Under the eyes of St. Jerome, you laid bouquets of white roses and dahlias on their tombstones. 

“Wherever your souls are now, I hope you find each other and unearth peace,” you whispered to the two names engraved on the slate, hands clasped together as you rested on the grass. The winds had been cold and biting, a testament to the looming winter that would sweep away the tears on their graves. Like Dorcas Meadows, you did not interact much with James and Lily—but more than anyone, you knew how death was no easy enemy to conquer.

(You hoped their orphaned son would live a life that would not take him too early.)

A few months later, you met your demise to a werewolf named Fenrir Greyback. 

As you bled out on the grassfields, you wished for Death to come and take you faster.

When you awakened, it was in the same bed and the same dusty ceiling. 

There was nothing you could do but go back to sleep this time around.

After dying pathetically for a third time, a stubborn part of you wanted to fight back—so you did. 

Unlike your previous lives, you joined the Dueling Club, supervised by Professor Flitwick himself. Your wand work was clumsy and you stumbled on your incantations. You could not lift your wand without remembering a coffee shop laid to ruin and wreckage or the hardened gaze of Greyback as he sank his teeth into your neck. The times were merciless, your dance with Death even more—but you would not die helplessly again. 

As you lay in your bed, muscles aching from dueling practice, you had realized one thing. 

You did not want to stain your hands with the blood of another—having grown tired of the Reaper and his antics. If the Gods would not let you rest, then you would not let them take anyone else. 

After all, you had the stubbornness of a Gryffindor lion. 

For the next six years or so, you devoured your textbooks on charms and healing spells, refining your spellwork until your tongue grew numb and your wrists became sore. When the time came, you followed James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Lily Evans, and many more, in joining the Order of the Phoenix. (Perhaps you should have realized earlier that you all were just wide-eyed children on both sides, forced to partake in a war that should have never been yours to fight.) 

The First Wizarding War transfigured the years into a blur of mourning, surviving, and fighting in alleys now-bloodied. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, for brothers began turning on one another. You could only find solace in the fact you had kept Dorcas away from Voldemort’s clutches, volunteering to go in her stead during incursions, and Marlene McKinnon alive for another day to see her family.

But for how long could you cheat fate? 

Hours before your death, you found yourself in a forest clearing. The campsite was filled with witches and wizards afflicted with severe hexes and curses—a few of Dumbledore’s best fighters screaming in agony from the Cruciatus. 

There you found Remus Lupin, bruised and worse for wear, attempting to wrap a bandage around his shoulders in an empty tent. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” you said in a soft greeting, stepping inside the tent with a forced smile, your collection of potions and jars of herbal pastes jostling in your leather satchel. 

Remus chuckled tiredly. “Haven’t we all?” 

You gently pried the bandage from his trembling hands and maneuvering yourself at his back. You stifled the urge to cry at the sight of his scars—so violently red against his pallid skin. Compared to your previous lives, you had developed a friendship with Remus and his group of bold marauders—a camaraderie as true as it could be in dire times. (And if providence had been kinder, you could have dared to want more than just friendship.) You poured drops of Dittany onto his shallower wounds, murmuring empty words of comfort as he flinched and hissed.

“It’s Peter,” he rasped, abruptly holding onto your wrist as you turned to leave. “He’s been missing for hours. Please. I don’t know what I’d. . . what I’d do if. . . if. . .”

You squeezed his hand. “I’ll find him, Remus. Don’t worry.”

True to your word, you had found Peter at sundown deep within the forest. There was an unsettling quietude that hung in the air as you trudged to his side. He was kneeling on the muddy ground, head hanging low. It’s only then that you noticed the body laying still in his arms. Violent chills slithered down your spine as you recognized the woman in his embrace. 

“Mary!” you cried out, hurrying to them as fast as you could. 

“What happened?” you asked frantically, hands in a desperate search for a pulse. When you were met with no answer, you pressed again more heatedly. “Peter! Look at me!” You gripped his chin, heart hammering in your chest. “You have to tell me what happened! I can’t. . . I can’t help her if I don’t know what hit her.” Droplets of tears fell from your eyes down to Mary’s pale cheeks. “I can’t. . . I need—please. . .”

Bloodshot eyes stared back at you. “I. . . I didn’t want to do it.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, burying his head into the crook of Mary’s neck. “I was so, so scared.”

“Peter, what are you talking about?” You grimaced impatiently when Peter lifted his gaze—but he was not looking at you, rather behind you.

The answer to your question was a killing curse to the back.

An unseen rustle in the bushes that you should have paid attention to, a cloaked figure darker than any shadow; a Death Eater that’d come to ensnare you in a perfectly-laid trap. 

(Damn it!)

(Damn it all to Hell!)

You awoke to the sound of your screaming and your limbs thrashing in the bed you’ve grown to despise. There was nary a remorse in your body as your roommates wailed at the sight of your nails drawing blood from your arms. Later that morning, the common room would be filled with talks of your faraway gaze and your scratched-up flesh. 

You could not take it anymore.

In your fifth life, you had sought peace—or rather, the most beautiful mockery of it. 

You decided to give up your magic to chase a semblance of normalcy. No more wands, no more moving portraits, no more jinxes and pranks, no more owls and wizard robes. Most of all, no more war. (‘But it did not work like that’, Death laughed.) In this life, you wanted what was denied of you in the previous ones.

A family.

A happy ending.

Bitterly enough, the Gods saw fit to give you only one of the two. 

You married a Muggle, to your parents’ dismay. He was nice and compassionate—a distant contrast to the ongoing turmoil of the wizarding world. But you could not bring yourself to feel guilt. You had been stripped of everything, which included the privilege to die and lay your soul to rest in perpetuity. 

(Who were you, if not a dead man walking?)

Over the years, you would have three children with your husband—three beautiful children born from love, in a world that would not actively seek to take them from you. You raised them all to adulthood, hoping they would not fault you for finding relief at the lack of magic in their veins. Their names were Kinsley, Piper, and Avery—and you had adored every inch of them, from their striking eyes to the tips of their stubby fingers. 

On your deathbed, you were surrounded by your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. An image you held close to your heart as your vision began to deteriorate. 

Just this once, you prayed to all that would hear. 

Let me die surrounded by my family.

At the age of ninety-one, you drew your final breath.

And when you opened your eyes, you were back in Hogwarts for the sixth time.

TO SIRIUS BLACK, you are a curious little wallflower, albeit a withering one—you who blend among the crowd, with a sad gaze in your eyes and the fretful twisting of your fingers. He doesn’t know why he’s particularly drawn to you—but perhaps he understands, more than anyone, the hesitance of taking up space in fear of punishment for one wrong move. But you look so lost, meandering along the corridors like the ghosts of the castle—but even the spirits seem more alive and colorful than you. 

“What is it that they have taken from you?” Sirius wants to ask. 

(What judgment has fate placed upon you so—for you to cry each morning?) 

There is a raging urge in his veins to reach over and wipe your tears away, but what can he do as a stranger, if not watch powerlessly as you fade into the background? 

His fingers feel like they might fall off if they do not entwine with yours. He wants to offer up his shoulders to carry the burdens that weigh down on a creature as lovely as you. 

There are times when he and the other Gryffindors catch you crying at the long tables of the Great Hall. 

“O-Oh, was I?” Your reply is quiet. Resigned. Sirius has never felt his heart break more than in that moment. You move to weakly swipe at your tears. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .” 

“It’s alright, really,” Lily says, her voice strained, the words lodged in her throat. Under the table, she seeks James’s hand for comfort. (How can someone appear to be so lonely and defeated?) “We all have those days.”

“Yes.” You blink away the fresh tears pricking at your eyes, mindlessly pulling at the threads of your woven bandages, a weary chuckle falling from the cracked skin of your lips. “Except, it seems the days never end for me.”  

Lily stays silent. 

Sirius shares a look with Remus from across the table, an unspoken question hanging between the animagus and the werewolf.

How do their voices call out to the one who so faithfully believes that the world has abandoned them?

But Sirius Black is determined and unyielding—what good of a prankster would he be if he could not bring a smile upon your beautiful face? 

He gets his chance during Transfiguration class, when McGonagall instructs the class to pair-up for an activity in turning miniature statues into birds. Predictably, you don’t move a muscle, staring ever-so intently at the sights beyond the classroom windows that you don’t notice the professor observing you worriedly—her lips tightly pressed and her eyes wrinkled with concern. Sirius slams his buttocks onto the wooden chair next to you; the sound of chair legs screeching bounces off the cobblestone walls.

“Hullo, partner.” Sirius grins as he offers you an enthusiastic wave, his dark curls floundering with his energy. He feels the gazes of his best mates boring into his back, but decides to ignore it for now—Remus can live without him for one class. In his mind—a perfectly-reasonable logic for an eleven-year-old, mind you—he figures that you would find class more entertaining if you had the right company. And, Sirius is wonderful company. 

You stare at him with furrowed brows and Sirius wishes nothing more than to bring fire to your eyes. “Partner?” you repeat, a tinge of confusion in your voice—a deafening cadence to his ears, as for once, it is not desolation that laces your words. 

“Partner,” Sirius affirms with a nod of his head, barely paying heed to McGonagall’s directions at the front of the room—but noting the mention of a prize for the pair who would successfully cast the spell for longer than ten minutes. He takes your silence for uncertainty, and replies with a light-hearted scoff—finding the pout on your lips adorable. “I’ll have you know I’m a bloody master at Transfiguration. Not even James could match me in this class—okay, maybe he could, but that’s not important, is it? Point is, with me at your side, Minnie will have no choice but to give us a hundred points!” 

From the frown on your lips, Sirius gathers that you’re unimpressed by him—a first, but not a total setback. 

He seizes the small box of porcelain figurines before you can blink, a wry smile on his face as he wrangles a boastful laugh from his throat. “Ready to have your mind blown? I’ve been practicing this spell since last night. There’s no way I’m getting this wrong.” 

“Oh, I’m Sirius Black, by the way—at your service.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, wondering what your palm would feel like in his. Cold? Warm to touch? Or, perhaps, a perfect fit—just as Lily’s hand feels laced with his?

He doesn’t find the answer to his question. Instead, you draw your wand from your robe pocket, and point the tip of the wood at the earthenware at Sirius’s grasp. 

“Avifors,” you recite delicately—such a flawless incantation that Sirius hears Merlin himself weeping in the depths of his grave. 

The figurine grows feathers and a beak—Sirius and the rest of the students can only watch as the weebill flutters its wings and soars through the roof. 

He’s stupefied. Breathless, one might say. But not because of your little trick—rather, the growing smile on your lips as you watch the bird fly across the room. Your eyes flicker with mischief, and like a man on the edge of a cliff—what is Sirius Black to do, but fall? 

THE END OF YOUR first-year at Hogwarts draws near, and so does the springtime—a coveted season for lily flowers to bloom. The April winds find you out by the lake edge, swinging your legs idly on a marble stone bench where the cypress vines grow along the cracks. Songbirds fly overhead as the daylight glistens on the surface of the Black Lake, a beech tree in the near distance, butterflies dancing past the gnarled trunk. Pollen floats like dust in a cupboard under a staircase. Ducklings waddle after their mother as riverine rabbits scurry on into the tall, purple nettles. On days like this, you find it easier to settle into your new life—but, perhaps, you have your friends to thank for that. 

Yet, as you find yourself wanting to reach out to their outstretched hands, flashes of children with your hair, your eyes, cheekbones whittled to resemble your own, haunt you. Their pure and gentle temperaments, painfully akin to their father’s. You mourn them every day. Their names are forever inscribed in the locket of your soul. (You did not find it fair—you who live again, and they who disappear forever. An existence that would cease to be—all because you fear what awaits you in this life. Why must it be you who should walk this land with a body scarred by wounds no one else can see? Why must it be you who mourns the loss of your family, your friends, and all your loved ones—everyone murdered by the Gods who spit on the five graves with your name written on it? Why? Why?)

Do you dare to live a life without them? Is it fair to deprive them of a chance of being a family while you waste away on the Isles? You may have lived multiple lifetimes, but not once have you been given the answers you seek. 

You will not find happiness without them; it is as you deserve. 

(For why else would Death torment you so if you are seen as innocent in their eyes?)

“How did I know I’d find you here?” A sing-song voice emerges from the trees, and you’ve no need to turn your head—the sound of Lily’s bright cadence is one you’re familiar with. But, somehow, you’ve grown fond of her voice, more acquainted with her smile and laugh than you’ve ever been in the last five lives. (You have to wonder if this friendship is one you’re permitted to enjoy.) Her grin is blinding, more so than the afternoon sun behind her. Lily’s wavy hair falls over her shoulder as she plops down on the empty space beside you. “We didn’t see you at lunch today,” she says, looking ahead, the warmth of her hand inching closer to your own. “I figured you didn’t want a bunch of whiffy boys around.”

Then, she looks around, searching for any prying ears, a stream of giggles falling from her lips. “Although, I must warn you—their pockets are loaded with food stolen from the hall, saying they’d give it to you when you returned to the tower. But I think Minnie caught onto them.” She chortles, a fond gaze in her eyes. 

You hum in thought, a smile unknowingly pulling at your lips. “Thank you, Lily. It’s sweet of you to come and find me.” 

She harrumphs light-heartedly, snootily lifting up her nose. “Don’t get too used to it. We’re only just best friends, after all.”

A silence encompasses the two of you, sitting under the shade, pink fingers shyly intertwined. Lily allows the minutes to flow by like a breeze on the waters, until she stares at you with thick emotions flickering in her emerald eyes. She nibbles on her bottom lip, long lashes kissing her eyelids. “Are. . . Are you alright? Is it one of those days again?”

You grin at her question, impishly nudging her legs with yours. It’s a gesture you deeply appreciate—befriending you and growing closer to you in ways you imagine are never in your cards. But Lily is only eleven, and you will not act upon your selfishness. (But, maybe—just maybe—you are allowed to relish in their company until you are called once again to your deathbed. In the next life, they might not know your name as they do now, and the revelation frightens you immensely.)

“I’m okay,” you say, a gnawing lie that sounds unconvincing to even your own ears. You stare at the flock of swans diving in the lake. “I was just missing a few friends back home.” You remember the toddlers that you used to call your own—their spittled possessiveness toward anyone who dared to snatch your attention away from them. “I don’t know if they would be happy with me going off on my own adventure,” you say, sparing Lily a knowing look. “They are—erm—Muggles.” 

“Oh.” Lily nods, mulling over your words. “Tuney. . . my sister. She sort of resents me ever since I left for Hogwarts. We live a world apart, and it barely helps that she ignores me during the holidays.” She sighs, averting her gaze elsewhere, a grimace pulling at her mouth. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this was never meant for me. That I was just a fluke. Why do I have magic and not her? Any day now, I expect for McGonagall to come and ask me to pack my bags and head straight home.” 

“But,” says Lily, her eyes resolute and her fire unwavering, “until that day comes, I will enjoy every bit of this world as I can. Tuney will just have to deal with that.” She offers you a mellow smile—a likeness to a kind husband that you had once in a past lifetime. “Besides, I think those who truly love us will understand the paths we must take. Even if it means parting ways for a long time. Your friends will not blame you; they’ll want you to live truly and freely.” 

Her words sink deep into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a hearty laugh. You simper at the confused tilt of her head. “Wise words, Lily Marie Evans. Are you sure you’re only twelve?” 

Lily beams. “Mum likes to tune into the Sunday motivational-talk channels.”

(“The ones we love never really leave us, do they?” Sirius Black will tell you one day, when you’ve bared to him the truth of your lives, and he looks at you no differently than he has before—with all the adoration and fondness of his heart.)

Later, before you and Lily make your way back to the castle, you pick three flowers among the chicory weeds. She stays behind as you kneel by the riverside. For the children you have loved, and will continue to love for eternity. Droplets of tears fall onto the water, joining the floating blue petals. “I’m sorry that I cannot find you as you are,” you whisper, a heavy weight lifting from your shoulders. “But I hope that we meet again in this life, whichever names you may take.” 

(After all, what love is stronger than one that perseveres across endless lifetimes?)

You carry them in your heart—letting cherished memories remain as such. Otherwise, you’ll be chasing what can never be again. It would be an injustice to their names to try and replicate a shallow imitation of them. They deserve more than that—to be treated like a pawn in Death’s game. They were alive and you will honor them befittingly.

You bid them goodbye and allow the tethers of their soul to untangle from your grasp. 

It is the most difficult farewell—and yet, the easiest act of mercy you have ever carried out.

‘THE FLAP OF a butterfly’s wings can evoke a hurricane in the next world over.’ 

This is a phrase you’ve come to be familiar with over the span of your numerous lives. It has never been truer than the moment you step outside the infirmary to find a group of mismatched Gryffindors waiting for you in the halls. Their heads snap in attention at the sound of your footfalls. In an instant, you’re crowded with their questions and worries—but you find it endearing, the way your friends fuss over you. It’s certainly a welcome change from a past spent by your lonesome in the castle. (You only wonder what makes this life so different from the rest? Why is everything changing without you noticing? What will be taken from you for this deviation in time?) 

“How did it go?” James asks, now seventeen and captain of the Quidditch team, wavy tendrils of brown hair swooping over his round glasses. The broad of his chest fills out his red and yellow jumper, crocheted by Lily over the yule break—the five of you, including Peter, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas, have matching sweaters as well. 

Except, you like to tease them with a jest that Lily made yours with the most love—as no one else had the pattern of a capybara with an apple on its head. 

“Well enough,” you answer, patting his shoulder with a tired smile that reaches your eyes—for how could one not cheer up in the face of James Fleamont Potter? That would be saying the skies do not brighten in the company of the sun. 

By incontestable decree of Poppy Pomfrey, the headstrong matron of the castle, you are required to meet with a mediwitch from St. Mungo’s twice a week, since the start of your fifth-year. Healer Robbins floos to Hogwarts on Wednesdays and Saturdays to check up on your health, physically and mentally. Of course, you don’t divulge anything about your time-traveling dilemmas, lest you end up confined to a hospital ward again for the rest of your years. But you do end up addressing—albeit, begrudgingly—the dried tear stains on your pillowcase every morning, your wayward habit of purposefully missing meals, or your tendency to withdraw yourself from your peers on certain days—which coincidentally happen to be the anniversary dates of your deaths. (If no one would grieve for you, then you’d do it alone.) 

Who’d have thought that healing would be much more tortuous than hurting in the quietude of your room?

But one thing is for certain—this is a suffering you will endure with greed and hunger. 

For today’s session, Healer Robbins suggests you proactively live in the present more—which is easier said than done. 

“Although, she did tell me to stop slouching all the time,” you inform James, scrunching your nose in feigned offense, to which he replies with a hearty chuckle, pulling you into his embrace for a side hug. You burrow your nose in his scent of oakmoss and orris root, a lingering touch of broom polish as well—you feel the warmth of his hand splayed out on your back, and hide your grin into his chest. 

“Well, someone had to tell you,” says Regulus Black with a scoff, arms crossed over his chest, yet no genuine heat in his trenchant eyes. He looks pleased that you return unharmed from your meeting with Healer Robbins. Funnily enough, you’ve no doubt that the famed Black temper would emerge should you utter so much as a single word against the mediwitch. (You like her, though. Some days, Robbins lovingly spiels about her clumsy-footed wife—and in return, you talk about your sad feelings. Eurgh. Talk about a fair exchange.)

Among the many divergences in this life, one of them is the unforeseen friendship you have forged with Regulus Arcturus Black. But that story begins with Xenophilius Lovegood, when you stumble upon him in the Forbidden Forest chasing after a family of bowtruckles with a fervid expression and a journal in one hand. You protect him from foul-mouthed Ravenclaws, and he allows you to tag along in his woodland escapades—including a lifelong access to the kitchens beyond curfew. His lack of regard for personal safety is both endearing and maddening, you realize early on. One stormy night, you chase Xenophilius into the forest—he is barefoot, following the Mooncalf hoofprints, as you spit out strings of expletives and mouthfuls of rain. That is where you find Regulus, groaning in pain and carrying a burden that is much too heavy for a fifteen-year-old. 

Then, a year later, they decide to give you a heart-attack when you discover that Pandora and Xenophilius have taken Regulus under their wing—figuratively and literally. And, most of all, romantically.

You’re more speechless than Sirius had been when you catch him one fateful evening.

(“Don’t do it, Sirius Black,” you greet, startling the ebony-haired boy as you step out from the shadows. The common room is silent, save for the crackling embers in the fireplace. You stare at the sixteen-year-old with a vehement resolve, your hands curled into fists. If there is one fixed event you had to live through over and over again, it is the news of Severus Snape being nearly mauled to death by a creature so feared and gruesome. You will not let it happen in this life. His eyes flicker with shame amongst a sea of gray, and he knows that you know about his abhorrent idea of a ‘prank.’ 

You sigh, taking another step forward, hand coming to rest on his tense shoulder. “Let it go, Sirius. It’s not worth it. Bringing someone to harm is never worth it. If he dies, his blood will be on your hands—and you don’t want that, trust me. Be kind to him, Sirius—and even kinder to your brother. The two of you are all each other has.”

“Not true,” Sirius whispers back, almost afraid, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheeks. “I have you, Prongs, Lily, and Rem.”

“And Remus is exactly who we should be with right now,” you reply with a harsh glare. “Not in the common rooms trying to one-up Snape because of some childish rivalry.” With a long sigh and a shake of your head, you push back the dark curls from his face. “The times are cruel, Sirius. We must hold onto what we can.”

His forehead will fall onto your shoulder, and your shirt will be soaked with his tears, but you realize that you will hold him, and all those who’ve captured your heart, until Death himself pries you away from their embrace.) 

But, it all pales in comparison to the horror in Sirius’s eyes when you point at Regulus and Peter, as you utter with absolute conviction, “They are my dearest friends.”

While Peter may have been a traitor in another life, a murderer with blood and guilt staining his hands—he is only a skittish boy in this one. A timid student who hides behind the shadows of his friends. You will not let him go down that path again. The Peter Pettigrew you currently know is a mousy little thing, pun intended, who sneaks in a pouch of sugared jelly worms in the library for you and him to enjoy whilst copying off each other’s Arithmancy homework—you two automatically get perfect marks, seeing as you’ve went through school multiple lifetimes already. Truthfully, when you see him tongue-tied before Mary Macdonald, you can’t envision anything else than a lifeless body and a man apologizing for his sins. But it is hardly fair to condemn Peter for the sins of a life he has not lived—and will never live through, if you have anything to say about. 

A lion protects their pride, and that is what you shall do. Even if it tears you apart in the process. (Healer Robbins won’t be so pleased about that, though.) 

But, perhaps, the most unexpected surprise you’ve received this year is—shockingly—not the news of Dorcas and Marlene dating, and neither is Alice and Frank’s relationship as you have already known that since your first life. It is James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius announcing to the world, with a poorly-written poem for a gnome to recite on Valentine’s Day—courtesy of James Potter himself—that the four of them are in love. In all five lives, that has never happened. Not even Lucius Malfoy can call into question the genuineness of their devotion to one another—and he will not dare to do so in your presence, otherwise he’d find himself at the mercy of you and Narcissa Black.

The four of them are happy as one, and you would die to ensure they stay together until the end of their time. Dark lords be damned. 

An even bigger shock comes when their affection for each other unspokenly extends to you. Not in a manner that equals their rambunctious gestures—because the Marauders don’t do anything half-arsed. (And if they fall in love, they fall without fear.) But in a way that is quiet yet intense, ever-so mindful of your walls—with an intention to break them down slowly and only with your utmost permission. They leave you confused with each day that passes. (You fear that they think you pitiful for having not found a significant other.)

(For months now, your heart is set aflutter just by the sound of their voices—if they look at you as a token charity case, it would tear you apart.) 

Forehead kisses, hand-holding in the corridors, late nights in the kitchen—tipsy on gillywater and the scathe of each other’s touch. Picnics by the lake, bodies intertwined where no one knows where they begin or end. Ventures in the library where not a soul is paying attention to the passages of their textbooks—hushed giggles turning into unrestrained laughter until Madam Pince rounds the corner and has you all thrown out. (How long has it been since you felt so free?) It’s the little things, like your fingers brushing against theirs as you walk side-by-side, or the soft glint in their eyes as they stare at you from across the room—as though you are a jewel to behold. 

It is one thing to know that you are living a life after life—but it is another thing entirely to feel alive when they are nearby. 

You are alive when Remus relaxes on the carpeted floor of the Gryffindor tower, and as you lay on the velvet couch, he draws protection runes on your palm with his finger. When he thinks you’re asleep, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. When the nights are unbearably long and you find a safe haven in his embrace, and he in yours.

You are alive when James cages you in a bear hug after an intense Quidditch match against Slytherin, limp tendrils of hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, pressing a series of fervent kisses to the side of your head until his voice is louder than the cries of victory coming from the cheering stands. 

(“Lay back down, James Fleamont Potter,” you command tersely as you push him onto the infirmary bed. You narrow your eyes at the bandages wrapped around his arms and neck, as though it’d personally wronged you. “Don’t even think about getting up,” you quickly add when you notice his droopy eyes staring at the doors—where Sirius, Remus, and Peter have gone off for a night of mischief. With an exaggerated sigh, James will roll his eyes before pulling you into the bed with him.) 

You are alive when Lily scours the Great Hall in the mornings, hair fussed from sleep and her face bare, and when her eyes finally land on you—none misses the way she lights up blindingly, as if she were a poppy flower emerging from the forest floors and all her petals are curling towards the sun. She bounds over to you with a smile that draws everyone in the room to her. And your heart will have no choice but to swell three times its size when Lily falls asleep mid-meal, snoring with her neck bent and a spoon dangling from her mouth. 

You are alive when Sirius dashes across the room to claim you as his Potions partner. He’ll spend the rest of the class with a triumphant grin on his face—sitting on a rickety chair as he lazily admires the view of your backside. And may the Gods help the poor soul who dares to question your work. 

(“See that lovely creature over there?” Sirius will say with a dangerous lilt to his voice, pointing to you who’s quite busy squabbling with Severus and Barty Jr. over frog legs. “They will be the greatest apothecary to ever walk the wizarding world—so watch your tongue, mate.”) 

They are your limbs, the blood in your veins—the ache in your heart. The fires of your soul. And when they are near, you are finally whole. (Healer Robbins certainly won’t like that, either—but this is a thought you shall selfishly keep for yourself.) 

That is why you had come to a decision at the beginning of the year.

“I need to tell you all something,” you say, breaking out of your stupor and finally meeting everyone’s eyes. You meet Sirius’s gaze from where he leans against the wall, his attention on you—and only you. You reckon he notices the way you’re fidgeting nervously with your fingers, gnawing on your lip as you suck in a deep breath. It’s similar to the way he acted when he first told the group about his intentions to run away from his mother. Healer Robbins told you earlier to not dwell on the past—it’s only a thing that time-travelers do, she had said. You suppose there’s no better way to exercise honesty than to tell your loved ones about the secret you have been keeping for the last five lifetimes. You just hope they won’t look at you differently when all is said and done. 

Marlene’s gaze worriedly flickers from you and to the infirmary doors. “Has the mediwitch said something?” 

You shake your head. “There’s something you should know about me.”

Like a badly-written joke, a pack of lions, a snake, and a badger follows you into an empty classroom. They watch with furrowed brows as you cast a silencing charm over the room. You feel the weight of their curiosity as you take a seat in the center, drumming your nails on your lap as everyone moves to do the same. Remus wordlessly takes the seat next to you, as though being by your side is a natural phenomenon—like the shores never straying from the sand. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you return his kindness with a weary smile. You look at the protective circle that’s somehow formed around you. Marlene, Dorcas, Mary, Xenophilius, Regulus, Lily and the Marauders. (Since when did you gain a family like this in such a short time?) 

“Where do I even begin?” you ask with a shuddery breath. “It might get a bit intense. . . and sad, and I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s okay if you aren’t prepared to take this all in yet. I’d understand.” 

“What one of us goes through, we all go through together,” Dorcas vows with her head high. “It’s not the first time we’ve done this, love,” she says, looking at everyone else in the room. “We’re here for you. Always have been. It’s what friends are for, aren’t they? You taught us that. Let us return the favor now.” 

You laugh wetly, eyes crinkling with gratitude. “I suppose you’re right.” 

There is no time like the present.

And if all goes awry, you probably might just jump out of a window and reset everything. (You wouldn’t, really. This life is precious to you more than anything in the world.)

You close your eyes and draw air into your lungs.

No time like the present.

“When I first died, I was only nineteen.” Despite the pinched expressions and soft gasps, you force the words out. You have to. Otherwise, the tale of your lives will be buried with you forever. This is the first time you have ever said the words aloud. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. “Death Eaters came to Diagon Alley. It all happened so fast, next thing I knew the killing curse was cast straight at me.” 

Regulus flinches, and you offer him an apologetic grimace. 

“But that wasn’t the end,” you continue amidst their horrified wide-eyes—feeling Remus tighten his hold on your hand. You chuckle bitterly. “If it had been, maybe it all would’ve hurt less. When I woke up, I was back in the Gryffindor tower.” 

“What?” Lily frowns as a shadow is cast over her eyes. “But how?” 

“I wish I knew,” you reply with a lodge in your throat, eyes thick with incoming tears. “I really wish I knew. But I woke up back in Hogwarts. I was alive again. Somehow, someway, I was alive. But I was dying.” You shut your eyes, head craning to the ceilings as you swallow back a sob. “Have you felt what it’s like to be burnt alive? That’s what the killing curse is like. And I feel it everyday. When I told the nurses this, I was sent straight to St. Mungo’s. They could not heal what was not found in my body. They called me mad. And there was nothing I could do but believe them. It was like that until I died on an infirmary bed, leather straps around my wrists and legs, forbidden to leave the ward and feel even the sunlight on my face. I was deemed a threat to the others and myself.” 

Lily beats you to the punch and cries into her hands—the harrowing sound torn from her throat. Mary, with her own stream of tears, pulls Lily into a hug. 

“I-I told you it was ugly,” you say timidly, averting your gaze out of remorse. “We can stop here if you’d like.”

“We’re staying,” says Lily with a guttural edge to her words, eyes quickly growing red. 

“Then, in my third life, I died by a. . . Greyback—it was Greyback who killed me.” You intertwine your fingers with Remus’s, who’s gone ashen from the reveal. “It’s alright.”

“The bloody hell do you mean it’s alright?” James bellows, running a hand through his hair as he tears himself from his seat, chest heaving up and down. “None of this is alright! How could you say that? We. . .We should tell Dumbledore or something—or anyone! This shouldn’t have happened to you—it’s just too cruel. . .” 

“I know,” you acquiesce with a low hang of your head. “I know.”

Sirius exhales jaggedly. “Was that the last of it? Of your. . . your deaths?”

“No.” You stare at him with regret. “In my fourth life, I died in a Death Eater ambush.” 

Xenophilius looks like he might faint any second. 

“But in my fifth life, I met some people in the Muggle world,” you explain, remembering kind eyes and wide smiles, a family made in a home far away from magic and wars. “I loved them dearly. When I thought I was being punished by Gods, they gave me peace. They taught me unconditional love and I. . .” You let the tears drip onto your skirt. “I might never find them again, but I’ll never forget them for as long as I live. It was the only death given to me without pain.”

You watch as Lily’s doe-eyes flicker with realization. Three flowers in a watery grave. 

“And here I am now. The end,” you say, forcing a crooked grin as you brush the dust off your school robes. 

No one moves a muscle for the next few minutes. 

You freeze in fear. 

(Have you upset them? Do they see only a talking corpse now?)

The room is suffocatingly quiet and you can’t bear to see the pity or judgment in their eyes—so you run out of the room as though Death himself was hot on your heels. 

They are right behind you—of course, they are. (Where a part of their soul goes, they will follow.)

“Are you angry?” You quietly ask, wrapping your arms around your waist—afraid to turn around and face them. “I would not blame you if you are.” 

“No, not mad. Never.” Lily falls into place by your side, hovering but never stepping past your erected borders. “Maybe at the circumstances. It’s all so unfair. I’m. . . We’re just upset that you had to live through that all alone. To die over and over. I can’t imagine how much it must have hurt each time.” 

You nod, swallowing the urge to crumble on the floor. “Then you’ll understand why. . . why you and I—all of us—I can’t be with you.”

Remus frowns, stepping forward to reach out to you. “What?” 

“Don’t make this any harder than this has to be, please,” you beg, voice hoarse and hands trembling. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius presses further, a bitter acid to his words. He looks frightened, almost—guilt instantly pools in your stomach.  

“Don’t you see? Everything is changing!” You exclaim, grateful that you’ve chosen the abandoned corridors of the castle where no one dares to venture on a sunny day. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know what’s to happen next! I’d rather die again than let any of you get hurt.”

“Then don’t!” shouts James, veins straining against his neck, tears of his own glistening within his hazel eyes. “I would rather die than pretend none of what I feel—what we feel—for you isn’t real.” 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, James,” you retort with a sharp scoff. “I’ve no need for a relationship that’s borne from pity or charity.” 

“Pity?” Lily echoes incredulously. “You think I’ve confused love for pity? Is that how low you think of us? After all that we’ve been through?”

“Are you stupid?” Sirius bites back. 

“Excuse me?” you shriek. “Must I spell it out for you? I’m trying to protect you! I am cursed!”

“Not anymore than I am!” Remus bellows with his fists tightly clenched, his canines laid bare and his cheeks lit ablaze. “If you’re cursed, I must be damned. Why can’t you allow yourself the same grace that you’ve given us?” 

You wilt. “I can’t do it, Remus. I just can’t. If I die again, and everything resets—don’t you know how much it will kill me if we start as strangers again?” 

Remus encases you in his warmth, an embrace that promises to keep you safe from all harm. (What good of a monster would he be if he can’t rip apart your fears for you?) “Then we will find you in that life. And every life after that. We’ll use a pensieve, or anything at all—just so we don’t forget.”

You melt in his arms, bathing in his scent of caraway and bergamot. You feel Remus placing a kiss on the crown of your head. “All these things I know. All these lives I’ve lived through. What if I ruin everything in this life?” 

“Then do it,” Lily provokes stubbornly. 

“Ruin me,” James pleads raspingly—a falter in his steps as though he’d get on his knees and beg in an instant just for you to stay with them. “Ruin me as much as you’d like. You would be the most beautiful devastation of my life.” 

And so, you choose them. 

For there was never any other option from the start.

YOU WAKE UP in the dead of the night, sunken in a mattress that is one too small for five people to fit in, leafy vines and fairy lights wrapped around the posters of the bed. Sometime during the night, Lily had thieved the wool blanket for herself. You rest in between her and Sirius, their snores echoing into your ears as the grasshoppers chirp outside. The potted plants will swing from the ceiling as the evening breeze passes by. (You’ll scold James in the morning for leaving the windows open again.) By your feet, is a fat Tabby cat with one eye named Tuna. (Full name: Tuna Belly.) There are moving pictures on the flower-plastered wall, a testament to the life you share—and the life you have fought hard for. Ruffled pillows are strewn across the carpeted floor. Parchments and notes lay askew on the desk table across the room—Remus’s jittery preparation for his first day next week as Hogwarts’s newest professor. 

Remus will catch you wide awake and tuck you into his chest, murmuring, “Rest now. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow for Wormy’s wedding.” 

You’ll hum and relinquish your thoughts for the night, holding onto James hand over Remus’s belly. “I love you,” you’ll whisper. 

Remus will say it back without hesitation—and you know the others feel exactly the same. 

Minutes later, the door will creak open and a tiny shadow will come crawling into the bed, knocking into everyone’s knees and stomach. It’s a little Harry who’s three years old now. He curls under your neck and you will hold him with all the love that six lifetimes can offer and more. 

When you close your eyes, it is a comforting darkness that envelopes you.

(Somewhere in a castle beyond valleys and lakes, locked away in the dusty shelves of Dumbledore’s cupboards, sits a broken Time-Turner that finally stops ticking.)

a/n: i wrote the last 2k words like a woman posessed! LMAO. i have to be at training in 2 hours and i haven't prepared yet. tell me what you thought aaaaa!!!! and yes, your sixth life is your last life so u die happily and in peace mwah mwah. might continue this universe with drabbles, idk. if u spot any mistakes.. ignore it for a bit LMAO, i'll proofread this soon.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

I’m getting a little personal with this ask for Dr. Abbot but what if the reader always complements Dr. Abbot on his gray hairs and always loves touching his waves but he’ll just roll his eyes because it’s just another thing that shows he’s an old man compared to her. But one morning the reader looks in the mirror and sees a grey hair (in my case several brought on my stress) but on herself she freaks out so now his turn to comment on it in a loving way. Hope that’s okay!

Totally ok!!!! It's so real!

Silver Linings

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x YoungerGf!Reader

You’d always loved Jack’s hair.

Not just because it was him—though that didn’t hurt. No, it was the way the silver threaded through the dark, how his waves were always a little unruly no matter how he tried to tame them. Like a reminder he could never be entirely controlled, not even by time.

“You have such distinguished hair,” you’d tease, trailing your fingers through it when he sat beside you on the couch reading some journal or responding to emails at an ungodly hour. “You mean I look old,” he’d reply flatly, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses. “I mean you look hot,” you’d counter. “Mature. Powerful. A little grumpy, which—bonus points.”

And he’d roll his eyes. Every time. But he let you do it—let you touch him, admire him, revel in him. Even if the gap between you made him nervous sometimes.

Which is why the scene this morning felt almost cosmically cruel.

You were brushing your teeth when you spotted it in the mirror.

Then another.

Then another.

Your heart dropped. You leaned closer to the glass, toothbrush forgotten in your mouth. “No.”

You parted your hair, fingers shaking just enough to give you away.

“No, no, no—”

You yanked the light closer and blinked. The silver wasn’t imaginary.

Several strands, glinting like betrayal in the harsh morning light.

When Jack walked into the bathroom a minute later, you were still standing there, frozen.

He paused at the doorway, toothbrush in hand, then tilted his head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I have.” Your voice was flat. “And apparently she’s living on my scalp now.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned to him slowly, parted your hair, and pointed. “I have gray hairs, Jack. Plural. Multiple. Like—at least six.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, infuriatingly, he laughed.

“Oh, don’t you dare—!” you started, slapping his chest lightly as he ducked his head, still grinning.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said between chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist despite your dramatic horror. “It’s just—you look like someone died.”

“I am dying. Of premature aging.”

Jack rolled his eyes again—fond, this time. “You’re twenty-six. One gray hair doesn’t put you in a nursing home.”

“It’s not one!”

He reached up, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that made your throat tighten.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, eyes locking on yours in the mirror.

You didn’t speak.

“You always tell me you love my gray hairs. Said it makes me look... what was it? Powerful? Sexy?”

“Distinguished,” you murmured.

He kissed your temple. “Exactly.”

You tried not to look too pleased, even as your heart calmed beneath his words.

“Guess now you’ve got a matching strand,” he said softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Looks good on you, by the way.”

You met his gaze again. “So you’re saying I’m aging like fine wine?”

“I’m saying,” Jack said, “you could be covered in silver and I’d still look at you like you hung the moon.”

Your throat tightened. You turned around, resting your hands on his chest.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I guess one or two... or six... isn’t the end of the world.”

He smirked. “Welcome to the silver fox club.”

You squinted. “You’re not gonna make me call you that now, are you?”

Jack leaned in, voice low against your ear. “Only if you want to.”

[celuere]

hopefully we don‘t have no babies.

pt.2 of kiss it, bit it, can i fit it?

pairing: arlecchino x fem!reader

context: she is navigating you with slow and gentle steps (at first) through new found territory (aka sesbian lex)

cw: modern au, experienced dilf!arle, implied age gap (reader is in mid/late twenties), she yaps you an ear off about her spiders, pet names, praising, arle teaches you how to properly finger yourself ngh, mirrors, voyeurism, strap-on, rough sex, dumbification, arle is called peruere

word count: 3.8k

art credits: saditstic beauty: side story a

birthday special for you guys now WHERE are my presents. also thank you to angel and @angelic--kitty who more or less inspired me for this continuation ngh. i have to be honest, i outdid myself with this one. have with over 3k words of sesbian lex.

„are you certain you don‘t want to feed her? she is quite tame for her species.“

you watched the eight-legged creature crawl over her tatted skin in sheer horror.

how did she come up with the name „bambi“ for this monster of a spider?

„i-i‘m pretty certain. i‘d rather just… watch you feed her from a safe distance…!“, taking a step back from the woman and her…. pet. well, one of her various pets. 

you almost died of heart failure the moment you stepped foot into the entomologist‘s basement. terrariums lined up against the walls, everywhere. there had to be at least twenty of the damned creatures here. and today happened to be feeding day so you got to watch your date hand-feed them one by one. and of course, she didn’t leave out any introductions nor did she spare you the details of the individual species.

„this beauty is called a cyriopagopus lividus or rather a cobalt blue tarantula. they‘re known for their extraordinary blue coat and got often mixed up with the omothymus violaceopes even though they differentiate quite a lot from each other in my opinion. from size, color up to their natural habitat and attitude, they could not be more different. this one is actually a bit lively for her species-“ as if the damned thing seemed to understand her word for word, it took off from her palm and rushed up her arm where it abruptly stopped right on her shoulder, „my, the name freminet gave you really does suit you, speedy…“

yet your heart was threatening to beat out of your chest, not because of the sudden scare. rather because she just seemed so… different to you… how skilled she was handling the spiders to her barely lacking knowledge about each and every species she collected over the years. she seemed like a totally different person in that moment. and quite frankly- nothing turned you on more than watching those inked hands putting the haired monster back into its enclosure.

„how come you are so fond of them…?“

you almost regretted your question immediately at the way she mustered you all of a sudden. hesitant. as if she was weighing her options for the unknown. 

„i… i‘m sorry if that was too personal… you don‘t have to tell me if you don‘t feel comfortable with sharing that information with me…!“, you stammered as you tried lifting up the blanket of unease covering your heart. yet, peruere merely shook her head before guiding you out of her basement, a hand resting on your lower back when you walked up the stairs.

„i am not uncomfortable… not with you. it‘s just… it is not exactly the happiest story. it wouldn‘t be in my best interest to ruin tonight’s mood.“, she flashed you one of her rare smiles, but something sad clung to the way her eyes stared into yours.

you‘ve only been seeing each other for a good two months now, none of you dared to breach the topic of your past yet, her children had still to make your acquaintance, too. however, peruere showed great effort. daily phone calls, occasional dinner dates, randomly picking you up from your workplace whenever her schedule allowed it. she was truly, truly interested in you. and that fact caused your stomach to hit one cartwheel after the other.

who expected the 38-year old woman to still be so full of love? love she wants to share with you. 

„fine�� another time then.“, you mirrored her soft expression, not wanting to pressure her any further about this topic. 

peruere could feel something in her ribcage tighten at the sight of you. goodness, you brought out a side in her that she didn‘t even know still existed in the first place. you made her feel young again. and she loved you for it.

she hadn‘t loved in a long time. 

„it is way past midnight already… do you still want to stay the night or do you want me to drive you back home?“, a tattooed hand came up to gently tuck a few lost hair strands back behind your ear.

with her children staying at certain ginger uncle‘s house tonight, the night belonged to you. and only you.

„well… what would you prefer? please, be honest… i wouldn‘t mind either options.“, instinctively you leaned into her warm palm, letting her thumb caress your soft skin as if it were the last time.

she looked like the moon on a lonely night yet her touch equaled the feeling of being kissed by the sun itself. warm. trusted. gentle. 

„i‘d love for you to stay the night…“, and so you did.

when you walked into her bedroom for the first time after going through your evening routine in her bathroom beforehand, you didn’t know what to expect. however, you weren‘t surprised, nor disappointed. 

the theme of the room was kept in a gentle dim light, a king-sized bed with simple white-black bedding was resting in the middle of the room. other than that the only things you could spot was a closet, a mirror and two nightstands. if compared to her kids rooms you‘d realize her own little abode is significantly smaller, probably because she doesn’t see a good point in taking up a lot of space which she only frequents for precisely one thing: sleeping. and something else.

otherwise it looked spotless. not a single corn of dust in sight. the sheets were laying neatly folded on top of the mattress and you could make out the soft scent of a room freshener clinging to the air.

„i apologize if my bedroom seems to not meet your expectations… i like to keep things simple.“, with her back turned to you, peruere opened her closet to fish some new sleepwear out for herself. 

but you were too focused. too focused on the fact that she was standing half-naked before you. her back muscles evidence of a strict diet and years of exercise. and you could spot three names imprinted underneath her right shoulder.

Lyney & Lynette 02.02

Freminet 09.24.

something in your chest tightened at the sight of her kid‘s names tattooed onto her skin. she really loved those rascals with her entire being even if they weren’t hers by blood, they will always be a part of her.

„do you have sleepwear to change into?“

„oh, yes i do, but thank you…“, you watch her put on a plain black shirt and a pair of red-black checked pants and now you are convinced. she looks handsome in literally anything.

the older woman didn’t expect a lot when she turned around but who would’ve thought seeing her sweet date in a tight tanktop and some shorts would blow her fucking mind. you weren’t even wearing anything sexual, yet her thoughts ran rampage inside her head while she tried to make an effort to avoid looking at anything else other than your face.

„so… ready for bed?“

„mhm… gosh, look at that pretty pussy…“

it took the two of you not even five minutes until the first layers of clothes came off.

which happened to be your shorts and panties. you were laying underneath her with spread legs and your own fingers working up and down your cunt, you wanted to give her a show.

but the longer you tried pleasuring yourself, the bigger the frown on peruere‘s face got.

the woman had precisely one question on her mind: did someone ever teach you how to properly finger yourself? you might as well be trying your luck at a lottery ticket the way your fingers… fumbled your folds. you weren‘t even wet enough when you tried to insert your index- and middle-finger.

„stop right there.“

„but-“

„stop. you will only end up hurting yourself.“, crimson eyes watched you remove your hand from your cunt as you tried masking the utter humiliation she just exposed you to.

„don‘t look away.“, with her hand grabbing your chin, she moved your head back to face her directly, „did someone ever teach you how to properly pleasure yourself?“

„h-huh? what do you mean?“

„all the men you have been with before, did they ever bother to finger you correctly or at least show you how to do it yourself?“, your ribcage is suddenly too small for your lungs at the vulgar words she‘s using.

„i… no… n-not that i remember… why are you asking?“

she looked at you for a few seconds before sighing and scooting back, tugging you up by your hand, „how am i supposed to sleep knowing such a pretty girl can‘t even get off all by herself… come here.“, she patted the space between her legs.

just what did she want to do?

when obliged to her request it almost immediately clicked when you were met with the reflection in front of you.

you were sat before a mirror. in her lap. butt-naked.

„y-you want to show me…“

„dear me, so smart… that is exactly what i want to do.“, peruere grabbed you by the plush of your right thigh before pulling your leg over her own and spreading you open in the process.

„so, here‘s how things will operate from here.“, she wasted no time and used her two fingers to spread your cunt open, „i will first give you a little… demonstration… and then it is your turn. how does that sound, hm?“

„th-that sounds humiliating, if i am being honest…“

„it isn‘t. at all. i am not offering this to make fun of you. please don‘t get me wrong, doll. i just want you to know how to take care of yourself the next time we‘re on a phone call.“, she let her lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, your pussy now significantly more slick and your clit aching.

oh, that phone call. just thinking about it caused you to slightly whimper.

„i… o-okay fine… show me…“

„first of all you need to look. not at your face or mine, i need you to observe your pussy when i‘m demonstrating. understood?“, her voice had something stern in it. something that shouldn‘t be allowed to be so incredibly hot.

„understood…“

„good girl. now, first of all, you want to take your middle- and ring finger, that way it is easier for you to get as deep as possible when you are using them on yourself. got it so far?“, she waited for your nod before continuing.

„the main reason why i stopped you earlier was because you were way, way too dry. you need to be slick enough to easily wet your fingers in order for them to slide in with little to no problems. sex or masturbation is never supposed to hurt. if it does you are doing something wrong.“, her expression changed into something softer the more nervous you became by watching her fingertips circle over your sensitive clit, „shhhhh… just follow my fingers, look at how wet you are getting by just a few rubs to your clit…“, using those same fingers to spread you open by your folds. the whimper found its way over your lips all on itself.

„a-ah… th-this is embarrassing, peruere…“, you mumbled before turning your head away once again. 

but the entomologist wasn‘t having it.

„if you can send me whole videos of you bouncing your pussy on a vibrator, you can also watch me fingering you in a mirror.“, she whispered almost dangerously low into your ear, her tone laced with something sinister that caused your body to grow hot… and your cunt to painfully clench around nothing.

„let me propose an offer.“, just then, her fingertips slowly sneaked their way into your slit, „if you sit through this lesson without any more complaining and manage to properly get off on your own fingers… there‘s a little reward waiting for you… alright?“, her voice came out silky, reduced to a soft pur as she hummed, pleased to find your eyes fixed back onto the wet mess between your legs.

„a-alright…“, your breathing became heavier the deeper her fingers pushed in until she was knuckles-deep inside your warmth.

„good girl. feel that?“, slowly she began to feel up your walls that were gripping onto her so tightly. peruere only chuckled, „missed me, hm?“

„hah… hngh… o-of course i did…“, you said, as you pressed yourself more into her chest. she felt so warm. so comfortable. the faint note of her usual cologne still clung to her but it lit up a flame of desire inside of you that you only ever experienced with her.

„adorable… we have several options now. you could start to move your hand back and forth…“, she demonstrated by pumping her fingers slowly in and out of you, drawing a moan from you in the process, „or curl up your fingers and search for your g-spot. it usually sits two to three inches behind your vaginal opening, right…“, electricity suddenly shoots down your spine as her two fingertips delicately press and rub into your spot, „…here.“

„o-oh archons-! h-how-?!“, you clenched the fabric of her pants in your hand as she continued to massage the sensitive spot inside of you with ease.

„after knowledge comes experience, darling. you could also combine both methods and just…“, she had you squirming around in her lap by the first pump of her fingers, curling them up each time she slid them back into your hole, „…fingerfuck yourself however you please. you can vary the pace, the motions, just whatever feels better to you.“

something, something with motions… speed… how did she expect you to pay attention with her fingers showing you what heaven truly looked like?

you were so focused on these experienced fingers working their way inside your pussy that you didn‘t even process her next words.

„and now it is your turn, sweetheart.“, the whine you let out when she retreated almost brought the older woman to her knees. 

you were just too cute in her lap. cute and unfucked. too unfucked for her liking.

„m-my turn…?“

„how am i supposed to know that my little lesson bore any fruits without a test? come on. make good use of those fingers now and pleasure yourself.“, her voice was dripping with professionalism, as if she were talking to a student.

despite the humiliation being still very much present, you obliged to her demand without as much as a simple nod. moving your fingers down, carefully sliding them through your wetness, „a-and what about my r-reward…?“

crimson eyes were fixated on the way you circled your clit in the reflection of the mirror before she leaned back, supporting herself on the mattress with her arms, „so impatient… i will only properly reward you once you manage to get off. on your own. after all, i don‘t reward slackers.“

archons, she was strict.

but did her tone only add further to the heat resting between your thighs?

fuck, it did.

and you needed that strap-on badly.

so you watched her expression falter for the slightest moment when you shoved your fingers back inside your warmth and they went in so easily. you gasped at how smoothly they went inside you, how welcoming you were compared to a few minutes ago, that you leaned your head back onto her shoulder when you started to search for your spot.

easier said than done.

„i… i-i can‘t i find it, peruere…“

„you can, angel. it should sit right above your fingertips now. come on, we don‘t give up so easily here. think about your reward…“

she didn‘t tell you that she will still pound your cute pussy senseless, even if you fail. 

she just won‘t be as gentle with you.

„i-i don‘t have as much experience a-as you do…“, your voice trembled with your growing frustration when you missed it yet again. 

„darling, i‘m a whole decade older than you. i assure you we are getting-“, peruere watched your legs jolt as a moan rung through the bedroom, „…there. my, was that so hard now?“, a knowing smirk played around her lips as she watched you fall apart in her lap. all on your own.

this was different. so much different from someone else doing the work, it was even slightly better than that. you knew what motion felt the best already, the pace you wanted to set and quite honestly- you regretted not looking into your own pleasure like this way sooner. but having a 38 year old overworked woman lead you to the right path… oh, what a wonderful world you were living in.

your orgasm felt like warm hug embracing you, washing gently over you but leaving you nonetheless breathless, aching for more.

„my, look at that… aren‘t you just the sweetest little thing…?“, she didn‘t wait for a reply when she moved over to her nightstand and fished out… her very own strap-on.

„h-huh…?“

„what? don‘t tell me you changed your mind about the reward, doll…“, and truth was that she just couldn‘t wait any longer to fuck you into the mattress. with how needy your eyes were still looking at her, the way you rubbed your slightly trembling thighs together, your fingers already pulled out but the hand was still resting between them.

like a little lamb waiting for its sacrifice.

and she needed you. bad. she wanted to make up for the years you wasted with the wrong partners, showing you what you‘ve been missing out on your entire life.

her.

„n-no no! i-i didn‘t change my mind at all-!“, you crawled towards her side of the bed where she was currently standing when she started buckling up her fake dick.

the sight of you kneeling before her on the bed, tits pressed together in that skimpy top of yours forced her to wet her lips. 

you will be the end of her.

„lay back. legs spread. mhm, just like that.“, she had to suppress a groan when you exposed your soaked pussy to her eyes once again. the way she could make out your nervous breathing by how fast your chest rose and fell back down. you were excited.

„good girl. now show off that pretty cunt to me.“, her throat visibly moved when you spread your folds open for her once more. one moment she was standing, the next she dropped to her knees, hungry lips roaming over your warmth, a tongue greedily lapping up your juices as muffled groans filled the tense bedroom air.

it was almost a reflex when your hand found home between her hair strands, pushing her further into you when you couldn’t stop the sounds of pure ecstasy any longer.

yet, peruere didn‘t devote her mouth to your pussy much longer, already leaving a hot trail of messy kisses up to your tummy, tattooed hands working the fabric of your top over your tits, giving them both a treatment consisting of biting your nipple and making sure to cover those beautiful girls in lovebites beyond recognition.

„o-oh god- fuuuuck… p-please…!“, you whined, whimpered, whatever. hands tracing the outlines of her trained biceps when she fucking finally towered over you, lips swollen from treating your body like a temple, crimson eyes dark with nothing else other than carnal desire.

„you want me? you want my cock inside that tight pussy of yours, hm?“, she purred as she grabbed your right leg and placing it over her shoulder when you felt her rubbing the shaft through your slickness.

the way you shook your head up and down like a total maniac was all she needed. 

„then you shall have me.“

often peruere didn‘t look like she was approaching the 40 years mark.

but those hips made sure to remind you of it yet again. slamming so perfectly into you, her cock settling each and every time against your cervix when she bottoms out, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

she swore she could feel you gripping onto the silicone, how you sucked her in as if you were about to starve and despite not even being penetrated sexually herself- she was groaning from the deepest pits of her throat. not caring about your juices staining the sheets underneath you or her sleeping pants.

„p-peruere…!! p-peru-!!“, you mewled in the sweetest tone as you grabbed into the sheets until your knuckles turned white, tears forming in the corner of your eyes from how deep she was penetrating you from the inside.

„all those before me, did they ever fuck you as good as me? did they ever have you screaming over their cock like this, hm?“, the both of you overheard the sound of the bed creaking underneath her almost animalistic pace if it weren‘t for your skin slapping together. you could almost mistake it for a round of applause.

however, your answer was clear.

„n-no-! th-they didn‘t- Hngh!!“, your spine melted into a beautiful arch when she angled her hips to go after that one certain spot, stars already dangling around your vision from how well she was fucking you.

not even your climax stopped her. it only further motivated her to press your legs up until your knees were almost touching your ears so she could rut as deeply as possibly into you.

she hated how she couldn‘t get pregnant more than anything else right now. nobody ever made her feel this wanted as you in that moment. how you begged for her, pleading for salvation in form of her cock and what not. you wanted her fuck you into this mattress for eternity, to turn you into her own personal doll to play with.

„mine… mine, all mine…“, giving into the urge to kiss you stupid almost made her cum herself. the moans that were swallowed by her own lips, your arms snaking around her neck to keep her pressed against your body as she held your face in her hands as if you were but a precious diamond she needed to be careful with. a strong contradict to how she was plowing into you and how strongly the room smelled of sex.

and if your place was underneath her with seven inches filling you up, then so be it.

your world almost shattered after yet another exhilarating high when she pulled out, not even the slightest hint of her being out of breath yet.

„don‘t look at me like that, sweetheart. i‘m not even remotely done with you yet.“, her biceps strained as she picked you up as if you were nothing but lightweight to her before flipping you over on your stomach, „hips up.“, a hand patted the fat of your hips and you obliged more than happily.

a pillow was placed underneath you and you also dragged another one over to rest your head on. you knew she was about to rock your whole world.

„comfortable?“

„m-mhm…“

„then hold on tight.“

[scudevils]

summer nights — JB9

pairing: joe burrow x fem!reader

warnings: smut, semi public?, teasing, oral (f receiving), established relationships, swearing, not proofread!!

synopsis: wedding joe makes brain go brrr [1.5k]

a/n: i wrote this in like 40 minutes after finally getting some decent pictures whoops

MASTERLIST

fuck he looked good in that shirt.

that was all you could think about for the past two hours, since you'd first seen him in it back home if you were being honest. it didn't help you'd had a drink, practically eye fucking him from across the room, where he was laughing at a joke sam had said, you were sitting, wanting to climb him like a tree.

were you ovulating? that was the only explanation for how badly you needed this man.

it was truly a gorgeous wedding, perfect in every sense of the word, sam and jess were one of the couples you and joe spent the most time with outside of the team, you clicked with jess the day you'd met her and ever since you'd been friends. you were part of her wedding party, the gorgeous dark blue dress she'd picked out for her bridesmaids somehow complimenting everyone.

they matched the blue suit jackets that the groomsmen had on, the one that rested over your shoulder when joe noticed you'd gotten a chill after the service.

joe wasn't a big drinker during the season, so it was always fun to see hin let loose without the consequences of an early morning training session. his movements were looser, a smile etched on his face and never leaving, and you loved every minute of it, you couldn't help but laugh at his little stumble when sam tried to get him dancing.

jess plopped herself down beside you, her skirt flowing out like the petals of a flower, heavy breathing as she'd just gotten off of the dance floor. "you gotta come up!" she shouted over the music, taking a swig of the drink she'd left on the table earlier. "cmon!" holding out her hand, you took it with a laugh, acting as though you were being dragged up.

"i can't dance, jess!" you shouted back at her, nearer the speakers now, you could feel the beat of the music through your body.

"neither can he," following where she was pointing at, you found joe and sam dancing together, covering your mouth as you couldn't help but laugh at the scene, you were definitely telling him about this tomorrow and you know he'd deny it.

wether it was the drink, it was most definitely the drink, or a false confidence from seeing joe not care, you followed jess's lead, dancing along to the music, the alcohol flowing through your veins, a smile a permanent feature on your face.

when you opened your eyes again, joe was gone from by sam, your eyes subconsciously scanning the room to find him, and when you didn't, your smile couldn't help bur fall. "i'll be right back, gonna find joe!" you weren't sure if she'd heard you entirely, just nodding her head at your words and trusted you'd be fine.

the music became less clear the further you got away, till it just became noise in the background, no longer thumping in your blood, the cool air in the hallway hitting you like a welcomed truck, only now realising just how hot it was in there.

you heard shuffling from the other end of the corridor, where the entrance to the toilets were and began to walk towards them, if you couldn't find joe, you could at least go to the bathroom. the sound of laughter from the main hall was faint now, finally able to hear yourself think. finally, when you reached the bathroom door, you could feel another presence behind you, hear them being breathing.

disregarding every horror movie you'd ever seen, you turned around to see your potential attacker, clutching a hand to your heart when you realised it was joe, you slapped his chest. "you dick! thought it was gonna die."

his laugh reverberated around you, warm and homely as he apologised for scaring you, his hands lingering on your waist as his fingers absentmindedly drew circles. "have i told you how beautiful you look tonight?" joe was a charmer, that was for sure, his words silky smooth.

"sure have, many times." you giggled, that was how he got you, laughing like a school girl who got some attention from her crush, wrapping your arms around his neck as you looked into his eyes. "doesn't hurt to hear it again."

joe dipped his head lower, lips barely brushing against yours, before pressing a chaste kiss to them. "you." kiss "look" kiss "so" kiss "beautiful" and another, your fingers tangling in the short strands of his messed up hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you, needing him closer.

"joe," you whisper against his lips, and he's already moving, his hand leaving your waist for a second as he's opening the door behind you, the bathrooms in the venue only one room rather than stalls, and your already unbuttoning his shirt when you hear the lock click. "been wanting you since we left."

"fuck, i know." he's saying back to you, cradling your jaw in his hand as he's bringing you in for another kiss, messing up your hair even more, his lips tainted a faint pink. "gonna need you to be quiet, okay?"

when you nod at his words, his hand finds the zip on the back of your dress, pulling it down as the front falls, the lacy bra you had on leaving nothing to the imagination, his hand grazes over the flimsy material, hearing you suck in a breath as he teases over your hardening nipples. "been wanting you too, baby, couldn't think right."

he's kissing up the centre of your chest, across your collarbone and up your neck, and you're supposed to just take it, be quiet as he says, but you can't help the small moans and whines that fall from your lips. "no marks," you tell him, joe's eyes flickering to yours. "not where they can see."

you hated how deliberate his touches were, how he knew where to touch to tease you, have you begging for more. joe knew your body more than you did. his hand ghosted down your back, slipping the rest of the dress down your body, pupils blown wide when he sees the matching pair of panties you had on. "gonna be the death of me."

the press of his body against yours was electrifying, every one of your nerves on fire, on edge as his hands went lower down your body, skimming over your clothed cunt, and laughing at your reaction. your boyfriend was a cruel man.

joe was in total control as he was now crouched below you, lifting one of your legs over your shoulder, his fingers rough against yours skin dipping below the sides of your panties and sliding them down your legs, "fuck" he muttered to himself.

before you can react, his tongue is on you, flat against yours cunt, lapping as if you'll disappear from him if he doesn't, and your head falls against the wall, eyes screwed shut, tugging on the strands of his hair, inadvertently pushing his closer to you, egging him on.

you had nothing to hold onto but him, your thighs locking his head into place, even if he wanted to move he couldn't, and he certainly did not want to move. his teeth grazing against yours clit had you jolting forward, nearly toppling over him from the force you got up, you disregarded his prior instructions, letting the moans tumble from your lips

there was no stopping it, whines and whimpers following, his name spoken like a prayer, his attack on your cunt relentless, his thumb coming up to circle your clit, the added stimulation had your orgasm rolling towards you. your mouth fell open in a silent moan, feeling his groan vibrating against yours, legs shaking a little as he never relented, thoughts fuzzy.

when joe looked up he swore he had died and went to heaven, wanting to take a picture to remember the moment forever, but alas his memory would do. he was setting your body on fire, raising hairs you didn't even know you had, fingering digging into his scalp a little deeper. "joe,"

your voice gave you away, just barely above a whisper, yet it drove him absolutely fucking insane, the sweet sound of his name from your lips. joe feels your legs shake around his head, squeezing him in and keeping him in his place between them, the hand in his hair having a hold thats teetering on painful, but he only groaned at the feeling. when his tongue leaves you there’s an empty feeling, although still worked through the after shocks by his thumb.

“fuck, you’re amazing.” he’s whispering against yours skin, pressing kisses to the warmth. you look down to see him straining against his trousers, wanting to help him when he stops you, pointing towards his watch. “gotta wait till we get home.”

you know he’s right, but that doesn’t stop your whine of protest.

[lazysoulwriter]

Yes, it's her. - Lewis Hamilton.

Summary: Y/N and Lewis Hamilton have always been spotted together, hand in hand, leaving people to speculate about their relationship. While they found the rumors amusing, Lewis wanted to make it official. It was just a simple request to date—no big deal—so why was he so nervous? With his usual charm and a lot of cheesy jokes, he takes a leap, hoping she’ll say yes.

The evening had started like any other. The two of you had ordered takeout and were sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through Netflix to find something neither of you would actually pay attention to.

“Rom-com?” Lewis asked, scrolling past 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Too predictable.”

“Action?” He paused on a Marvel movie.

“Too loud.”

“Horror?”

You shot him a look, and he smirked. “Too scary for you, babe?”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t feel like spending the night listening to you scream.”

He laughed, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “Fine. No movie. Let’s just sit here and bask in each other’s presence.”

“Oh, how romantic,” you teased, pulling your legs up onto the couch.

Lewis shifted beside you, his knee bouncing ever so slightly. You noticed but said nothing. It wasn’t unusual for him to fidget—he was always full of energy—but tonight felt different.

“You okay?” you finally asked, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, his voice just a tad too high-pitched to be convincing.

“Lewis…”

He turned to you with a grin that was a little too wide. “What? Can’t a man enjoy some quality time with his favorite person?”

“Are you sure you’re not hiding something? You’re acting weird.”

“Me? Weird? Never.” He reached for his wine glass, taking a sip that lasted just a little too long.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you nervous about something? Did you crash another car?”

He nearly choked on his wine. “What? No! Why would you even say that?”

“Because the last time you acted like this, you accidentally ran over my potted plant with your electric scooter.”

He groaned, covering his face. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

He chuckled, but the nervous energy didn’t leave him. Instead, he leaned back, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest. His fingers played with the ends of your hair, and you could feel his heart beating faster than usual.

“You know,” he started, his tone lighter now, “the paparazzi think we’re already dating.”

You smiled, recalling the many headlines you’d seen: ‘Lewis Hamilton and Mystery Woman: Romance or Friendship?’ or ‘Spotted Again: Are They or Aren’t They?’

“They’re pretty creative,” you said. “Remember the one where they said we were secretly engaged?”

“Oh, and the one about us having a secret baby?”

You both burst out laughing, the tension in his body easing slightly.

“I mean, it’s kind of funny,” he said. “They’re all desperate to figure it out.”

“Well, let them keep guessing. It’s more fun this way.”

“Yeah… but what if we didn’t make them guess anymore?”

You froze for a moment, lifting your head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “I mean… what if we, you know, made it official?”

You stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. “Lewis, are you asking me out right now?”

His cheeks flushed, and he laughed nervously. “Okay, this is not going how I planned.”

“You had a plan?”

“Kind of. But then I got nervous, and now I’m rambling, and I don’t know why because this should be easy, right? It’s just… I like you. Like, really like you. And I know we’ve never called it anything, but I want to. I want to call you mine, officially. So… will you?”

For a moment, you just blinked at him, trying to process his words. Then, a grin spread across your face. “You’re such a dork.”

“Is that a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to kiss him softly. “Of course, it’s a yes.”

The relief on his face was palpable, and he let out a dramatic sigh. “Thank God. I was about to start sweating.”

“You were already sweating,” you teased.

“Okay, rude.” He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But you said yes, so I’ll let it slide.”

Later that night, after the excitement had settled and you were both curled up on the couch again, Lewis grabbed his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“Posting something,” he said, his tone casual.

You groaned. “Lewis…”

“Relax, it’s nothing big.”

He showed you the screen. It was a photo he’d taken of you earlier that evening, laughing mid-bite of your dinner, entirely candid. The caption read: “Yes. It’s her.”

You covered your face with a pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, grinning as he hit post.

You couldn’t argue with that.

[rose24207]

AHHH..!

Summary: Lando panics mid-stream over his girlfriend’s scream, only to find she’s overreacting to a horror game.

Genre: humor, fluff

TW: None!

A/N: ignore the title…. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist pt.2

Lando leaned back in his chair, his headset snug over his ears, as he focused on the intense F1 simulator race he was playing live on Twitch. Thousands of fans flooded the chat, spamming emojis and cheering him on. His tongue poked out slightly as he braked late into a sharp corner, his face scrunched in concentration.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, glancing at the mini-map. “P1 is mine—just need to nail this next sector.”

The chat exploded with messages.

"Focus, Lando!”

“Y/N would be beating you right now!”

“Y/N is streaming too, isn’t she?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I saw her go live before me. She’s probably off building another ridiculous castle in Minecraft or something. You guys know she gets way too into that stuff.”

Unbeknownst to him, you weren’t playing Minecraft. You had decided—for reasons you were already regretting—to tackle a survival horror game that was known for its relentless jump scares.

As Lando passed the final sector, his victory within reach, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air.

It wasn’t just any scream—it was your scream. High-pitched, panicked, and filled with the kind of terror usually reserved for an actual emergency.

“WHAT THE—” Lando flinched violently, his hands jerking the wheel as his car spun out. “Y/N?” His heart leapt into his throat as he ripped off his headset, his wide eyes darting toward the direction of your gaming setup in the next room.

The chat went into an immediate frenzy.

"WHAT WAS THAT!?”

“That sounded like Y/N!”

“BRO, GO CHECK ON HER!”

“SHE’S SCREAMING LIKE SHE’S BEING MURDERED OMG.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Lando muttered, fumbling to mute his mic. He shot out of his chair, his wheels spinning with a loud clatter as it hit the wall behind him. He bolted toward your room, heart pounding, as every worst-case scenario ran through his head.

Meanwhile, in your stream, chaos reigned.

“Oh my God, oh my God, NO!” you shrieked, your voice breaking slightly as your in-game character crouched in a dark hallway. You clutched your mouse tightly, your other hand hovering over the keyboard, ready to hit the escape key at any moment. “WHERE IS IT? WHY IS IT SO QUIET?!”

Your chat was absolutely loving it.

“This is why you don’t play horror games!”

“Headphone users are DEAD.”

“LMAO she’s about to quit.”

The silence in the game dragged on for a moment longer, heightening your nerves. You inched forward cautiously, your character’s flashlight flickering ominously.

And then, without warning, the grotesque creature you’d been dreading lunged at the screen with an ear-shattering roar.

“AAAAHHHHH!” you screamed again, throwing your hands into the air as your chair shot backward, slamming into the wall. Your headphones slid off your head and dangled around your neck as you scrambled to get away from the desk, heart racing.

“NOPE! I’M DONE! I’M DONE!” you yelled, your voice cracking as you practically launched yourself onto the couch in the corner of the room.

That’s when Lando burst into the room, his face pale and panicked. “Y/N?! What happened? Are you okay?”

You screamed again out of fright before you looked up at him from the couch, still clutching your chest. “Lando! Oh my God, you scared me!”

“I scared you?” He blinked, his gaze darting around the room. His eyes landed on your paused game, the horrifying creature frozen mid-attack on the screen. Slowly, his face twisted into a mix of confusion and disbelief. “Wait…was that scream because of… that?”

“YES!” you shouted, gesturing wildly toward the screen. “Look at it! It jumped out of nowhere!”

He stared at the screen again, squinting. “Are you serious? It’s just a…a thing with teeth! That’s not even scary!”

“Not scary? NOT SCARY?! It’s terrifying!” you exclaimed, still catching your breath. “I thought I was gonna die, Lando. Like, my soul left my body for a second.”

His lips twitched, and before you could say anything else, he burst out laughing. “Your soul—oh my God, Y/N. You screamed like someone broke into the house!”

“Well, it felt like someone did!” you retorted, your voice still a little shaky.

Both of your streams had caught up by now, and your respective chats were absolutely losing it.

“LMFAO HE BARGED IN LIKE A HERO!”

“Her scream broke the sound barrier.”

“Why is this the funniest thing ever?”

Lando walked over to your desk and leaned in toward your mic, grinning. “Chat, I need you to confirm—did she actually scream that loud over this thing?” He pointed at the screen dramatically. “Be honest.”

“Stop embarrassing me!” you groaned, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him. He caught it effortlessly, smirking.

“Oh, you’re never living this down,” he teased, sitting down in your chair and swiveling toward you. “You just gave your stream—and mine, for that matter—the greatest moment of the night.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you sometimes.”

“No, you don’t,” he said confidently, leaning back. “You love me. And besides, I’m your knight in shining armor. I came running when I heard you screaming for help.”

“Yeah, and then immediately started making fun of me,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“That’s just my way of calming you down.” He shrugged innocently before turning to look at your paused game again. “Alright, let’s finish it together. I’ll keep you safe from all the big, scary monsters.”

You groaned, but a small smile crept onto your face. “Fine. But if you scream, I’m never letting you live it down.”

“Deal,” he said, smirking. “But trust me, I don’t scream.”

Fifteen minutes later, after another brutal jumpscare, Lando let out a high-pitched yell that could probably rival yours. And you? You made sure both of your streams—and all the clips—had proof.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @hmma3 , @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris

[stillalivebydemand893]

Always for you

18+ (repost)

Story: You and Erik are just best friends. You only cuddle, hold hands, sit in each other’s laps, and almost kiss sometimes — totally normal stuff. Everyone else sees it, even the damn lizard. But no, you’re definitely not in love.

You and Erik? Best friends. Ride-or-die. You dated other guys, sure—but it never got serious. Every time things started getting real, you’d just... shut down. In your head, none of it mattered. You had Erik. And he was everything you ever needed in a man. Soft cuddles. Horror movie nights (he lived for horror, the weirdo). Endless 2 a.m. conversations until the sun crept through the windows. Family dinners. And those little, forbidden touches—so casual, no one ever questioned them. A hand on your hip to steady you at a concert. Fingers laced with yours when anxiety threatened to spiral.

It made your heart stutter. But say something? Risk this? Ruin what you had for a few traitorous butterflies? Hell no.

You’d ruffle his hair, place your hand on the back of his neck every time he said something so stupidly cute it made you forget he was this pierced-up, inked-to-hell bad boy (and yeah, you knew about that piercing too). You had feelings, no doubt. But cuddling into his chest on a Friday night felt safer than risking it all.

And then there was her. Brina. That smug, plastic little heart-shredder. After she broke him, you were the one who picked up the pieces. Three straight months of late-night crying and way too much whiskey. You. Always you.

It started as a regular night at the Campbells'. You were playing Until Dawn—again. Legs thrown over Erik’s lap. Comfortable. Familiar.

“GO FASTER! ERIK—PRESS THE DAMN TRIANGLE!”

“I’M TRYING! This thing’s broken, I swear—”

You grabbed the controller, definitely not thinking about how big and inked his hands were. Nope. Not even a little.

“Give me that! You play like a twat—Wendigo’s about to eat Jessica and Matt, and you're over here flailing like a grandma on Wii Sports!”

You beat the level—barely—and smirked. “Matt’s too hot to die.”

Erik laughed, that deep, throaty sound that always got under your skin. “Jessica’s hotter. She deserves to live.”

“You only say that because she looks like fucking Brenda.”

“Brina, Peach . Brina.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost sprained something. “Whatever. Save the game. We need to get ready for Jessica’s birthday before your mom kills us.”

You stood up—or tried to. A firm hand yanked you back onto the couch. Erik was on top of you, hovering close. Too close.

“Where do you think you're going after calling me a twat?” His smirk was dangerous—pure sin. Your brain screamed do not soak your panties, but it was a losing battle.

“Get off. I’m already sweating.”

His eyes darkened. That look. You hadn't seen it since he punched your ex for slapping you in public—and yeah, that trip to the police station was worth every second.

“Kiki?” you asked, voice low. If he kept looking at you like that...

His leg slid between yours. His breath was minty. His lips soft. The space between you? Non-existent.

“Peach—”

“HAS ANYONE SEEN PACO?! I’M STARTING TO PANIC!” Bobby barged in like the goddamn Kool-Aid Man, derailing the moment with all the grace of a freight train.

Erik groaned, helping you sit up. “Come on, Foxy. Let’s get dressed.”

“Yeah. In a minute.” You watched him walk away, heart thudding, panties—yep, soaked. Fantastic.

“Paco’s in the fridge, Bobby. Delicious side dish.” Erik smirked.

“Oh thank God. Then who the hell did I put in his cage?” Cue: beef jerky in a lizard tank. You wheezed.

Later that night, after Jessica’s party, all the siblings were crammed in the car. You offered to Uber to avoid the chaos.

“Don’t be stupid. Peach can sit on my lap,” Erik said, hand resting on your shoulder.

“Promise I won’t get a boner,” he whispered, his palm sliding to your waist.

“Yeah? Bet.”

The car ride was quiet. Parents up front. Bobby passed out. Jessica glued to her phone.

You? Tortured.

Short skirt. G-string. Erik’s lap. Worst. Decision. Ever.

“Remember when we first heard this song?” he asked as House of Balloons played.

You leaned back against his chest, fingers intertwining with his on your thigh. “Yeah. Then someone ruined it by playing it on loop for 24 hours.”

He chuckled. “Only because I couldn’t stop thinking about you that day.”

Your breath caught. His hand tilted your chin to face him. Eyes locked. Lips close.

“You looked beautiful tonight, Peach.”

You kissed his cheek, squeezing his hand the way you do during panic attacks—the silent I’m okay now, because of you.

“Can I stay over tonight?” you asked, voice louder so his parents could hear.

“Of course, sweetheart,” his mom replied. “Erik, be nice this time.”

You squeezed his hand again, drawing his attention back. “Yeah, Mom. I’ll be nice.”

The last 10 minutes of the ride were spent with Erik softly kissing your cheek, hand creeping dangerously high on your thigh. Your hips shifted. His bulge pressed against you.

“You lost the bet,” you whispered.

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he murmured, draping his jacket over your lap, hand slipping under.

“What are you—”

Hot. His hand on your panties. Soaked.

“Fuck, Erik—”

“All that for me? Maybe you’re a good girl after all, Peach.”

You were melting. You needed more. More of him. More of his everything.

“It was always for you,” you whispered. His eyes widened, the smugness replaced by something softer. Real.

“We’re home!” his dad called. “Let’s go!”

Erik helped you out of the car. You both avoided each other for the next 40 minutes. Separate showers. Awkward silences. Doubt creeping in.

Did you mess it up?

Later, lying in his bed, backs turned, dim light casting long shadows—you couldn’t take it anymore.

You climbed out of bed and straddled him, waking him up.

“Kiki…”

“Peach? You okay, love?”

Love. That did it.

“I love you,” you blurted out, palm flat against his tattooed chest.

Silence. Your brain screamed. Panic. Regret.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” you babbled. “I just had to say it. And if it ruins things, I’m sorry, I’ll drop it, we can go back—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Erik kissed you like his life depended on it.

Tongues,, desperation.His fingers tangled in your hair. Yours clawed at his back.

“Do best friends kiss like this?” he murmured, breathless.

He kissed your collarbone, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“I’ve been in love with you since you tripped and made me slam my head on the concrete in third grade, my Peach.”

“Erik… kiss me.”

And he did.

Your mind was spiraling. Is this really happening? You forgot how to breathe. His lips—soft, warm, sinful—had you melting into the moment.

“What took us so long?” he murmured against your mouth between fevered kisses.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, breathless. “But god, ... I need you. Don’t hold back. Please.”

You paused just long enough to meet his gaze—and there it was. That dark, dangerous glint in his eyes. The one you’d secretly begged for in a hundred quiet fantasies.

The devil had finally answered.

With a growl deep in his throat, Erik grabbed your thighs and flipped you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and before you could even blink, his lips were back on yours—hot, greedy, possessive.

He kissed you like a starving man, like he'd waited years for this moment. And you? You surrendered to it, every single part of you burning for more.

You could feel his bulge growing, hard and heavy against your thigh. His hands slipped beneath your—his—shirt, cupping your breasts like they belonged to him. Like they’d always been his to touch, to hold. The way his palms fit you was almost unfair.

Your moans—soft, breathy, desperate—drove him over the edge. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

In one slow, deliberate motion, he slid your panties down your legs, his eyes never leaving you. He paused, gaze devouring the sight of you in his shirt, laid out on his bed, wrapped up in his arms.

Exactly where you were meant to be.

He could count the times he had imagined this moment. You, exactly like this. But now it was real—and for once, there was no guilt weighing him down. Just you, and the way you looked at him like he was your whole world.

“Gorgeous,” he breathed, voice low and reverent. “And mine.”

His hand trailed down your body, fingers brushing your heat—light touches that made your hips jerk and your breath hitch. You were trembling under him, your body aching, begging.

“Please, baby... touch me,” you whispered, your voice cracked and breathless. Was that really you? Desperate, pleading for the thing you’d craved for so long.

He didn’t tease you this time.

He pushed one thick finger inside, and you nearly came undone—your body arched, a choked moan slipping past your lips as pleasure took over.

“Oh God—” you gasped, trying to muffle your cries with your hand, terrified the whole neighborhood might hear.

But he just smirked, dark and wicked, the devil in human form.

“God’s not here, Peach,” he growled. “Beg for me, not Him.”

And then he slid the shirt up, exposing your chest. One hand still working you mercilessly, the other grabbing your breast, fingers rough and hungry. His mouth followed, lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue teasing, sucking—claiming.

Every part of you was unraveling.

I need you to stop covering your moans, baby,” he pleaded, his voice husky, strained with need. “I need to hear your voice. Don’t hide from me.”

The way he said it—don’t hide from me—it cracked something open inside you. You were already blushing so hard you could barely remember your own name. But the way he looked at you, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world, made you want to give him everything.

“Erik… please,” you whispered, breath hitching, eyes glassy with heat and emotion.

Your hands fell away from your mouth, lips parted, chest rising with each shallow breath. And when his fingers moved again—slower this time, deeper—you let the moan out. Loud, raw, unfiltered.

And Erik? He looked like a man finally tasting heaven.

He took his time, working his fingers inside you with maddening control—first one, then two. Each thrust stretched and filled you in ways that made your back arch off the bed, every nerve begging for more. You bit your lip hard, trying not to scream his name, but the tension building in your core was impossible to hide.

Then he moved lower. You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on you, tongue stroking your most sensitive spot, licking you like a man possessed. Holy hell— he wasn’t just good at this. He was lethal.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, trembling. “I’m so glad you got that tongue piercing—fuck—”

That comment alone could’ve made his ego break the ceiling, if it hadn’t already. He glanced up at you, smug but focused, eyes locked on your every breath, every twitch, every flutter of your lashes as he pulled you closer and closer to that edge.

“I’m gonna cum if you keep going like that,” you warned, voice cracking.

But he didn’t stop. He devoured you—slow, deep, hungry licks that sent shivers through your entire body. And every time that cold metal barbell rolled against your clit, it sent a jolt straight through your spine. You were burning, unraveling, teetering on the edge of total destruction—

Then he stopped.

Your breath caught. “Why—?”

Before you could even finish the question, he was above you, thick and hard in his hand, the head of his cock glistening as he rubbed it against your entrance—ready. Perfect. Dangerous in the best possible way.

You couldn’t look away. Sure, you’d caught glimpses before—quick peeks in the bathroom when he forgot to lock the door—but now? Now it was right in front of you in all its gorgeous, pierced glory.

“Like what you see, princess?” he smirked, cocky and damn well knowing the answer.

You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You were soaked—drenched—just from looking at him.

He leaned down, kissed you hard, rough and claiming, before his mouth moved to your breasts again, lavishing attention like they were sacred. But his hands? Gentle. Careful. Like you were something rare.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” he whispered, that flicker of worry in his eyes—because you knew, no matter how wild this got, he cared. So much.

You reached up, placing your palm on his cheek. He kissed it softly.

“I love you,” you whispered, brushing your lips to his. “But I really need you right now.”

And that was all it took.

His eyes darkened, something primal overtaking him, and then he was inside you—deep, raw, thick.

The first thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. He moved like a man losing control, hips snapping forward with power and purpose—but still kissing you softly, like he needed you to know this was more than lust. This was everything.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as he filled you over and over, his pace brutal, the stretch intoxicating. The friction. The heat. The way he whispered your name in your ear like it was a sacred prayer.

You came undone—hard and fast—your whole body shaking as the climax ripped through you like a tidal wave.

He followed right after, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, coming deep inside you with one final, shattering thrust.

And then—for a moment—there was only silence. The sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, and the weight of years of want finally fulfilled.

He pulled you into his arms, bodies still tangled in warmth, your fingers laced tightly together. His eyes—stormy, glowing like stars—locked onto yours as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I can’t believe we actually did that,” he murmured, breathless, voice low with disbelief and something softer—something real.

You giggled, brushing the sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes. “Believe it, Campbell.”

His gaze stayed fixed on you like you were something sacred. “I love you, Y/N. Please, please let this not be another one of my horny-ass dreams or I swear to—”

You silenced him with a slow, lingering kiss, your lips smiling against his. “It’s not, you dork. But if you’re still not sure…” You winked. “We could go one more round—just to really make it sink in.”

That was all it took.

With a mischievous grin, he scooped you back into his lap, hands firm on your hips like he never wanted to let you go. He stared at you in total awe—Erik Campbell, pierced and inked and bruised by life, finally letting himself feel love, not just lust.

And you saw it written all over his face.

“I love you too, dork,” you whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

Within moments, you drifted off, curled against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. And Erik?

He held you like you were everything.

Because to him, you were.

[bratbarzal]

The Secret of Us (LH43) 2/3

aka the sequel to let it happen

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

>PART ONE<

it felt like something old, it felt like something holy, like souls bleeding

WC: 28k (I once called this part short I just laughed for 15 minutes alone when the wc loaded)

General Warnings: bed sharing, hand holding, a lot of leaning and longing looks, just a bunch of friendly antics between two friendly friends. platonic pals. aromantic amigos. fluff galore between these two honestly. slight comeback of the banter from lih. jack and ellie win the joint award for worst advice givers on the planet. individual angst - reader lives in struggle city with her senior year of college and the nhl horrors persist for luke, and then an angsty ending (pls forgive me lol) - also mentions of four nations/team usa tw

A/N: sorry this took a little longer, I had a lot of notes and a lot of figuring out what to put where and what to leave for the last part!! I know you all know by now how precious these two are to me, and I really wanted this to show a real progression from how they were in lih!! again, biggest thank you ever for all your feedback on the last part, there's nothing I love more than seeing the reaction to these two and talking about them with everybody, it really ends up being this collaborative yearning for them to work out and inspires so much of what I write so thank you thank you thank you!!!!

Luke feels like he’s floating.

He feels like he’s living in some sort of dream - as sunlight filters in through his windows, and cast you in a surreal glow - he feels like he’s on cloud nine.

It’s all so peaceful, laying beside you - the two of you probably having been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, neither of you talking yet, just basking in the intimacy of being in each other’s arms.

He’d half expected you to shove him off as soon as your eyes opened - as soon as you saw what the two of you had gotten yourselves into, last night. Half expected snarky quips and narrowed eyes.

He hadn’t expected you leaning into his touches, laying on your side and and resting on his chest as he watches five millions thoughts pass slowly through your brain. 

“This might be what I missed the most,” he hums, too lost in the way the pads of your fingers tickle softly against his chest to think about what he’s saying, “First thing in the morning, when you’re still fogged up with sleep and your mouth isn’t moving yet.”

You smile softly at the dig, eyes still trailing the ministrations on his skin before you pinch at his flesh. “You’re not supposed to miss anything, now that we’re friends, never mind have a list.” The way you say it is quiet, distracted, even, and Luke likes to think he can read between the lines by now when it comes to your tone and inflection. You’ve missed it, too.

You’d gone straight to doing it as soon as you opened your eyes, cuddling up to him and drawing mindless shapes into his body as he held you close - it’s what you always used to do before you shot up and left him on his own, rushing back before Ellie ever woke up and pretending like you were never gone. 

Except this time, neither of you have anywhere to be.

“I don’t think you understand how impossible that’s gonna be.” He chuckles breathily, coming out more like a huff as he presses his head back into the crook of his arm and stares at the ceiling, the tips of his fingers still playing with your hair.

“I understand,” you sigh after a beat, eyes glancing up at him when he angles his neck down to look at you. “But that’s what last night was for, right? Closure?”

It doesn’t entirely feel like closure, not to Luke, but saying that out loud makes him feel like an asshole. You had agreed to last night in order to close out the chapter dedicated to the two of you, and saying that he wants to carry it on feels wrong, especially knowing that’s not what you want. 

“Right,” he agrees, noncommittally, wondering if you feel the deep thud of his heart against where you rest beside his ribcage. “Uhh-,”

“Oh my God,” you groan, shuffling up until you’re sat on your ankles, glaring down at him, and swatting the back of your hand where you’d just been tracing lines on his chest,  “You want to do it again!”

He leans up on his elbows, trying to level his gaze with yours. “Is that so bad?”

“You said one more time!” You huff, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, “I thought I was being generous stretching last night out to three,”

“Alright, easy on the stretching,” he watches as you look around for your underwear, “I was the one who thought you could have done three, there was no stretching on my behalf, I have the stamina of a horse-,”

“You could barely stay upright,” you throw back over your shoulder as you fasten your bra, Luke’s eyes trailing down the expanse of your back. “I could have easily done four, even.”

“Prove it,”

“No.”

“Come on,” he chuckles, “One more time, I mean it. We’ve never had a morning with no one else around, it would be a shame to waste such a perfect opportunity,”

“Such a shame,” you mock him, your voice comically low as you reach  down to retrieve the rest of your underwear.

“I swear I’ll behave after,”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” You scoff, hopping into your panties as you send a sceptical look toward him. “You have no self control.”

“Me?” He jabs a pointed finger into his chest with widened eyes. “You folded like a lawn chair last night, you have no self control.”

“That was last night,” you shrug, looking around for a shirt that you can throw on - he watches you pout a little at your dress discarded on the floor, eyeing it up like you’re considering the shame of throwing it back on, and he pushes himself up to go to his closet. “I’m a new woman today.”

“I rocked your world that hard, huh?” He smirks as he passes, letting you shove him on his way past and barking out a laugh when he turns to look back at your now-scowling features.

“You’re not being very friendly.”

He pulls the t-shirt he’s about to hand you back just as you reach for it, your footsteps stumbling before you snatch it from his grip and pull it over your head. 

“We got back here after midnight, I’m pretty sure,” he recalls, watching you get dressed, “So when I said tomorrow, I meant the day after today.”

“That wasn’t very clear,” you huff, pulling your hair out of the neck of the shirt and to one side, leaving the other bare for his eyes to fall upon, “You duped me.”

“Can you blame me?” He asks, stepping a little closer into your space, eyes still on the slope of your neck before they drift up slowly to meet yours. He likes the way you have to angle your head to gaze up at him, only intensifying the more he closes the distance between the two of you. “I never got to spend the morning with you, we never had time together, not like this.”

“All the more reason that we shouldn’t have any now.” 

“I disagree.”

“Of course you do.”

He smiles, fingers reaching out to pinch again at the soft ends of your hair. “I’m always gonna feel like I missed out if we don’t,” he pouts, “And we can’t start a new chapter without finishing the other one, right?”

He thinks your eyes roll by instinct now, whenever he uses analogies like that to try and convince you, but he can see the cogs turning.

He’s right. You know it. You’ll both always be left wondering if you don’t try it now. 

“Plus,” he sings a little, “Some things are better to wean off slowly right? Stops the chance of relapsing.”

“Are you comparing me to a drug?”

“If it walks like a drug,” he drifts off, distracted by the strands of hair he’s twirling in a soft pinch. 

“You’re not making this easy, Luke,” you sigh, reaching up to stop the distracting ministrations of his fingers in your hair. “The longer we drag this on the harder it’s gonna be to let it go.”

He doesn’t tell you he doesn’t want to let it go, because what good would that do? Your mind is set on being friends, and he would be pushing his luck to try for more, no matter how much he wants it. Instead, he laces his fingers through yours, flexing until your palms are clasped together, and he has a bit of leverage over the way your arm moves - can tug and pull you any way he likes, which is, of course, closer.

“I promise I’ll be good after,” he maintains eye contact as he leans down a little, voice low to draw you in, “You’ll go back to Michigan and I’ll let the whole thing go.”

He holds his other hand up, pinky extended to you, and you keep your eyes on his for a good few seconds before you let them drift to where he’s holding it, a flood of memories washing straight through your pretty irises.

“C’mon,” he purrs, head tilting teasingly as he nods toward the digit, “For old time’s sake?”

Your eyes roll, as expected, but he still catches the way your lips curve before you quickly reach out and link your pinky around his. It takes him back to summer, to that night by the fountain, when something between you changed for the better. Just before you pull away, he tightens his grip, clenching his pinky and pulling until your chest bumps into his, leaning to capture your lips in a clumsy kiss.

It’s tame, especially compared to what happened between the two of you last night, and your hands stay clasped together to avoid the risk of them wandering, but he loves it all the same. Loves the way your eyes flutter closed, and your chest slowly deflates of all tension against his. Loves the way you seem to give in, almost immediately, and accept your fate, losing yourself in the way your mouths move together. He uses that to his advantage, slowly and carefully moving forward, guiding you until the backs of your knees are hitting his mattress. 

Even when he lets your hands go, you don’t use them to push him away - instead hanging your arms over his shoulders and playing with the curls at the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss, increasing the pressure of your touch to stay attached as he lowers you back onto the bed. 

Everything feels so fluid with you - so foreign to what this sort of thing is usually like, not that he’s even looked at any other girl since the beginning of summer - and the thought of giving it up makes his gut twist in discomfort, a feeling he’s just going to have to push down if he wants to bask in this one last time.

So he pours his heart into it for as long as you let him - large hands tracing down every soft curve of your body, mapping them out, slipping beneath the back of your panties and gripping at the soft flesh of your ass until your hips buck up into his.  

“You’re making this so hard,” you mutter into his mouth.

“And you’re letting me,” he mutters back, “Kissing me back, pushing your hips up, scratching at my hair like you know I like it.”

Those movements don’t even cease as he points them out, and he pulls away just to look at you panting beneath him. 

“You can admit it you know, just one time. Maybe then I won’t carry on chasing it.”

“Admit what?” You whisper, breathless and hesitant.

“That you want me just as bad.”

You look up at him for an extended moment, then, lips parted with unspoken words and chest rising and slowly falling with bated breath. Your eyes flicker between his, pupils dilating as if they’re trying to say what your mouth won’t.

He doesn’t need you to say anything, though - you tell him everything he needs to know with the way your fingers curl back around the nape of his neck, pulling him down until your lips collide.

Your body arches entirely until it’s pressed to his, the curve of your back slotting perfectly into the stretch of his torso, and defying the hold he has on your waist.

You’re too far past the point of no return to push him away now, as evidenced by the soft little noises you hum in between his lips when his touch wanders somewhere beyond where you’ve given him access so far in the morning.

And despite how much he wants to take it further, he also wants to drag it out, so he kisses you for what feels like forever until his lips trail to the side, pressing into the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck, the sensitive column of your throat - and the whole time your fingers stay clutched in his hair, pinching and clenching around the over grown curls as your body writhes beneath him. 

If the two of you had been doing this back in the summer, he’d have never let you go - would have kept you between his sheets the whole time, everybody else be damned. 

And you’d have let him, he knows it.

He tries not to get in his head too much about the what-ifs, tries to think about the now, about how you’re clutching onto him and giving in to his persistence, but it’s hard - knowing it’s the last time.

Last night, he’d had the aid of intoxication to drown out those thoughts, but now there’s pressure.

And you must sense it - he must stall in his ministrations, or hesitate somewhere along the way - because you pull him from your neck with two hands grasping at his head, and lift until you’re face to face again. 

Your lips are swollen when he takes you in, pupils blown, skin flushed, and all he can feel when he looks at you is pride - pride that he got you into that state, pride that you even let him. Pride that he’s the kind of person you don’t want to lose completely, that you still want to be his friend.

Which is why he leans in to kiss you - short but sweet, pulling away with his eyes screwed shut and his brows sinking in frustration. And then he kisses you again, and it’s brief, but he can’t really drag it out any more.

And then one last time, because the second just wasn’t enough to be the last ever kiss he gives you. And this time, it’s slow. It’s ardent and loving and he hopes somehow that you feel the meaning deep in your bones, that he’s finally giving in. It’s a kiss so intense that he hopes it bruises, hopes you feel the pressure of his lips around yours later when you’re flying home, and you press your fingertips to the ache there and think of him. Think of doing more, of being more.

Your eyes flutter open slowly when he pulls away - when he’s hovering over you, trying to put his weight on his good side, and watching as you start to realise why he isn’t kissing you anymore.

“You were right,” he sighs, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath him. “Dragging this on is just gonna make it harder.”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes flickering across his features until he finally meets them, your gaze softened and crinkling in the corners a little. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, dipping his head to avoid the lure of your pretty eyes, “I don’t usually start anything I can’t finish."

“That’s okay,” you tell him, a hand lowering to cup at his jaw, stroking gently and pressing your thumb a little into his cheek until he looks back up. “Knew you didn’t have a fourth in you.”

He flicks playfully at your nose as it scrunches when you smile, and rolls off of you, laying on his back beside you as you turn onto your side, resting on an elbow and looking down at him.

“Do you really think we’re gonna be friends?” He asks, head tilting until your eyes meet, and he can gauge the sincerity in your answer. He’s just given up what he’s pretty positive is a sure thing, and if you’re not going to put the effort in to keep up at least a friendship, he’s gonna start to hate himself for it.

You nod, though, not breaking eye contact. “I do,” you assure him, honesty swirling in your irises and assuredness in your tone. “I really did miss you. And not even just this,” you gesture between the two of you, “Although it wasn’t half bad-,”

“It was incredible,” he corrects, lips turning up to match your smile.

“Okay,” you giggle, “I don’t feel like I have to be anybody else when I’m with you, you know?”

Of course he knows. He’s spent his entire life morphing himself into what’s expected. To be more professional around his coaches, more responsible around his brothers, more easygoing around his friends.

But with you, he could be himself - can be himself - and the thought of being able to keep that makes his chest feel a little lighter. 

“Friends,” he holds his pinky out again, waiting for you to loop yours through it, although you just eye it with scepticism. “For real this time.”

“Friends,” you agree, hooking your finger around his and squeezing. 

No kisses, this time, but that’s probably for the best, he thinks.

The look in your eyes and the smile that tugs at your lips will have to be enough to seal the promise in place.

Luke Hughes refuses to lose you again.

If someone had told you this time last year that you’d be making the trip out to Detroit on a random Thursday night in late October to watch a hockey game, you’d have laughed in their face. 

You barely leave Ann Arbor anymore, at least you haven’t this year, already stormed under with assignments and study groups, and riding out to Little Caesars arena with Ellie and a couple of the Michigan hockey guys to watch the Devils had been the last thing on your agenda - but that was before you became friends with Luke. Before you became privy to his recovery schedule, and his return to the league just so happened to fall in time for a game nearby.

You could hardly miss his first game of the season - especially not if it was just to bury your head in your books and hate your life.

That’s not what a friend would do.

And that’s how you find yourself nestled between Ethan and Ellie, in the tenth row behind the away end net, waiting for the team to come out for warm ups.

Ellie’s been talking your head off all day about coming, excited to see Jack on the ice again, excited for you to be with her so she can be excited without being shot down by the hockey geeks at the other side of you, and you’re getting a little overwhelmed by it all.

You don’t know why you’re nervous.

It’s just Luke. Your friend.

Who you haven’t seen since you left his apartment a couple weeks ago, trying not to blush as he hugged you goodbye in front of Ellie and his brother, trying not to let your touch linger and give anything away or drag it out.

The two of you have been texting a little. He’s been busy with his rehab, you’ve been busy with school, but it’s still been working out. He sends you dumb jokes, you’ve now used the eye roll emoji so much that it’s at the top of the list whenever you open them up, and your friendship is slowly but surely blossoming.

Ellie keeps trying to press you on it, though. Teasing jabs of her elbow when his name pops up on your phone, little comments about her plans to visit Jersey, and how you should tag along.

You should have known when her and Jack came back from the hotel the morning after the halloween party that she was onto you. Little shared looks between the two of them in the car to the airport, and side eyes from beside you on the plane.

You wish she’d just come out and say something so you can shut her down, though - set her straight on what is now very strictly platonic between you and Luke.

You’re thankful that when the boys come out on the ice, she’s off getting you guys some drinks - because if she saw you craning your neck just to try and figure out which one is number 43, she’d never let it go. 

When you do catch sight of Luke, you’re pretty much glued to him - watching him round up pucks and practice his handling around his teammates, skating in somewhat graceful circles around the ice, forming a mesmerising pattern that you can’t look away from. 

You almost forget that only Ellie and Dylan went to the concessions until you see a figure shift out of the corner of your eye and snap back into some semblance of nonchalance. 

“So,” Ethan angles his body a little more toward you, like he’s trying to block anyone else from eavesdropping, as if the seats around you aren’t empty for now, “You and Luke, huh?”

You turn your neck slowly to face him, levelling him with an unimpressed glower - narrowed eyes meeting his as he raises a brow in question. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how I spent half of last year trying to get you out to watch a game at Yost, and you told me that hockey interests you about as much as collecting pennies would.” 

Funny how he remembers that, verbatim, you think.

You’d like to think Ethan is a friend - you share a lot of classes, he often saves you a seat when it’s busy and you’re undoubtedly cutting it close, and you let him look at your notes when he dozes off mid-presentation — a transactional relationship, mostly, but he’s not a complete asshole like a lot of the other guys you know. You kind of run in the same circles, go to the same parties, and bump into each other too often to be anything less.

He had been trying to convince you to go watch a game last year, especially after the two of you had worked on a project together in your fall semester, only because of the development in your own friendship, and the fact that you had other kind-of friends on the team. He was adamant you’d have fun - but you knew better.

And the sole reason had really always been Ellie.

She spent your entire freshman year trying to convince you to go with her to watch the team. You’d gone a couple times, and then never again. If you started going to hockey games, she would have tagged along, and you would never hear the end of her prolific yapping about Jack.

And now here you are - sat in the stands, an empty seat beside you with her name on it, and Jack Hughes on the ice below. That worked out so well.

“I’m here for Ellie,” you lie, because that seems reasonable, “The penny thing still stands, I don’t understand a single thing going on down there.”

“Except for the fact that Luke keeps looking up to check on you.” 

And sure enough, when you peer back down at where the guys are warming up, Luke is glancing up in your general direction. It’s a little too far away to meet his eye - obstructed too, by his helmet - but you know Ethan is right. He’s been doing it ever since they came out.

“Maybe he’s looking for Dylan,” you shrug, “The guy’s a liability, Hughes is probably worried he’s gone and got himself lost.”

“Is that why you’re blushing?” Ethan jabs playfully at you with his elbow, smirking when you glare back at him. “You worried about Duker too?”

“Shut up.” 

“I’m just callin’ it like I see it,” he shrugs, dark eyes gleaming with mischief as he smirks knowingly at you, knuckles pressing into your shoulder as he gives a playful shove. “You’re into him.”

“Am not.”

“He’s into you.”

“We’re friends,” comes out by default, and you’re kind of surprised by just how quick, considering it was only ten days ago that you were in his bed back in Jersey. Less than two weeks since he was pressing teasing kisses into your giggling lips and and you were drawing swirling patterns into his bare chest as you both tried to fight sleep, neither of you wanting to succumb to your own exhaustion and end up waking up in a world where you couldn’t be this close again. 

Or maybe that was just you, you don’t know - Luke seems pretty happy to casually text and pretend everything is fine. 

“Did he say he was into me?” You turn a little more toward Ethan as you ask, hips shuffling in your seat to fully angle your body toward his, tilting your head in question and holding your breath in anticipation of his response.

Luke said he only ever talked to Brett on his team about the two of you - and while Ethan saw the two of you in the summer, probably witnessed you acting a little more than friendly around each other, you didn’t think either of you had said anything to him.

But him and Luke are close. They always have been. Maybe Luke has shared a little more than you thought - and maybe that’s not such a bad thing, having a little insight as to where his head is at.

Ethan’s smirk only widens though, amusement evident in the crinkles that form beside his eyes, like he takes pleasure in how easily you fold.

“Luke said the same as you, that you’re friends.”

Damn.

“There you go, then,” you force a sardonic smile, turning back to face the ice, “Hope that helps you sleep a little better at night, I, for one, won’t miss your short-lived attempt at being a professional gossip”

He chuckles from beside you, raising a hand to wave at Luke when he looks back up again, the weight of his distanced gaze already sitting heavy on your chest. 

You don’t know why it bothers you - thinking he’s so content in your agreement. It’s your agreement, after all. You assumed that you would be content too, it’s why you’d suggested it in the first place, but you can’t help it, can’t stop thinking about him, and can’t stop wondering what if?

You thought you’d shut that door at the end of summer - thought your mind was set and your heart was safely kept under lock and key - but of course he’d find a way to weasel straight beneath all your defences. You don’t know how you didn’t see it coming - too consumed by your want of him, too caught up in the familiarity of his longing gaze - considering it was exactly what he’d done in the first place, weakened your resolve with a flash of his crooked smile and caustic charm. 

And that’s exactly how you feel, now - every time you find yourself smiling a little too hard at your phone when he texts you, or checking a little too often when he doesn’t - weak.

When you look down at the ice and see him glancing back over his shoulder in your direction, wondering if he really is seeking you out or if he normally scans the crowd like this - weak.

When your phone buzzes in your pocket after the team retreat to the locker room, and you angle it away from the nosey neighbours sat at either side of you, your lips twisting to mask a smile as you read, If I fall please don’t laugh at me - weak. 

When the team end up losing, and you want nothing more than to go find him - comfort him somehow in the limited time you have before they leave to fly back to Jersey, knowing how amped up he had been to return to the ice - but only end up with a few minutes of his time, in the company of Ethan and Dylan beside you, sharing a brief, noncommittal hug and soft smiles just between the two of you - weak.

Thanks for coming, he texts you when you’re on the way back to Ann Arbor in the back of Ethan’s car, Ellie on the other side, head against the window asleep, and the boys up front, yapping to each other about the game.

You chew on the corner of your mouth, face aglow in the dim reflection of your phone, and watch the little three dots appear, waiting for whatever else he wants to say.

You picture him buckled into his seat, legs too long for any plane to comfortably accommodate him - although you’ve never flown anything other than economy, so what would you know - and regretting not getting any other moment alone. You wonder if you’re the first person he’s messaged since settling in for his flight, if any of the guys have a text waiting for them.

It means a lot that you were there. 

You lean your elbow onto the door at the side of you, pressing your smile into your fist to conceal it in case you catch Ethan’s curious eye in the rear-view mirror. 

I had fun, you text back, sending before you can overthink adding an emoji, fingers itching to tap on the little heart beside the eye-roll in your most used. You’d add it in a message to Ellie - to any of your other friends. Why not to Luke? Thanks for inviting me.

Anytime, he replies almost immediately. I get 2 tickets for every game if you ever want to come again.

You hold on the message and press the heart to react, which will have to be enough, for now, you think.

It’s been 10 days.

Maybe you need to wait until the mere sight of his name doesn’t cause your stomach to do somersaults. Then you can progress to heart shaped emojis. 

Time seems to be escaping Luke, passing quicker than he can even comprehend - November ends up being a blur, 14 games in 30 days and he can barely remember his own name by the time it’s done.

One thing he does remember is you, though, a constant presence throughout the month, even if he didn’t physically see you once.

After the game in Detroit, the two of you took up a new routine, texting one another throughout the day, every day, and when it turned out that texting very quickly didn’t fill the void, he would call you. 

It started on the first, a shutout loss in Calgary left him in a pretty shitty mood - the team piling back to their hotel in almost silence, splitting into their rooms to sleep off the result, and he found himself needing someone to actually talk to.

You had answered almost immediately, despite the time difference, way past midnight in Ann Arbor when he called, and had managed to talk him down without even knowing you were doing so.

He knows he has a reputation for talking, but he was finding it hard to speak, and you seemed to pick up on that fact, unprompted.

It was like some weird version of ASMR, you whispering to avoid detection in an otherwise unconscious house, him humming back similar-toned responses even though there was no one around for him to wake up, and it took maybe ten minutes for him to feel normal again.

The two of you stayed on that call for two hours, though, until your responses slowed down, and you fell asleep with him on the other end. Listening to you breathing felt creepy, to say the least, and he ended the call with a text saying, thank you, waking to a text the next morning that just said, thank you too.

He realised then that maybe you both needed each other, and the calls became FaceTimes, which became daily. 

You congratulated his wins, consoled his losses, kept him occupied on his days off, and he tried to return the favour - celebrating your finished assignments, comforting you through the stress of school, or your family, or life in general, and giving you an escape just like you gave him one.

The two of you even start watching movies together again. Admittedly, through a screen, with a couple second delay on either side - but every Sunday, you both take turns to pick something, setting a random theme the week before and judging each other on how well the film fits.

And it’s weird, having this almost constant contact with you, access he’s never had to anyone other than his family in his entire life, but still missing you.

He feels like he would have been able to get a handle on this whole friend thing, if he could see you in person. If he wasn’t melting at the mere sound of your voice, or staring when the connection lags on your pretty face. Too many times now he’s been caught smiling down at his phone in the locker room, chirped to holy heaven about the lovestruck grin on his face, and having to swallow down the urge to laugh along, because he knows they’re right.

But he had been right, back in Michigan - this is so much better than nothing at all. Having you in his life in whatever capacity you’re willing to be in it will always be enough, and he values your friendship more than most other relationships in his life. 

Which is why, when it comes time for him to return to Michigan, he finds himself in a slump thinking you won’t be there. 

It’s the holiday season before he’s even aware, and thinking of going back to the lake house, and you going back home at the same time, fills him with disappointment.

He puts on a smile in front of his parents, relishes in the time spent with Quinn, but he finds himself checking his phone more often than he should, wondering if you feel like you’re missing out too.

It comes to a head during the Christmas Eve party his parents have thrown for the last couple of years, inviting all their local friends and family to catch up and celebrate the year together while they have the rare chance.

He slips out the back, isolates himself on the deck chairs by the pool, despite the freezing cold, and twirls his phone between his thumb and fingers, wondering if calling you on a day like today is crossing some unspoken friendship barrier.

His brothers know better than to bother him when he gets like this, and this sort of disposition is a new thing for his parents to navigate, so when he hears the back door open, and the soft patter of footsteps come towards him, he holds his breath in anticipation of some awkward conversation, probably with his dad, where he’s berated for bringing the mood down.

He heaves out a big sigh before straightening up, expecting a, you’re going to freeze out here, or, come inside, Luke, you’re being rude.

“Are you avoiding me, Hughes?”

He shoots up then, spinning on his feet at a dizzying pace, and catching sight of you, bundled up a thick, fluffy jacket with your hands in your pockets as you wait for him to acknowledge you.

“No, I,” he watches you step closer, approaching the deck chairs with your eyes on him the whole time. “I didn’t know you were here, I’m sorry.”

“Since when are you such a hermit? Why aren’t you inside?”

“Just needed a minute of quiet,” he shrugs, “Don’t know if you noticed coming through, they’re all insanely loud.”

“Oh, I noticed,” you chuckle, the subtle shyness in your demeanour sending some warped tingle down his spine, “Do you want me to catch you inside?”

“No,” he says before you even finish speaking, reaching out to grasp at your arm despite the fact you’re not turning yet, “You don’t count.”

You hum, lips twisting into an astute smile before you take the final steps to stand in front of the seat beside his. The smile deepens the closer you get, and he doesn’t miss the way you huff out a small laugh as you look at him.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, head tilting as he takes in the playful gleam in your pretty eyes, your attention flitting around his face with a knowing twist to your lips.

“What’s this about?” You ask, shuffling forward and biting back a smile as you point to the patch of skin between your nose and mouth, still staring at him.

He rolls his eyes, thinking, not you too. He’s had enough chirps from just about everyone else, his own mother included. You’d been the one to tell him you liked him with a moustache back when it was fake, you of all people should have his back. “I’ve become an esteemed gentleman,” he snarks, “Some may say it makes me look rugged and handsome.”

“Was it your mom that said that?”

“Others said sexy and mysterious.”

“Others?” You snort, matching his position as the two of you stand closer, now, looking up at him to meet his height.

“Why,” he asks, narrowing his eyes your way, “You jealous?”

“Of what?” You giggle, pointing teasingly at the feature in question, “Someone mistaking the caterpillar that’s taken residence on your top lip as sexy? I’m absolutely beside myself.”

“Ha ha,” he swats at the finger you point at him, and shuffles back into the deck chair, “Did you come out here just to rag on my facial hair? Thought I suited a moustache.” He figures the next best way to gain some semblance of control over this conversation is to reference that night - most times he’s a little more subtle about it, never missing the flush that rises to your cheeks, but this time you don’t bite.

“I’d hardly call that a moustache,” you roll your eyes as you fall down into the chair next to his, painted Michigan blue next to Devils red. “Was just hard to resist, it’s so easy to rile you up. But I’m here because I brought you a gift.”

“A Christmas present?” He asks, straightening up, “I didn’t get you anything,” he pouts as he watches you reach into your bag and pull it out, a bigger-than-he-expected rectangular box wrapped in red paper, a black bow tied neatly around it. 

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” you tell him as you hand it over, the tips of his long fingers grazing against yours as he takes it. “Just saw it and thought of a conversation we had once, it’s no big deal. It’s kinda dumb, actually.”

“Doubt it,” Luke mutters as he shakes the box close to his ear, a brow furrowed as he tries to make sense of what’s inside. He doesn’t think anything you give him could be dumb, but he’s kind of at a loss as to what it could be at all.

“Jeez, don’t break the damn thing,” you chuckle, your hand instinctively going out to grasp at his forearm to bring it down, and his eyes darting to the point where the two of you touch. 

You haven’t touched him since he last saw you in person, in October, and while distance has helped a little with the whole strictly friends thing, he feels like the mere heat of your skin against his has washed away all the hard work he’s done over those arduous weeks apart.

It takes him back to the middle of October, to that night in his room in the apartment in Jersey. Brings back visions of your heated gaze and your soft lips, the way you’d so easily fold to him - your biting remarks sizzling into amorous moans and sweet nothings. Sends his thoughts spiralling to how your body felt against his - to lips pressing fervently into the column of his throat, to fingers clutching at curls at the nape of his neck and legs hooked around his waist - and at the thought of legs, his gaze wanders. 

You’re quite bundled up, up top - a thicker coat, a higher neckline than he’s used to seeing you in for your sweater, very appropriate for the brisk late December air, but you’re still wearing a skirt, and tights that are probably a touch too sheer to properly keep you warm. And the tiny ladder above your knee piques his interest almost immediately, a voice in his head from he-can’t-even-remember-when regaling him with the analogy of ladders in tights being dubbed, the stairway to heaven. 

He swallows, thickly, eyes darting back up to meet yours. 

“Can I open it?” He asks, and he swears he sees your pupils dilate after watching his wandering gaze. “The present.”

“No,” you shake your head with a small smile as soon as he frowns.

“I didn’t think you’d be the wait until Christmas morning type.”

“I’m not, I’m just lousy at watching people open presents. It makes me nervous. You can open it when I’m gone.”

Luke doesn’t quite believe that anything he could possibly do could ever make you nervous, but he lets it go with a nod of agreement, placing the box precariously on the arm of the deck chair.

“You got a late flight home or something? What are you even still doing in the state? I thought you were going back yesterday,”

“I’m spending Christmas with Ellie’s family,” you shrug, “My mom got called in to work last minute so it would have just been me at home, anyway. Gonna go back in time for New Years Eve.”

Luke’s chest aches a little at the thought of you being alone, but it makes him feel better to know you have Ellie. Makes him feel less inclined to do something ridiculous, like ask you to stay - to wake up next to him in the morning, eat dinner with his family, and stay by his side all day.

He can’t spend his whole Christmas dwelling on that kind of rejection. 

Although he feels even worse now, that he hadn’t thought to get you anything. He should have asked, when you became the type of friends who text each other everyday, if birthdays and holidays should be taken into account. 

If you’re the kind of friend who he can watch movies with from over 600 miles away, and who understands his humour enough to send stupid memes that he actually finds funny, and who is the only person he can even communicate with after a bad game - who seems to understand what he means when he says just want to feel nothing for a while, and FaceTimes him just for him to watch you study with your headphones on until he feels calmer - then surely you’re the kind of friend he buys a gift for Christmas. 

“When are you leaving?” He asks, trying to do the mental math on if he’ll be able to get you anything by then - something to take into the New Year, maybe.

“In 3 days. The 27th.”

He goes back to Jersey on the 26th. Maybe he can figure something out. 

“No doubt Jack’s gonna want to see Ellie in the morning before we go back. Maybe I can save you from third wheeling?”

“My white knight,” you place a hand to your chest with a dreamy smile, and he rolls his eyes with a scoff to mask just how much that still gets to him - the easy way you so quickly jibe back at anything he says. 

It’s easier to water it down through a text. Especially when there’s a delay in response, when he’s in practice or you’re in class, and it doesn’t serve to remind him of summer - of bickering from his passenger seat, prodding your feet into him from the other side of the couch, or splashing him with water in the lake. 

“Are you guys gonna stay for a drink?”

“Nah, we gotta get back to help sort all the Santa stuff out for her siblings. They do the whole snow boot-print and half-eaten carrots set up, it’s a whole thing, apparently.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, a sudden distance in the way your eyes drop, like he’s losing you to something heavy and hard. 

“Are you still down for movie night?” He asks, your Sunday ritual only having occurred a couple nights ago, where the two of you had watched While You Were Sleeping - Luke’s still trying to get his head around how you always somehow pick romantic films while actively rejecting the concept of romance, but if he thinks too hard about it, he’s worried it might fry his brain. You’d said it was your favourite Christmas movie, and he had debated just how festive it really was after watching, but he was in no position to deny you when it was, in fact, your turn to pick.  “I’m free on the 30th. I’ll be in California so the time might be a little off, but we can make it work.”

“I’m down. It’s your turn to pick, though, so you better make it good. And you can’t pick New Years Eve, that’s cheating.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he rolls his eyes, his heart fluttering pathetically at the soft way you smile back at him. He’s been asking pretty much everyone he knows what the best New Years themed movie is, and he still hasn’t found anything he’s sold on, yet. But he hates ensemble movies almost as much as you do - Love, Actually not included, because that’s a Christmas classic - so he wouldn’t go near one, not for movie night. “I’m still doing my research.”

“Yeah, well,” you push yourself back up onto your feet, leaning over and ruffling your hand through his hair, “Don’t think too hard or you’ll hurt yourself. You’re kind of the only person I like doing this with, if you give yourself a headache and become unavailable, I’m gonna be really upset.”

He stands too, watches you glance through the window behind the two of you and sigh, and he has to ball his hands into fists by his side to stop himself reaching out to give you a proper goodbye.

He still isn’t sure what kind of boundaries being friends incurs, but some switch deep within him flips - a sudden wave of courage washing over him at the thought of letting an opportunity slip away.

“Are we the kind of friends who hug?” He asks, head tilting as he watches the shy smile slowly break out on your face. Illuminated only by the light through the window, you look so soft that it makes him nervous, this new twinkle in your eye glinting just for him.

It’s so different to how you used to look at him. So much gentler and warmer - so much friendlier, and he knows that shouldn’t make his gut churn, but it does. He still misses the way you used to bite, but he might like this just as much.

“We can be,” you shrug, taking a small step forward, “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want,” he nods, taking a small step, himself, until he’s all up in your space, wrapping his arms around your shorter frame, pulling you straight into his chest and hooking his chin over the top of your head. 

Your arms circle around his torso, and he feels the press of your cheek to his front, his own hands rubbing up and down your back as the two of you stay in the embrace for an extended moment.

He’ll be the first to admit he’s been struggling with the whole just friends thing, but this is so much better than the alternative - being able to  hold you to him like this will always be better than nothing, he thinks. 

The want to kiss you will probably dwindle with time, and maybe that’s better than taking a cold plunge into the murky, icy waters of you wanting nothing to do with him, entirely. 

It still doesn’t stop that small part of him wishing for a christmas miracle. 

He sways you a little as he checks back in the house, most people distracted by their own conversations, but he meets Ellie’s eye from where she stands with Jack, the two of them watching the two of you through the window with scheming smiles that only serve to confuse him.

That is, until Jack points his finger upwards.

Luke unhooks his chin to glance up, his heart hammering in his chest at the sight of the small decoration above the two of you. 

“Thanks again for the present.”

“Like I said, it’s no big deal,” you shrug as the two of you finally part, Luke all of a sudden feeling the chill in the air when you take a step back. “I’m really happy that we’re friends, Luke,” you tell him, voice thick with vulnerability, a subtle shine in your eyes when your features soften up at him, and it all only serves to quicken the rampant beat of his heart. “These last couple months have been really weird for me, and I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have you.”

Luke feels his throat seize up, a dryness that spreads into his chest, and cracks like plaster along the cavity, crumbly and weak.

God, you surprise him, sometimes - a conversation that started off with you hazing his attempt at a moustache turning into this, turning into you opening up and letting him in. Baring a fragility to him that you would never have dared to show, all those months ago in the summer. 

And, as is the same as most feelings he develops when it comes to you, he had thought it was just him - finding solace in your computerised company, in texts and FaceTimes and voice notes where you ramble on a little too long and always apologise for doing so. When he aches all over, and the noise elsewhere is too loud to bare, seeking comfort in whatever way you’re willing to give it to him has gotten him through a couple pretty rough patches since October, and he’d struggle without you, too.

“Same here,” he tells you, and because it never will feel like enough, adding, “I don’t know how I ever survived without you.”

You smile, slow and sacred, the kind of look in your eye that he’ll picture when he closes his later tonight, and lean in to hold him again.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper into his chest.

“Merry Christmas,” he echoes back.

And then he watches you leave - watches you slip through the back door into the house, and watches you through the window as you say goodbye, wishing his brothers a happy Christmas as you pass them, and Jack seeing you and Ellie out. 

He falls back down into the deck chair once you’ve gone, throwing his head back with an exaggerated groan. His face is tense, his eyes scrunched shut, and when he opens them, looking straight up to the mistletoe tied to the wooden beam above, he feels like the universe is playing one giant, cruel joke on him. 

Friends, he tells himself, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. Just friends.

He waits a few minutes before pushing himself up, grabbing at the gift and making his way through the house mostly unnoticed, sneaking off to his bedroom to rip the damn thing open. 

The box inside is pretty nondescript, a plain brown with a bit of writing at the top that pretty much just says lamp in warehouse jargon, and his brows furrow as he hooks a finger into the cardboard and opens it up.

He assumes you’ve done some level of assembly already, evidenced by the way it sits on top of the plastic it’s supposed to be wrapped in, and there’s a small note attached. The cord is untied, and wound back up, but he doesn’t have to fiddle with those annoying wires that usually come with it.

Plug this in when you wanna feel like nothing.

He pulls out the device, looking for a clue as to what conversation could have possibly sparked you buying this for him, and pushes himself up from his bed to plug it in as requested.

He’s expecting the warm hues of one of those sunset lamps, a round glow of orange and yellow to wash over his walls. It’s the sort of thing he pictures you having in your room, reminiscent of all those times he’d picked you up from work in the golden hour back in summer, rushing from the club over to his car, skin bathed in radiant warmth.

He isn’t expecting to turn it on to constellations being projected across the entire room. Stars and planets and moons orbiting slowly and serenely across the ceiling. Probably unrealistic in their alignment, but immersive all the same.

His lips turn up into a slow, firm smile, your words from the beginning of summer speaking so clearly into the back of his mind. 

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

Maybe that’s the feeling he’s been chasing this whole time, coming back to his apartment from crappy games and going straight to his phone in search of your name. Asking you to sit in silence with him, until he doesn’t feel the crushing weight of expectation anymore, until he starts to forget all the reasons he feels like crap in the first place.

Luke: best

Luke: christmas

Luke: present 

Luke: ever!!!!!

You: it’s a $20 lamp

You: and you grew up rich

You: so I highly doubt that

Luke smiles at the way you triple text back almost immediately, and sinks back into the pillows at the top of his bed, taking a deep breath and experiencing just how small he is in comparison to the rest of the solar system. 

Luke: I feel microscopic

You: only because I’m in the festive spirit I won’t say I told you so

You: merry christmas luke ♥️ 

Luke: merry christmas 🎄❤️ 

He tries not to overthink a single emoji. It’s the holidays, you’re in the spirit, like you said, and a red heart doesn’t mean anything more than you spreading the love.

Friends, he reiterates to himself as his eyes trace the constellations on his bedroom ceiling, wondering if maybe there’s a universe out there where you could ever be more, again.

Being back home in Chicago for New Years was never really going to be at the top of your list when it came to ways you wanted to kick off 2025. Last year you’d gone back to college a couple days after Christmas - had spent New Years Eve with your sisters back at the house, like one big sleepover; an abundance of rose wine and DIY charcuterie boards with all your favourite snacks. 

It had been perfect, all of you gathered out on the street dressed in about 5 layers so you didn’t freeze to death, watching the fireworks set off by one of the fraternities and ringing in the new year with your closest friends.

This time you feel isolated. 

You love your mom, and you can’t hold her work against her - but you don’t know why she asked you to come back and spend this time with her when she was just going to accept every call in to take another shift.

You got back on the 27th after a couple days with Ellie’s family, and you had to get a cab back to the house because she was at work when your flight landed. There was a note on the counter in the kitchen, and leftovers in the fridge, and when you woke the next morning, it was the exact same.

An apology written on a post-it and a wad of cash for you to go out and get groceries. 

Luke has been a good enough distraction.

He texts throughout the day, enough so that you never feel like you’re waiting on him, and FaceTimes whenever he has a good chunk of time to spare. You almost feel guilty for just how much of his energy you’re taking up, but he seems invested enough in what’s going on with you to never make a comment about it. 

He’s out on a roadie in California - due to play a game on New Years Eve, and despite how much he had tried to convince you he wants to be on FaceTime with you when the clock strikes midnight, you arrange for your movie night to be the night before.

So, on the 30th, you settle into your room - your mom working, again - with enough snacks and drinks that you won’t need to pause the movie, and set up When Harry Met Sally on your laptop, Luke’s face taking up the entirety of your phone where it rests against the screen. 

“Is this the one where she fakes an orgasm in the middle of a restaurant or something?” You ask as you get yourself comfy on top of your bed, a nice thick blanket around your shoulders and your snacks nestled safely in your lap.

“I think so,” Luke responds absentmindedly, his face focused, probably setting up the film for himself. “I had to ask around for recommendations for movies set around New Years, Pesch said this one was perfect. Have you seen it before?”

“No,” you smile as you watch him, brows furrowed and eyes narrowing at whatever is going on with the hotel TV, “But if it is the one with the deli orgasms, Brett might be a little bit of a freak.”

“He’s definitely a freak,” Luke chuckles, “Curtis backed him up, though. Apparently it’s a classic.”

“Oh, well if Curtis said then it must be true.”

“Glad you agree,” he smiles, eyes glancing to his phone and softening when they land upon you. “Are you good to go?”

You give an affirmative hum, and he counts the two of you down to try sync up your streams - which never really works, but Luke seems to find some weird sense of joy in putting on a dorky voice and announcing the numbers like he’s sending a ship off to space. It’s cute, and you’re hardly going to stop him.

Luke never really does a bad job when it comes to picking a movie - even when it’s something you don’t like the sound of, or you hate an actor, or you’ve heard bad things, he encourages you to give it a shot and try something new, and it usually pays off.

Only this time, it takes a mere 10 minutes for this movie to send you into some weird spiral.

You’re a little distracted by Billy Crystal, at first, trying to figure out what you’ve seen him in before - and then something he says seems to stop you in your tracks.

“Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive.” Harry says from the passenger seat of Sally’s car, a bunch of stuff packed into the backseat behind them. “He always wants to have sex with her.”

It swirls around your head until a couple lines later, when Sally asks him about how a woman’s opinion might factor into the dynamic.

“Doesn’t matter because the sex thing is already out there,” he replies, “So the friendship thing is ultimately doomed and that’s the end of the story.”

You daringly glance at your phone, the smaller screen resting against the corner of the bigger one, and are relieved to see that Luke is too intent on watching to notice you - looking at him, wide eyed and panicked, a million thoughts racing through your brain, enough to work up a physical sweat.

You feel clammy, your throat feels dry, your mouth feels itchy, your fingers are throbbing and your chest is pulsing.

And Luke’s throwing popcorn into his mouth.

You keep casting glances his way throughout the movie, only to see him completely unaffected, and you start to wonder if he really doesn’t see the resemblance. The banter, the bickering, how they understand each other on a deeper level than anybody else, the way they watch movies with each other over the phone - it’s uncanny, even, especially when their friends end up together, just like Ellie and Jack, and Harry and Sally are tethered together forever from then on out. 

His teammates have played some sick, cruel prank on him and he hasn’t even noticed.  

Your thoughts unravel as the film plays on - as Harry sleeps his way through New York to get over his ex, and Sally lets joyless men take her on boring dates to pretend that she’s over hers, all the while the two of them ignoring the growing tension between each other. You watch as Sally finds out the ex who swore he never wanted marriage gets engaged to his new girlfriend, and the meltdown that ensues - how Harry becomes her comfort, and years of pent up feelings unravel between the two of them in calamitous fashion - and you feel like you’re about to have a meltdown, yourself.

The palpitations persist as Harry does with trying to gain back Sally’s attention - relentless, and determined - and as the movie draws to it’s end, it seems like your heart has beat itself so far out of whack that you can’t even feel it anymore. Just a bunch of white noise inside you - a buzzing, insistent nothingness that just won’t go away.

This character that even you were annoyed by in the beginning somehow morphed into the man on the other end of the phone - someone who doesn’t give up, who keeps calling despite getting nothing in return, who puts on dorky voices and makes dumbass comments and turns himself into someone worthy of Sally’s time. 

Not that Luke was ever not worthy of yours, but it fits - the way he gives so much of himself to you, now, despite how busy is life is otherwise. 

“So, what are your thoughts?” Luke asks once the credits have rolled, and you almost have to shake yourself out of your reverie, your throat dry and your face flushed.

“I uhm,” you start, blinking hard to try and gather your thoughts, “I liked it. It was good. Very New Years-y.”

The way he smiles is slow, and you hate how much your chest burns at just the sight of it. 

“What about you?” You dare to ask, holding your breath as you await some sort of reaction.

“I was a little distracted, to be honest,” he admits, and your eyes widen, not entirely expecting him to be so open. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “Took me a while to get over Mike Wazowski constantly talking about sex.”

Oh.

“That’s who it was!” You say instead, face crumpling at the picture it paints in your head. “I couldn’t figure it out!”

“Surprising,” Luke comments, his lips twisting mischievously as he watches you through his phone. “I know firsthand how much you like a guy in green.”

Even with the lag over FaceTime, the way he playfully winks at you makes your chest burn a little, and you hope, for once, that you’ve somehow frozen on his end so that you can hide your wide-eyed reaction.

He isn’t supposed to bring halloween up - neither of you are, despite how often you find yourself thinking about it - and so him just casually throwing out a comment like he’s testing the waters throws you off your game, your usually quick-witted retort fizzling out on the tip of your tongue, a prolonged silence spreading between the two of you.

Is that where the two of you are, now, in your friendship? Dropping joking references to the last night you spent together?

“Must have been a phase.” You finally retort, sending him a tight lipped smile when he tilts his head in question, a gut-wrenching, knowing look in his eyes.

“Must have been.”

He has to go before long, an early morning skate ahead of him, and you figure you should probably get some sleep too, while you can - without a busy house and endless amounts of studying to do - so when he hangs up, you throw yourself back onto your bed and stare at the same spot for what feels like hours.

You have plenty of guy friends. 

Granted, you aren’t as close with them as you are with Luke, but that doesn’t really matter. You have the capability of just being friends with them.

Just because you and Luke have slept together you-don’t-even-know how many times, and he kind of made out that he loved you that one time in Michigan, and you spent the better part of 2 months in a catatonic break up spiral after you broke things off with him, doesn’t mean you can’t be friends.

He was the one who stopped whatever the hell the two of you were doing the morning after the halloween party - and you know for sure you would have carried on if he hadn’t.

So that rules out the whole constantly thinking about sleeping with each other thing. If he was constantly thinking about it, he wouldn’t have given up the last opportunity he had to actually do it.

But then where does that leave you?

And why does the thought of him not wanting you all of a sudden seem worse than if he did?

Luke watches When Harry Met Sally a grand total of 8 times throughout January. 

The first time after New Years had been to actually focus on the movie, laid up on his own back in his room in Jersey, without the distraction of your pretty features taking up his phone screen, and not having to keep up the poker face he worked so hard to maintain the first time. 

He really lets the whole story sink in - lets the horrors flash through his eyes as he absorbs just how much of the two of you are in the story.

Sally has your defiance - he sees your unwavering confidence in the way she reacts to Harry’s chirps and remarks, and sees you in her resilience to his persistent charms. 

He wonders if this could have been the two of you years down the line, if you never made up after summer, and he would run into you one day in an airport, or a bookstore, and you’d pass each other by like ships in the night until one day something changed. He’s pretty thankful that isn’t the case - that the two of you have progressed past the longing and avoiding and have become something tangible and real.

He really doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have you.

Most people say he’s one of the lucky ones, having his brother by his side whilst juggling his ever-chaotic career - with parents in the business his whole life, and having Quinn be the blueprint for him to follow - and for as much of his life that he has spent striving to be where he is, he’s managed to surround him with people who understand.

But sometimes he feels like they don’t really understand him.

They don’t understand how he tries to ease the tension with dumb jokes, or how sometimes he can’t help the snappy comebacks and the prolonged eye-rolls that follow what he believes to be stupid questions directed at someone who really isn’t in the mood.

They don’t understand that sometimes he really just needs to shut off - that, whilst he has somewhat of a reputation for being a talker, when shit hits the fan, he doesn’t want to speak at all. He wants to shut himself away, and just sit with his thoughts until he convinces himself that none of it matters.

You get it. You support it - sit with him in the silence, albeit on the other end of a phone call, but you’re there nonetheless. You don’t take his biting remarks to heart, you roll your eyes straight back, and you even get whatever dumb movie reference he makes. 

You mean a lot to him, and the thought of screwing it up in any way starts to mess with his head - which is how your weekly Sunday movie ends up on the back burner for the rest of January.

You don’t put up much of a fight, either, which Luke finds weird, but then again, you’re pretty snowed under with school work. The two of you still talk - texting, mostly, but calls when needed, too - and he doesn’t really feel a divide until the third Sunday rolls around.

January feels like the longest month he he has ever lived in his life - and after a home loss to the Sens, the team’s 4th in a row in one week, Luke shuts himself away on the Sunday night, projection lamp casting constellations around his darkened room, and When Harry Met Sally playing for maybe the 6th time on his TV.

“Are you stuck in some weird Groundhog Day thing I don’t know about?” Jack asks after a while, leaning against the door jamb and craning his neck to watch Harry and Sally walking through Washington Square Park. “I swear you watch this movie every day.”

“Keep falling asleep, I’m determined to watch it all the way through.” Luke lies with ease, eyes never leaving the screen as they speak to each other in dorky voices, and Harry finally asks her out.

“Right,” Jack drags, “Well you’re gonna have to try again some other time, we’re going out.”

“I don’t want to go out.”

“Good thing I wasn’t asking, then.” Jack snarks, pushing himself away from the door and narrowing his eyes at Luke. “You’re really not gonna tell me what’s got you all mopey and weird?”

“Can’t a guy watch a movie in peace?” He scoffs, reaching for the remote to pause the film and straighten up on his bed, “I’m not being mopey and weird, I’m just beat. Been a shit week if you didn’t notice.”

“You were weird before this week, though.” 

“Jesus, what’s with the third degree?” He pushes himself off the bed completely, gesturing for his brother to flick the light on as he turns off the projector. 

“Maybe I’m worried about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Jack watches as Luke stalks toward his closet in search of a jacket, rifling through a couple until he pulls out something he knows should keep him warm. 

It’s the jacket he gave you to wear on Halloween, and Luke wonders for a fleeting second if there’s a chance your perfume might still linger.

Jesus Christ, he is being weird, he thinks.

Jack calls your name out like he’s reading Luke’s mind, a brow raised when he turns to face him. “Did you two fall out or something?”

“No, why would you think that?”

“Just asking,” Jack shrugs casually, although the way he’s eyeing Luke makes him nervous. Did Ellie say something? Did you say something to her? “So the whole friend thing is holding up?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Luke knows he’s putting the D in defensive, but he can’t help it. It’s technically his job, Jack should expect it by now, he thinks.

“I don’t know, I just think once you’ve crossed that line with someone, it’s kind of hard to just pretend you never did. I can’t imagine just being friends with Ellie again.”

“We’re not you and Ellie,” Luke frowns, a bitterness crossing his features at the comparison. He just about bites his tongue from lashing out, saying something stupid like how you and him are way more mature about your feelings.

“No shit, the two of you are much harder work.” Jack scoffs out a humourless laugh, “She’s batshit crazy and you’re way in over your head.”

“She isn’t crazy,” Luke argues, “You don’t even know her.”

“Luke, she literally broke things off with you for saying one dumb comment,” he huffs back, and Luke doesn’t even question how he would possibly even know that. He never spoke to his brothers about the two of you after things fell apart, but Jack no doubt got his intel from Ellie - morphed and twisted it into his own narrative after the fact, because that’s just what Jack does. “It’s not insane to think she’d do the same with your friendship.”

It is insane to think that. 

Partly because Luke would never be so stupid as to speak about you like that again, and partly because what the two of you have now can’t simply be broken off. Not again. Not on Luke’s watch.

“We’re solid, you don’t have to worry about it.”

The tensing of his jaw is probably what gives him away, he thinks, and he tries to relax all his muscles as his older brother watches him with a scrutinising glare. 

“You’re still into her.”

“Whatever,” Luke sighs, shouldering past Jack into the hallway. He’ll take his brother’s advice for a lot of things - looks up too him even, when it comes to being a player, being a functioning human being somewhat - but the last thing he’s taking Jack’s advice on is dating. Not when it took him like 3 years to ask Ellie out.

“You’re not denying it.”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

“Luke,” Jack grabs at his elbow to stop him storming all the way through the apartment, tugging until Luke turns, avoiding eye contact and shifting on his feet. “You might think you’re doing the sensible thing, but this whole being friends mess while you still have feelings isn’t good for you.”

“This conversation isn’t good for me,”

“You need to move on.”

The words send a spike of anxiety straight to Luke’s gut.

Move on to what? He’s barely been able to look at another girl without thinking of you lately, even in a platonic or professional sense. He’d stopped to get gas last week and had to run inside to get a drink, and the girl behind the counter gave him this disinterested, irritated shake of her head when he’d tried to make small talk while she was ringing him up. He’d laughed to himself going back to his car - had texted you, just been served by your twin at the gas station, and you’d replied straight away with the eye roll emoji yourself.

Moving on doesn’t really seem like an option.

Not until Jack says, “She’s probably dating again by now.”

He says it so off the cuff that Luke starts to feel like he’s reacting in slow motion - a gradual turn of his body to full attention and a delayed, curious tilt of his head.

“Is she?” He asks, dumbly, wondering if that’s another thing Ellie might have filled Jack in on in their catch ups. 

“How the hell would I know?” Jack scoffs, although the way his eyes widen momentarily is a dead giveaway that he’s hiding something. “But it’s been like 6 months, it’s pretty much expected.”

Would you tell him if you were dating?

He’s pretty sure you would. You tell him everything else.

Hell, he even knows your cycle by now, as much as he probably doesn’t want to. 

“I’m just going off what they say, you know, about getting over somebody.”

“What do they say?” Luke asks, teeth clenched, jaw aching and throat all prickly at just the thought of what Jack is going to come back with.

“That you have to get under somebody else.”

He feels like he’s about to throw up.

Absolutely not.

The thought of you giving the same parts of yourself to someone else that you’ve already given to him makes his skin crawl - the late night FaceTime calls, the soft, pretty smiles when it’s just the two of you, the way you’ve given up all resilience when it comes to laughing at his jokes.

Those things are his. They’re only his.

But this is the kind of warped possessiveness that made him fuck everything up in the first place - when the thought of you with Cole Caufield sent his head spinning so far off his body that he couldn’t control his mouth. He feels the exact same panic as he did back in the lake house, hanging balloons and hoping he could stop anybody from taking you away.

It wasn’t healthy then, and it isn’t healthy now. He has to let you go, if that’s what you really want. He has to let you move on. 

And if he’s going to do that, he has to move on, too.

February is supposed to be your favourite month of the year.

You’re a February baby, your birthday falling a couple days after Valentines Day, and the way you end up surrounded by hearts and flowers in the days leading up always puts you in a good mood.

Only this year, you’re getting your ass kicked with assignments and studying for your finals - and the fact that you’re still waiting to hear back about your graduate programme application.

Most evenings are spent in the library because it’s a lot less distracting than being back in your sorority - constantly playing catch up to all the things you feel like you’re falling behind on - and you barely even notice the passing of time, or what month it is at all, until you’re on your way out of the library one night and there’s a poster by the exit for Michigan Hockey Senior Night - saying, This Saturday, Feb 15th!

This Saturday?

How did you get almost two weeks into a month without even realising it?

You feel like you’re spiralling the whole way home - like time is running away from you. You’d just about remembered to apply for graduation before the deadline last month, and now it’s only 3 months away, and you still don’t know exactly where you’re gonna end up. 

And you haven’t even organised anything for your birthday. You’re usually so on top of that sort of stuff, too. It’s probably too last minute now to get everybody together - people will have made plans, you’re pretty sure, and the thought of not celebrating it makes your stomach turn, like your whole year has gone to waste.

It takes you 20 minutes to get back to the house, pretty much walking in a trance, and it’s only when you’re at the end of the street that you realise you just want to call Luke.

He usually talks you out of these moods without even knowing it - calms you down with some dorky joke or a story about how the guys on his team all grouped together to pull of some stupid prank on him. 

It’s like he knows when you go catatonic. Knows when everything is getting a little heavy, and he does his best to lighten the load. 

But he’s been busy too, lately. Down after a tough run of games, a drop in form, and he’s taking on a lot more responsibility with his team - the last thing he needs is you burdening him with your problems.

You just need to sleep it off, you think, as you sluggishly heave yourself up the stairs toward the front door of your sorority house, then the next time you talk to him you can be the kind of friend that he needs.

A soft exclamation of, “Finally,” pretty much gives you a heart attack as you close the door behind you, your hand shooting to cover your chest as your pulse thuds all the way up to your ears, “I’ve been waiting for you for like an hour!”

Ellie shoots up from where she had been sat toward the bottom of the staircase and comes toward you, an assessing tilt to her head as she looks you up and down.

You’re bundled up pretty thick, sweatpants on top of leggings on top of tights, and about 4 layers on top - and you’re hoping you can get away with using the cold as an excuse for how manic you probably look. The last thing you want right now is an Ellie interrogation. 

“I was at the library,” you tell her, “I told you earlier that’s where I’d be.”

“It’s dark, babe, if I knew you’d be there this late I would have come and got you. Everyone’s setting up for a movie in the lounge, Danica is convinced you’ve been kidnapped.”

“Oh, sorry,” you frown, peering past her to try and get a look through the doors into where the rest of the girls are. “I didn’t realise how late it was. Do you think she’d mind if I just went straight up to bed?”

“You’re fine, I figured you’d be out of it so I told her you were feeling sick, she’ll probably avoid you until Wednesday.”

You smile, tired and soft, but thankful, nonetheless. What else are best friends for if not to get your dictator sorority vice president off your back when she’s on a power trip about group dynamics and bonding nights?

“I love you,” you tell Ellie with a relieved sigh as she smiles back.

“I know,” she replies, “You’re gonna love me even more because I left a gift up in your room for when you got home.”

“A gift?” You ask, narrowing your exhausted eyes her way, frowning as you try to think what sort of gift she might have gotten you. “You know my birthday isn’t until Sunday, right?”

“Yes, I know when my best friend’s birthday is,” Ellie rolls her eyes dramatically as the two of you ascend the staircase together, your legs still aching after your walk home - your entire body wanting nothing more than to collapse atop your bed and sleep for 12 hours straight. “You’ve been down, wanted to do something nice for you.”

“Thanks El,” you offer a tired smile, “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“I’m sure you will,” she winks, “I’m gonna change and then join the others before Danica thinks I’ve been kidnapped, too.”

“Have fun.”

She disappears to her room a little closer to the stairs as you carry on down the hall, shoulders slumped and steps lethargic as you finally push your way into your room, planting your bag to the side of the door and slowly rounding the corner.

You didn’t really have any intentions of seeking out whatever gift Ellie had left for you until the morning with how exhausted you are, but it’s a little hard to miss when your bed comes into view - a long body sprawled out on top of your sheets, head resting in the crook of his own elbow and soft snores falling from his slightly open mouth. 

You just about stop yourself from rushing toward him, dropping your bag off to the side and unzipping your jacket, still stuck in a few more layers that you need to shed.

The need to laugh is a little harder to fight, the sight of him asleep in your bed, the picture of Ellie somehow sneaking him up here and having him wait for you to get home, and he couldn’t even stay up - it’s funny. It’s endearing and sweet, and you can’t really blame him. You’d watched his games over the last week, knew how relentless his schedule had been, so the thought of waking him up to talk doesn’t even cross your mind.

Despite how much you had wanted to talk to him before, and after having a mini-meltdown when you left the library - you think that maybe finally being in his actual presence might be enough. Plus, if he was awake, he’d probably see straight through you, and you’re far too exhausted and frustrated to talk it out right now. Ellie hadn’t noticed when you got home, that your eyes were red raw and your cheeks were all puffy. Luke would, so it’s probably for the best that he’s out like a light.

You grab something warm to change into for the night, slip into your bathroom and go through your usual routine - wash your face, brush your teeth, put your hair up and out of your face so it doesn’t get all frizzy and knotted in your sleep - before making your way back to your bed. 

You grab a thick blanket from your closet and crawl up on your bed beside him, throwing half over his long body before tucking yourself under the other half, shuffling up next to his sleeping form.

You settle pretty quickly on your half of the bed, figuring he must have remembered from the summer which side to sleep on himself, and bend your body in line with his, laying on your side until your muscles melt into the mattress.

And then you pull the arm he isn’t resting on over yourself, getting comfortable with your back to him, but still needing to be held. All the anxiety you’ve been dealing with over the past few weeks seems to seep away when you feel the press of his chest to your tense shoulders, and even asleep, his fingers spread so that you can lace yours through them - hands clasped together until you can feel the steady beat of his pulse below your knuckles, or maybe it’s yours, you don’t really know at this point. With his body moulded to yours like this, limbs bent into the spaces you leave for them, it’s hard to tell where he ends and you begin.

It’s probably how you fall asleep with miraculous ease - weeks of borderline insomnia catching up to you as you drift off within what feels like seconds, safe in the warm embrace of your only escape.

When Luke wakes in the middle of the night, he’s pretty sure he’s in the midst of some weird deja vu dream. 

His arm has gone dead beneath his head, pins and needles shooting from the tips of his fingers all the way to his shoulder as he readjusts himself a little, and he can’t feel the fingers on his other hand.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, too conscious of the fact that it isn’t morning yet - because he just doesn’t possibly feel rested enough for it to be morning, yet - and too focused on zeroing in on his other senses. The sound of soft breaths from beside him, the smell of marshmallow-y shampoo, and the warmth of a body laying beneath his other arm.

He slowly blinks himself into consciousness when the familiarity of it all sinks in - the clutch of your fingers between his, the way your breaths fall in line with his own, your shoulder blades pressed firmly to his chest - and peers over to assess your sleeping form.

You definitely weren’t there when he fell asleep. He probably wouldn’t have been able to get to sleep if you were - too in his head about having you in his arms again. 

He’s been in his head all day, though - coming over from Jersey to spend his bye-week in Michigan, he knew as soon as he landed that he wanted to see you first, and when he got to the house, and Ellie answered the door, he had been a little bummed that you weren’t home.

And then she pulled some mission impossible level sneaking skills to get him upstairs - told him you’d be back soon, and to wait around, and that if he made a single sound, she’d run upstairs and murder him, herself.

And what else was he supposed to do when it was his first time in any space that was solely yours, just sit there twiddling his thumbs?

He’d only ever seen your room in the background of your video calls - walls lined with mismatched frames and prints, pictures of you with your friends, and with your family, one even from the summer, of the whole group back at the lake house, the two of you stood side by side, back when your brewing feelings were a strict secret that nobody else knew about. He remembered when it was taken, his hand lightly pressed on the small of your back to keep you close - remembered the way you leant on him a little while everyone smushed together, and the soft smile you gave him when everyone broke apart.

There wass another picture that catches his eye - you as a kid, sat between both your parents, wearing the kind of smile only a kid could wear, a smile he knows he hasn’t seen on you since. You must have been like 6 or 7, a gap in your front teeth and a sun burnt nose, and he thought for a second that 6 or 7 year old Luke would have had the biggest crush on you if he knew you when you were kids. You probably would have broke his heart, then, too.

Your desk was cluttered, but still somewhat neat, little trinkets littering the shelves above - figurines, a Lego Wall-E missing a couple bricks, a stack of notebooks, a little vase of fake tulips, and a familiar beat up orange Mets baseball cap hanging precariously from the edge. 

Your bed was made, and it looked way too inviting once Luke had taken a brief tour, so he sat on what would usually be his side - and had somehow ended up falling asleep while he waited, your mattress plush and your pillows firm just how he always likes them. 

He hadn’t exactly put much thought into it at the time, but the last thing he expected was to wake up to the fact that you had just gotten home and crawled straight into bed beside him.

He’s hardly complaining, though - aside from the way he still can’t feel his arm, and your fingers are locked pretty tight around his, even in your sleep. When he tries to pull them free, just to try and ease the ache in his knuckles, your body follows, shuffling to face him and cosying straight up to him, your hands falling between the two of you and clutching limply at his hoody. 

He notices as he’s looking down at you that even something as routine as breathing feels easier when he’s with you - he doesn’t feel that crushing weight on his chest that has followed him for the last month, doesn’t feel the sharp pain in his ribs that hits sometimes when he’s too in his head, like a sudden jolt to bring him back to the present.

His torso just moves in tune to yours, deep, heavy breaths that lull him back to sleep so quick it all feels like a dream.

That is, until he wakes up again.

This time he knows it’s morning. He opens his eyes slowly to a brighter room, the sun seeping in through the crack in your curtains, casting your pretty features in a soft, ethereal glow that makes him feel warm all over. 

You’re still just as close, nuzzled right into him, your knees nudged between his thighs, and your arm thrown lazily over his figure, the other curled between you both. His arm is over yours, slung beyond the curve of your back, enough that he can play with the ends of your hair in your ponytail as he takes you in.

“I can feel you watching me.” Your voice is thick with sleep, croaky and low, and he still gets the same feeling in the pit of his stomach that he did back in summer when you’d talk to him first thing in the morning - like it was a tone made just for his ears to hear.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you in person,” he mutters back, his voice equally as croaky, “Trying to memorise what you look like without the glow of a screen reflecting on your face.”

“’S’creepy,” you reply, pushing your face into his chest so that he can’t see you anymore - the rumblings of his hushed laughter causing your head to shake a little. 

You stay laying against him for a moment, your head rising and falling in time with his slow, heavy breaths, and his fingers mindlessly twirl at a strand of your hair. 

“Don’t you have to be up for class?” He asks after a few minutes, no more than a whisper - still feeling the weight of Ellie’s threat from the night before about alerting anyone in the house to his presence.

“No class on Tuesdays,” he just about makes out as you mumble into his chest, tightening your hold around him.

“What do you usually do?”

“Sleep.”

And as good as going back to sleep sounds - the rumbling of his stomach, as always, gets the better of him.

“You wanna go get breakfast?”

He leans back a little so he can look down and catch your eye, your brow raising incredulously as your gaze narrows up at him.

“Of course your first thought of the day would be about food.”

You roll your eyes as you push yourself up and away from his body, the sudden influx of cold running straight through him, and he watches as you stand from your bed and stretch your arms up, the gesture revealing a small slither of skin between where your sweatshirt ends and your pants begin. His eyes trail slowly back up before you can catch him looking, and shuffles up in your bed until he’s sat against the headboard, watching as you disappear into your bathroom.

He retrieves his phone from his pocket as he waits for you - checking the time and for any missed messages, and then putting your address into postmates just to check what is around. “Will it give us away if we order food to eat here?” He asks when you come back, toothbrush hanging out of your mouth as you lean against the entrance to your bathroom, hip pressed into the door jamb. 

“That depends, what time is it?”

“Around 8:30,”

“If you can survive another 30 minutes without starving to death, everyone else should be gone by then.” You tell him before disappearing back into your bathroom. He hears a little movement before you shut the water off and come back into your room.

“If I order breakfast will you go get my bag from my car so I can change? I’ve been in these clothes since I left Jersey yesterday.” He doesn’t specifically mention how he’d let himself onto your bed in clothes he wore on a plane, but he sees the way your eyes narrow as you must realise it.

He’s quite surprised you don’t kick him or something.

“You didn’t change when you went home?” You ask, instead.

“I didn’t go home,” he shrugs, “Came straight here from the airport, hence my bag in the car.”

“Don’t hence me,” you kick lightly at his shin when you come closer, and he’s thankful he had just been expecting the attack, because it somehow hurts less when he knows it’s coming eventually. “How long were you waiting in here?”

“I wasn’t snooping if that’s what you’re thinking,” he defends, although the speed in which he does so causes you to raise a brow in disbelief, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him. “I think I fell asleep within like 15 minutes. Surprised you didn’t wake me when you got back.”

“Was too tired to deal with your yapping, to be honest.”

There you are. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says, feeling his cheeks go tight as he smiles like an idiot, leaning back onto his hands on your bed and looking over at you. He doesn’t even really think before he says it, but doesn’t regret it either.

Not when you smile back, stepping closer until you’re almost standing between his legs - and it’s just as he starts to spread them to accommodate you that you reach out and press your fingers into his forehead, pushing playfully until he falls back into your mattress - too in the moment to care about how loud he laughs in response.

Luke coming back to Michigan for his bye-week had been somewhat of a surprise. When he’d told you about the break - about how his brothers had been chosen to represent the country in some sort of national tournament - you’d half expected he’d somehow end up going to support them or something, tag along with his parents, maybe, and watch from the sidelines.

Him turning up in your room the other night had been a more than welcome shock - him spending pretty much every day taking up whatever of your time was free, even more so, and you’re even more dumbfounded that you’re not tired of him, yet. Or that he’s not tired of you.

You spent all of Tuesday morning in your room - eating breakfast bagels and sipping on smoothies and catching up on all the things you’ve been too busy to talk about for the last few weeks. 

He tells you about Quinn and his injury that kept him from playing in the Four Nations, how Jack’s excited to play in the tournament, about how he’s excited to watch him. He tells you about Jersey, and all the cool things he’s been doing with the organisation out there - the sessions he gets to do with all the kids, and all the things he learns when he does them.

He tells you about all the cooking he’s been doing, shows you pictures of poorly plated meals that you try to encourage him on, because he swears they were delicious, and who are you to crush his dreams when he’s trying his best. 

He tells you how all the other guys are off vacationing in hotter climates, and you promise him you know a couple people majoring in psychology if he thinks he needs an evaluation for choosing frosty Michigan over the sun. 

You tell him little bits too - about school, about some of the things you’ve been doing with the girls from the sorority - but your life feels so stagnant in comparison that letting him talk feels like the safer option, and you like listening to him anyway. 

You end up with him all of Tuesday. He comes over Wednesday night, takes you out to the mall and the two of you spend the whole night sat in his car eating sandwich subs and talking about anything and everythin, and watch Jack’s first game of the tournament with him and some of the guys from the hockey house on Thursday - smushed up beside him in a booth at one of the watch bars on campus, sharing a bunch of appetisers and getting him to try all the fruity drinks you ordered. 

He never makes you feel like a tag along or an inconvenience - includes you in conversations with the guys, asks for your input on what to do, even just hangs while you study, and doesn’t huff or puff or complain about any lack of attention if it isn’t directed his way.

It’s almost like you’re meant to be by his side - like he’d have it no other way. It’s seamless, no matter where you are or who you’re with, that where one of you goes, the other will probably follow.

It’s why you’re surprised when he takes you to Yost on the Friday, and you’re just immediately granted all the same access that he is. He takes you on a tour before the arena fills up - walks you through his own history there, regales you of stories from when he, himself, was a Wolverine, and how much he misses it. And the two of you sit alone a little higher in the stands, still for some reason smushed together despite the vacant spaces around you, until you start to get thirsty.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” you decide, casting a quick glance down to the ice where it looks like the puck drop is about to happen. He’s been paying for you all week, and you want to give him something back - even if that something is a flat coke and an almost-cold hot dog. “Do you want anything to eat, too?” You stand from the bench, losing the warmth emitting from the side of his leg onto yours.

Luke tugs you back down by the end of your sweatshirt, and you stumble back into the safety of his hold, large hands catching you and guiding you back into your seat. “I can order it over.”

“Oh, look at you, Mr Special Treatment,” you gasp, “Too good to go get your own snacks now, huh?”

“It’s convenient,” he rolls his eyes, “Means we don’t have to juggle a load of food back.” We, like he would never let you go on your own, anyway. 

You wonder for a brief second why the thought of it all of a sudden doesn’t suffocate you - why you welcome it with open arms. 

“Someone else just has to do it for you,” you jibe, and he just shrugs in response - not that you take it to heart, he’s playful about it, and you know first hand that Luke is a good tipper - despite all the times you’d told him not to tip you when he came to the restaurant, all your friends back at the club in the summer had always said as much. “Do you always just miraculously get what you want?”

He tilts his head slowly, eyes flickering down as he thinks about his response. “Not always,” comes out a little quiet, a little pensive, and you try not to shudder at the way he looks back up. He smiles, then, innocent and unassuming, holding out his phone for you to type your order down. 

You can’t quite pinpoint when you lost all resistance when it comes to Luke, but it’s probably too far gone to really do anything about it now, you think.

He’s surprisingly interactive during the game, just as he had been in the watch bar the night before - answering your probably incessant questions with an amused tilt to his lips, eyes on the action but words astute, like he’s truly listening and not just entertaining your attention, stealing sips of your drink when he’s finished his too quick. 

“What even is icing anyway?” You ask after maybe the 6th call, “Like why do they even call it, why not just let someone come get the puck and carry on?”

“Game would be boring if it was just everybody shooting the puck out of their own half,” he tells you, “Needs to be some kind of stakes.”

“I’m gonna bite my tongue about how boring the game might be anyway.”

He juts his knee into yours, your joints swinging together like a pendulum as you bring it back into place, levelling him with a glare. 

“You asked.”

“I actually didn’t,” he chuckles. “How many games have you been to now and you’re only just asking about icing?” He stretches his legs awkwardly to fit into the stands, the touch of his knee removing itself from yours as he leans into his seat. “What have you been doing when my games are on? You can’t have been watching them.”

“Hey, I do watch!” You swat at his bicep, shuffling to give him a little more room, something you seem to do by instinct now, adjusting yourself to better fit him, almost like a puzzle piece, “I watch you, I don’t need to know what’s going on with anybody else on that ice, that’s not my business.”

“Thought you wanted to know more about hockey.”

“Thought you wanted to be the one to teach me.”

“I know you know some things, we’ve talked about it before.”

“When?”

“Back in the club, that time we were spying on Jack. You mentioned a couple Michigan games.”

“Oh,” you pout, a weird flutter in your chest when you realise how long ago that was - almost like another lifetime has passed in the time since - you barely even feel like the same person. “You remember that?”

“You don’t?” He asks, brows furrowing as he gives you a little more of his attention. 

“I do, I just didn’t realise you retained information like that,” you snark back, reaching out to ruffle at his hair playfully. “You’ve taken a couple hits to the head, since.”

“I remember everything when it comes to you.” He says, undoing your poor attempt at lightening the growing tension a little within a matter of milliseconds. God, he’s good at that. “Plus, Ethan said you’ve been to a couple games this season, I figured you’d have gotten the hang of it all by now. You come with Ellie, right, she doesn’t teach you all this stuff?”

“Nah, she lost interest this year,” you reply, leaning a little into your own seat, your posture mirroring his as you get a little more comfortable. “Got a boyfriend in the NHL, she doesn’t need to be scouting for prospects anymore.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Scouting?”

“God no,” you scoff, sipping at what’s left of your diet coke as you watch the guys on the ice below, absentmindedly extending the cup over to him as you say, “Hockey boys are too whiney and needy,” 

“Oh really?” You can hear the grin without even looking at him, seeing him lean in to take a drink in your peripheral.

“Mmhm,” you bite back your own smile. “Dorky, too.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“We both know I’m hilarious.”

“You don’t come with anybody else?” He asks, nudging at you to keep you focused.

“Like who?” You frown. You’d been to the Jersey game with Ethan and Dylan, but you can hardly come to their own hockey game with them. Who else would you possibly go with?

“I don’t know, a date?”

You turn to face him, then, pushing your brows together in confusion as your eyes meet his. “You think that I would come to a hockey game on a date?” 

You don’t even remember the last time you went on a date, or what any of that would even entail, anymore - but it probably wouldn’t be a hockey game of all places. 

You’d probably go to a bar, or something. Or grab food together. Maybe go watch a movie.

Or none of that, at all, because the thought of dating kind of makes your stomach turn, all of a sudden. Where would you even find the time, between school and spending half your life on the phone to the idiot beside you. 

“You’re already here on Valentines day,” he smirks, “You’ll probably be here tomorrow for senior night, come back the day after and spend your birthday here, just for kicks, I’ll tell the guys to come in and practice just for you, if you want.”

“I will not be spending my birthday watching hockey, thank you very much,” you huff, “Not coming to senior night, either, my dad’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow, so you’re gonna have to sit in your high tower without me.”

Luke straightens up a little in his seat, losing the playful glint in his eye as he looks back at you. “You’re dad’s gonna be in town?”

“Allegedly,” you shrug, because you feel like it’s one of those things that if you act like you’re indifferent, the universe won’t cruelly rip it away from you. He’d promised when he called around Christmas that he’d come - when you told him that you had stayed behind in Michigan while your mom worked, and a part of you has known since that it’s an attempt to one-up her, prove that he can show when it matters, but you’re not putting any money on it.

“Can I meet him?”

“No.”

“You’ve met my parents.”

“Because I technically lived in your house,” you scoff, remembering the few times you’d spoken to his mom and dad - mostly polite exchanges with his mom, brief but friendly, enough. You and Luke hadn’t really been much at the time, and you had no reason to want to impress them, but the thought of running into either of them now almost terrifies you - the need to leave a more positive impression almost causing your entire body to buzz with anxiety. “You have no reason to meet my dad.”

“I’m literally your best friend.” He says it in such a classically caustic way - bottom lip jutted out and eyes rolling - that it makes you laugh.

“You wish.” You snort, ignoring the familiarity of the way he smiles back at the remark, turning back to the game and trying to focus despite the ringing that’s all of a sudden occurring in your ears.

Luke can’t remember the last time he’s spent an entire week in somebody’s company - someone who isn’t family, that is, or on the very rare occasion, some of his teammates, even though he usually manages to bag a day for a break and some sort of isolation most times he’s on the road.

But since he came back to Michigan, he’s probably seen you more than he’s seen his own reflection. 

And it isn’t even like summer, when you’d spend all that time together - watching movies up in your room when no one else was home, driving to and from the club, sneaking around doing god-knows what to try and figure out what the hell was going on with his brother and your best friend - this time, it just feels a lot less mercurial, a lot less like it’s going to slip from his fingers if he does something slightly wrong. 

Everything that was light and airy back then feels heavier and sturdier now - much more secure, weighed down by months of built trust and appreciation of one another. And for the first time since everything fell apart, he doesn’t find himself wishing he could go back. 

You give so much of your time to him now, so much of yourself, that he doesn’t for a second doubt how much you appreciate him, or want to be around him. He doesn’t sit in your company and constantly crave more.

He sees more too, he thinks - not just in terms of seeing you, but actually seeing the things about yourself you’re trying to hide. Like how you’re stressed about school, and hiding yourself away, and probably not eating as much as you should. He tries to get you out of the house where he can, tries not to be obvious about it, or controlling or pushy.

And by the time the weekend rolls around, there’s glimpses there of something brighter, even if you’re still not fully talking it out - maybe that’s just not how you cope with things. He’s starting to think he understands you a little more these days.

Saturday is the first day he spends on his own, with no plans to even meet you in the evening, because you’re supposed to be spending it with your dad, and he starts to wonder how he’s even gonna be able to go back to Jersey if this is how it feels not being with you for just one day. 

He’s bored. All day.

He trains with a few of the guys in the morning, calls Quinn around lunchtime, his parents in the afternoon, shovels all the fresh snow from their drive and just flits around their house until it’s time to watch the game in the evening, making himself some pasta and kicking back on the couch until there’s a loud knock on the door while he’s watching the highlights from the other game in the tournament.

He’s half expecting his mom to have ordered some sort of food over, not trusting that he could make himself something to eat without burning their house down.

He’s not expecting you on the other side, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes and cuddling at a big back of chips. 

“Let me in, already, I can’t feel my hands,” you huff, edging through the gap he leaves for you when he opens the door a little wider, brushing past him in a dizzying blur of vanilla perfume and spearmint gum. 

“Why aren’t you wearing gloves, it’s like 4 degrees out?”

“The Uber driver had the heat cranked up all the way, I thought I’d be alright until you left me out there knocking for 20 whole minutes.”

He figures you must feel the heat in the house instantaneously, because you’re shrugging off your giant coat and hanging it beside his in the hall as he watches you, still pretty sure you’re a figment of his imagination until you’re pressing the chips into his chest so that you can take off your boots. 

“You knocked once, you were maybe out there 1 minute before I opened the door,” he defends himself, “Plus if I knew you were even coming, I could have picked you up myself, then you wouldn’t have had to knock.”

“You got a vendetta against surprises or something?” You scoff, trailing into the living room like you already know the way, with him following you like you’re pulling him on a leash. 

“Just wasn’t expecting to see you today,” he frowns, blinking slowly as he watches you sink down onto where he was sat in the couch, tucking your feet beneath your body and getting yourself comfortable. Something about it makes his heart skip a couple beats. “Thought your dad was taking you for dinner for your birthday.”

“He bailed,” you shrug, reaching out for the bag of chips that he hands straight over, “Thought I’d keep you company, we both know you can’t enjoy hockey anymore without me yapping in your ear about it the whole way through.”

You might actually be right. Who else is going to ask stupid questions like, do the refs take figure skating lessons to be able to jump like that all the time?

“He bailed?” He asks, sitting down beside you, not letting you distract him with any other casual remark. Your dad bailed on you, for your birthday dinner, and you’re here opening chips and pretending like you aren’t at all phased?

“Apparently one of the boys felt sick or something,” you wave it off, “He could have told me before I sat around the restaurant waiting for him like a loser for 30 minutes, but I guess it’s all hands on deck over there, he texted me as soon as he could apparently.”

Fuck. 

Your dad lives out in Philly, he knows that - would take him almost 2 hours just to fly out, never mind however long to get to and from the airport. He could have text you way earlier in the day, if he knew he wasn’t going to make it out. Could have done so much to make it up to you, to not have you get ready, get all the way to be seated for your reservation, get your hopes up entirely, just to text that he wasn’t going to make it.

He forgot. He probably never even bought a ticket. 

Double fuck. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He asks, assuming your sudden silence is some sort of prompt.

“Not really,” you huff, slumping down into the corner of the couch, the movement sluggish and defeated, “I’m over it, already, it doesn’t matter."

Luke frowns as he watches you, avoiding eye contact and shrugging it off with indifference, and your words take him straight back to the night of Ellie’s birthday. 

It doesn’t matter.

You’d said the same thing back then, over and over, like you were trying to convince yourself it was the truth - that none of it ever mattered - and he thinks he sees it, for the first time, as clear as day; that this is what you do when you’re really hurt. You play it all off like it’s nothing, let it eat away at you without anyone ever really seeing the damage.

He’d seen a glimpse of it that night after the halloween party in Jersey, when he’d asked if you could ever be more - this glassy, unsure look in your eyes, like you were fighting everything in you that wanted more, shielding yourself from the potential hurt, and the subtle, hesitant shake of your head. It’s what drove him to take things further - to push at your boundaries until you let him back in, even if it was for one last time - because he knew there was something there to cling onto.

He wonders for a second just how often you deprive yourself of more, with anything. How you won’t talk about NYU, because it isn’t a sure thing. How you don’t put up a fight with your dad, and how he constantly lets you down, directing all the paternal energy that you’re owed to his other kids - or your mom, and how she gives you just as little of her time, but it’s somehow different because it’s under the guise of work. 

He wonders if maybe this friendship he’s been cursing the limitations of for as long as you’ve blessed him with it is all you’ll let yourself have, because the uncertainty of how more could hurt you is worse than the feeling of depriving yourself of it - and his chest all of a sudden feels like a vast, empty cavern that his heart just ricochets painfully around, bouncing from surface to surface and trying to steady itself through the pain.

“C’mere,” he mutters, extending his arm out for you to crawl under, and he’s almost surprised by how quick you do - laying your head on his chest and letting him hold you, fingers again playing with the ends of your hair to try and ground himself. 

He’s sure you can feel the rampant beat of his heart, can probably hear the blood rushing throughout his entire body as you rest on him, but you stay quiet for a while after, wrapping your arms around his torso and breathing slowly in tandem with him. 

You stay there for what feels like forever, and he’s almost positive you’ve fallen asleep, until all hell breaks loose at the puck drop, and he feels you shift when players start dropping gloves.

Your tense up until the fighting’s over, and the game gets underway, and you’re quiet again until you ask, “Do you ever get in fights like that?”

“Nah,” he breathes out, his fingers drawing absentminded shapes into the arm of your sweatshirt. “I’m a pacifist.”

He sees recognition flash through your irises when you push yourself up to look at him, lips twisting into a knowing smile, and he smiles too - a feeling of familiarity settling deep into his bones when he notices you pick up straight away on the reference. He can see, too, that you’re thinking about how far you’ve both come since that first day in the club back in summer, when he’d sat across from you in a booth and you’d said you could never see yourself warming up to him. 

And look at you now, eyes softened whenever your gaze is cast in his direction, a pretty flush to your cheeks, and an almost ever-present upturn to your lips whenever he’s around. 

Despite all the things you refuse to tell him or talk about, you’re open to him in more ways than you’ll ever know. 

He reaches to push a stray strand of hair back behind your ear, noticing how you lean in a little to the touch before he pulls back away, and your hand goes immediately to hold his before you settle back against his chest.

How stupid could your dad possibly be to hurt you like he did - to give up any chance to be around you, to break any promise he ever made to you.

Luke vows, then, that he won’t ever do the same. 

He’s gonna be your friend, be in your life, for as long as you’ll possibly let him. When Harry Met Sally can go fuck itself - meaningful relationships with someone of the opposite gender don’t have to be clouded by the murky waters of sexual attraction - what the two of you have goes so far beyond that, now.

And tomorrow, because you deserve nothing less, he’s going to make sure you have the best birthday of your life.

When you wake up on your birthday, your senses are flooded with everything distinctly Luke.

You’re dressed in his clothes - beat up old pyjamas pants that are rolled up at the hips and one of his shirts - laid in his bed, cuddling at his pillow, and surrounded by all of his things - laid on your own in his bedroom despite knowing that he’d fallen asleep beside you last night. 

You can hear him clattering around in the kitchen downstairs, so you aren’t that upset that you don’t wake up next to him, and you’re kind of open to the reprieve, all too conscious of your messy bedhead and sleep-swollen face. 

And it gives you a chance to look around once you’ve fixed yourself up - the space a lot different to his room back at the lake house. It feels a lot more personal - pictures from his childhood littered around, movie posters on his walls, little trophies lining the shelves and medals hanging beneath them. It’s endearing.

And so damn cute.

Framed images of little Luke with blonde curly hair and jerseys two sizes too big, or matching outfits with his brothers, or dorky costumes with painted faces. 

“If it isn’t Mrs Snoopy, herself,” he scoffs when he comes in, juggling two plates of pancakes on a tray with glasses of fresh juice, a flower laid in the middle that he probably just plucked from one of his mom’s decorations downstairs. “You having fun looking through all my stuff?”

You press your lips together to fight laughter, pointing back at the pictures you were just observing when he places the tray down on his bed. “You were adorable,” you tell him.

“Were?” He scoffs. 

“Yeah, were,” you snicker, “You have at least 4 hairs growing out of your chin, now, all cuteness has been thrown out the window.”

He rolls his eyes, gesturing for you to sit down on his bed, “You better eat that before I take it away. I’m never making you breakfast in bed, again.”

He watches fondly as you sink back down onto your side of his bed, and he joins you on his, handing you some cutlery before he leans over, pushing a single candle into your pancake stack. They’re a little lopsided, misshaped and deformed, and the candle kind of leans a little dangerously to one side, but none of that deters your chest from seizing at the sight of it all.

“Do you want me to sing?” He asks as he lights it, looking up at you with a playful smile on his face.

“No I do not,” you scoff, tucking your hair behind your back so there’s no risk of it falling into the candle when you lean toward the open flame. 

“Happy Birthday,” he says, his voice deep and velvety, and the last thing you see before you close your eyes to blow it out and make a wish is his soft smile as he watches you. “What did you wish for?”

“A box of bleach for your hair,” you lie, smiling back sardonically when he shakes his head with exasperation. 

“Maybe next year,” he scoffs, “I already got all your gifts for this birthday, I’m not going shopping again.”

“Gifts?” You ask, frowning a little. When he’d first mentioned your birthday, he’d said he was going all out - that he felt bad he didn’t get you anything for Christmas and wanted to make it up to you. You’d told him you didn’t want anything big, and you didn’t want him spending a lot of money on you, and you’re starting to worry that he didn’t listen. 

Luke is the last person on Earth who makes you feel like you’re mooching off of him - you really don’t want to start, now.

“You’ll see later. We’re still on for movie night, right?”

Your first together since summer. You have plans to sneak him into your house later, after your birthday brunch with your sorority sisters, and you’d agreed to let him keep his turn to pick. 

You nod, a little hesitant, a little unsure.

“I promise you’ll like them,” he assures you. “I don’t mean to brag but I knocked it out of the park.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you tell him, taking your first bite of one of the pancakes, the taste reminding you of the ones you used to eat back at the lake house. “Oh my god, these taste just like Quinn’s!” You say around your mouthful, covering it with your hand as you look back up at Luke with wide eyes.

“He talked me through making them,” Luke chuckles, “I had to FaceTime him for supervision.”

“Just now?” You ask, “Isn’t he like 3 hours behind us or something?”

“He’s an early bird,” he shrugs, taking a bite of his own. “And he said it was his gift for your birthday, I’m not allowed to take credit for them.”

“Yours are better,” you tell him, watching the way his body shifts through the compliment, eyes widening, lips parting, shoulders straightening. Adorable. “You can take credit.”

“Maybe I will make you breakfast in bed again.” 

He drives you home not long after - bundles you up in some old sweatpants and one of his hoodies, and you don’t tell him that you keep his shirt and pyjama pants, too, stuff them beneath the hoody to conceal them before you zip yourself into your coat - and promises to text when he’s on his way, later.

You think it might be the excitement of seeing him again that carries you through the rest of the day. You’d have probably enjoyed brunch with the girls anyway, but it waters down the minor disappointment of them gifting you the same bracelet everybody in the house gets for their birthday, and the fact it sort of just feels like any other meeting outside of the house rather than a celebration of you. 

You really only have yourself to blame for that, though. You’d told them earlier in the week you just wanted to do something chill, that you had a test on Monday and were going to head in early on Sunday night - but that was after Luke had suggested keeping up your weekend tradition and coming over. If they’d arranged anything beforehand, you would have gone ahead with them.

And even though it’s your birthday, you stock your room with all of Luke’s favourite snacks when you get home. You put on fresh sheets, and put back on the hoody he’d given you earlier, and check your phone every few minutes until he texts you that he’s parked down the street.

You text Ellie, who’s gonna distract the rest of the girls downstairs while you sneak him in, and grab him by the hand when you pull him inside the front door, rushing straight up the stairs and pushing him into your room, biting back a smile when you see him chuckling at the whole charade.

He swings the backpack off his arm as he kicks off his shoes beside your own, heading further into your bedroom and throwing him and his backpack down onto your bed. 

“Movie first or presents?” He asks, unzipping the top of the bag and pulling out the folded back of chips the two of you didn’t finish last night.

“Presents, please,” you tell him, sitting down cross legged on your side and clasping your hands together as you wait. 

“Alright, well, you’ve got to let me talk you through them before you come for me, alright, they’re not exactly traditional presents.”

Now you’re nervous, again.

“Like my first thought was that I was gonna buy you a star,” he says, “‘Cause apparently you can do that, and name them after you, you get a certificate and everything. But then I figured you’d have something to say about the colonisation of space or something, so I thought I’d save myself the grief.”

“You’d be right,” you snort, wondering if he would seriously fall for that kind of thing. You can’t just buy a star. Even if you earn as much as he does. “I also think that whole thing is a scam, but carry on.”

“Then I was trying to think well what’s something that you really need?”

“Lukey, you got me a car?!” You gasp, mouth agape as you try to make it obvious that you’re poking fun at him.

“What? No,” he pouts, brows furrowing as he looks back down into his backpack, disappointed with what’s in there. “Wait, do you want a car?” 

“I was messing with you.“

“Obviously.” He scoffs, shaking his head a little as you bite back a smile, “You said nothing big or expensive, I can’t get you a car. Anyway, your Wall-E is broken,” he hooks a thumb toward the little figure you keep on the shelf above your desk - the lego version of the character that you had knocked off the surface one time when cleaning and accidentally vacuumed up a couple of the tiny pieces. He must have noticed when he was in here on his own the other day. When he was supposedly not snooping around your stuff.

Luke reaches into the bag and pulls out a stuffed version of the robot - a cute soft toy that he immediately hands over to you, it’s big eyes all droopy and adorable. You can’t help the grin that breaks out as you look at it, with its chunky yellow body and soft grey treads - cute enough to forget that he may have potentially taken himself on his own private tour of your belongings.

“I know he’s your favourite, but they don’t sell that Lego anymore, so I had to get you the next best thing.” 

“He’s perfect.” You beam, looking back at Luke as he watches you with bated breath. “Thank you,”

“That isn’t everything.”

“Oh.” He hands over a white box, and when you turn it over, you realise it’s AirPods. “Luke, I can’t-,”

“I didn’t spend any money on them,” he argues, “They were gifted to me, I’m supposed to wear them walking in to games but I already have a pair.”

“Still-,” AirPods aren’t exactly cheap - you’d know, you’ve been saving up to buy a new pair ever since you dropped one of yours into a puddle walking home from class one day.

“It’s technically a selfish present, too, ‘cause the microphone on your pair now sounds like shit when I call you, so you need them.”

“Fine,” you huff, not entirely bothered - feeling seen in a way no one else seems to manage to do. “Thank y-,”

“Still not finished.” He smiles, guilty but persistent, and pulls out something folded before he hands it over. You unravel the black bundle of fabric, Jersey, written on the front, and turn it over, 43 and Hughes on the back.

“I’m pretty sure these jerseys cost more than the earphones.” You tell him, lips still twisting when you look at the little scribble at the bottom of the 4. 

“Perks of it being game used, technically free. I even signed it for you. You can wear it when you come watch me again. Or when you watch me from here.”

“Oh God, yeah, it stinks,” you joke, your face curling when you bring it up to your face. 

“Give it back,” he scowls playfully, reaching as you pull it above your shoulder.

“No, I’m kidding.” You pout, “Hey, stop it, it’s mine.” You swat at his hand as he tries to grab it from you, practically wrestling him as he gets a hold of it. `You end up shuffling your legs out from their crossed position to kick him, swiftly leaning over him to cover his mouth when he barks out a laugh. “Are you done now?”

“One more.” He speaks against your fingers, nodding over to his backpack as you glare suspiciously at him, reaching into the bag and pulling out a little envelope. 

You pick at the folded edge until it tears, pulling it open until you can look inside and pull one of the many little cards out.

“Metro cards?” Turning it between your fingers, because what the hell do you need metro cards for?

“For when you’re at NYU.” He answers the question before you even get the chance to ask. “Should get you where you need to be for classes and stuff. They all have 30 days on them, so you’re pretty much set for a year.”

“Luke, this must have cost like at least a thousand dollars.” 

“I have a bad habit of not checking the price when I put my card in, so I wouldn’t know.” He shrugs, although you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that that isn’t the case. He’d put thought into this, had gone out of his way to get you something that actually meant something to you - beyond getting you around a city you’re not even certain you’ll be in after you graduate.

“That’s not funny,” you breathe out, frowning at how he’s downplaying such a sweet gesture. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway, they’re non-refundable, and I’m not gonna use them, so you have to take them.”

You wait for a few seconds, looking back at how many cards are in the envelope, before looking back at him. “Do they work on the PATH?”

“Should get you to Jersey and back if you need ‘em to.”

Your lips twist at the thought of it - commuting across the river to visit Luke as much as you want, no longer having to wait until he’s in town or either of you get a break. Seeing him on a whim, watching movies in person. 

“I’d pick you up from the station.” He tells you, like he’s already thought of it, too. “So yeah, no need for a car, actually. You might have gotten a discount being a student and all, but this way you don’t have to worry about it at all. I know you said that when you move out there you’d want to explore, so now you can.”

You can. When.

There’s no if or could or if you want. 

Luke is more certain of your potential than you’ve ever been.

“What if I don’t get in?” You ask after a beat, afraid to even utter the thought into existence after having poured all your energy over the last couple months into your application.

Your future is so murky that it’s all you can think about at the moment, and you’re trying not to get too attached to any one plan - but this one has a hold on you that you can’t quite shift.

The thought of living so close to Luke - being just across the river, less than an hour, if you have to get the train, and potentially quicker than 30 minutes if you can get a ride - and getting to see him so often makes your chest feel like it’s splitting at the seams, and you don’t know if it’s anxiety or hope that’s causing the ache.

“You will,” he shrugs, like he hasn’t even considered any other option, “but if you for whatever reason decide it isn’t for you, then I’ll just fly you out against your will every weekend and we’ll go ride the subway for fun when I’m free.”

You smile at the thought, even if you know he’s not serious, imagining him sprawled on one of the benches, gangly legs getting in everyone’s way, trying to figure out if he needs to switch lines by squinting up at one of the maps instead of checking his phone like a normal person. “They have a When Harry Met Sally tour.”

“If you think I’m faking an orgasm in Katz’s Deli for you, you can think again.”

“Damn, there goes my master plan.” He slaps his knee, pouting mockingly as his eyes follow your every move.

You look back down again, taking in all your gifts, the meaning of them all settling in and filling up a vast hole left behind by everyone else in your life.

Luke sees so much more of you than you realised. He sees fixes for the little things, the things that accepting his help on doesn’t make you feel like anything less than a whole, he knows what you like, what means something to you, what would make you happy because it’s your favourite. He knows about your ambitions, and your wants, and the things you only let yourself dream about, too afraid to say them aloud. Luke listens to the things you can’t even bring yourself to say. 

“This is crazy.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kind of serious about this whole friend thing.” He tells you, wearing the kind of smile that makes you feel warm all over - and it’s the kind of warmth that makes you realise that you didn’t even know you were cold, before. 

“What if you get tired of me?” You ask, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you wait out his response.

“Won’t.” He smiles, an almost child-like certainty to the way his lips curve. 

Your own lips start to tremble as you watch him, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you start to feel the tell-tale sting of oncoming tears.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, fingers reaching tentatively to swipe at the salty droplet that falls before you have the chance to stop it, “What is it?”

“I think this whole thing with my dad really got to me,” you admit, probably for the first time to anyone, that you’re not as okay as you try to make out. It’s pointless keeping up the act when Luke sees straight through you, anyway, you think. “It’s like no matter how much I try to prepare myself that he’s gonna let me down, there’s this stupid part of me that thinks it’s gonna be different every time.”

“That’s not stupid,” he tells you, his voice firm and his gaze convincing. “It’s okay to want more from people, it doesn’t make you an idiot. He’s the stupid one.”

You know he’s right, but it’s so hard to let go of the idea of your dad that you grew up with - the man who would pick you up from school every day, would blast music the whole way home and sing at the top of his lungs, and would dash a smiley face on every plate with sauce. The dad who was home with you while your mom worked crazy shifts, and would tuck you in at night telling you that you were his world. The thought of him doing that for your brothers now, and not even caring about something as important as your birthday - it just hurts. The stretched out, aching kind of hurt that hangs over you like a dark cloud - the constant threat of rain hovering above. 

“He ended up just sending money over, said to get myself whatever I wanted, which is exactly what my mom did. It probably sounds really ungrateful but I just got really in my head about how no one really showed up for me, or got me something that was personal.” Your last hope after brunch had been Ellie, who had given you a purse she’d gotten at Christmas that you said was cute - you were grateful for all of it, the money, the bracelet, the purse, but the lack of thought and effort sort of lingered like a sour taste in your mouth. “But here you are.”

The way Luke looks at you is enough that you don’t need him to say anything in response - his irises gleam with affection and a softened, slow smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“I think you were right the other night at the game. You might be my best friend.”

“And that makes you want to cry?” He comes back almost immediately, lips upturning into a smirk.

“Well, I’d scream but it might give us away,” you retort, smiling straight back. “The girls are really funny about having visitors in the night.”

“There’s always your pillow,” he nods over to the top of your bed, “Might muffle the noise.”

You laugh, a huff of air from your nostrils that slowly turns into more, until your eyes are crinkling in the corners and your cheeks start to ache.

“I think you might be my best friend, too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He affirms, serious and straight, like he’d already realised it long before you.

You smile slowly before you push all the gifts gently into a pile by your side, shuffling past them and wrapping your arms straight around Luke’s middle. He reacts fairly quick, his own arms making their way around your shoulders, swaying softly as you stay in his embrace for a good minute or two, just holding onto him as you let all the emotions wash through you. 

You bury your face into his shoulder to save yourself from saying one of them out loud - that you love him, because you’re pretty sure you do.

You’re pretty sure that’s the feeling twisting in your gut.

But you’re can’t quite grasp the extent of it.

You know what love is. You love your family, love your friends - love being outdoors in the spring time, love the colour yellow, the taste of strawberries, and swimming in the lake when the sun is out and the water is warm. 

But the way you love Luke seems different. It isn’t defined by any season, or time, or place. It’s all consuming, all the time. It’s in the stuffy heat of the passenger seat in his car in the summer, in front of the blazing fire in the backyard of the hockey house in the fall, and here, in winter, with the evidence of his love in a dedicated heap behind you on your bed.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, the thought of it doesn’t entirely terrify you. 

The end of Luke’s bye-week arrives quicker than you can really comprehend, and you’re grateful the guys had taken it upon themselves to throw him a little goodbye party at their house, because you don’t have the mental capacity to throw anything together, yourself. 

Ethan had been the one to tell you about it - lowkey, he’d said - the guys and a few people who were close with Luke before he left for Jersey, and he said you could bring whatever of your sisters you wanted.

With it being mid-week, most of them are busy, but Ellie is always happy to tag along, and she even says she’ll do your hair and makeup. There’s a backhanded compliment when she does offer, but you’re too in your head to really let it sink in or affect you. 

It feels nice to do this again, anyway. You’ve been in too much of a slump to really go to any sort of party lately, but what better occasion than anything dedicated to Luke?

It was probably last year that you and Ellie did this, sipped on way too strong homemade cocktails while some pop music played in the background, and you’re convinced not to let the little comments she keeps uttering get to you.

“If I’d have known it would only take Luke to get you out, I’d have got Jack to ship him out months ago,” she says as she runs a thermal brush through your hair, smoothing out the frizz and curling it at the ends. “Should have known after the halloween party that you’d follow him anywhere.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, frowning despite your conviction to ignore her when she gets like this. The mention of halloween triggers something deep within you though, and you immediately smooth out your features when you meet her eye in the mirror, aiming for nonchalance, although you’re pretty sure the abrupt palpitations you feel at the mere mention of his name are visible from where Ellie stands behind you.

“You slept with him in October,” she says, like this is somehow common knowledge, like the two of you have ever even spoken about that, or anything to do with the developments in yours and Luke’s relationship since the end of summer. 

You turn in your seat, mouth agape as you stare wide-eyed back at her, thankful to avoid the hot end of the hair tool. “No I didn’t,” you scoff, figuring denial is your safest bet. Admitting anything to Ellie last time hadn’t worked out too well for you, whether it was the fault of that conversation or not, and you don’t really want to put your heart on the line for her to watch it shatter again. “Why would you even think that?”

“Because Jack said his bed hadn’t been slept in when we got back from the hotel.”

“That’s because Jack’s never heard of making the bed,” you try to argue, but she claps back almost immediately.

“He’s actually weirdly neat. It’s almost annoying.” She shrugs, “I believe him when he says it was untouched, which means you slept in Luke’s bed, and that means you fucked him.”

“Why does it automatically mean I fucked him?”

“Because the two of you can’t stay away from each other,” she rolls her eyes, “Plus, you were avoiding him like the plague, and then all of a sudden you guys were FaceTiming each other every day. And now he’s come back and you spent the entire week with him. I’ve never had to sneak a guy in here for you before, so you can’t tell me you guys weren’t fucking up here.”

“We weren’t,” you say, trying to convey the honesty in your tone. “We were justing hanging out. We’re friends.”

“Right,” she scoffs, motioning for you to turn back around with her fingers before she picks up another strand of your hair. “Probably for the best then, ‘cause I was starting to worry.”

“Why would you worry?”

“Because I don’t want my best friend to get hurt again,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I know you think you’re friends, but he’s gonna crush you when he starts seeing someone and you get left behind.”

“Why would you even say that?” You turn again, this time all attempts at nonchalance thrown out the window. 

She stares back at you, holding the hot brush out to the side as she levels you with a glare at how close you were to making her burn you again. 

You glare back. She’s being a bitch for the sake of it, now. Why would she even bring that up? Where did that even come from?

She huffs, yanking at the wire so it extends and putting the brush down on the heat proof mat on your dresser. 

“Promise me you won’t go all crazy when I tell you this,” she sits on the edge of your bed, hands splayed out by her sides, “Because Jack told me something pretty crazy a couple weeks ago, and I’ve been debating whether or not you need to know.”

“Just say it, Ellie,” you snap, tired of the theatrics. If it’s something you need to know, she should have told you when she found out - weeks ago, allegedly.

“He’s seeing somebody.”

You blink slowly, your eyelids feeling like they weigh 90lbs each. 

No he isn’t. If you don’t have the time to be seeing anybody between your class schedule and being available to him, he sure as hell doesn’t have the time, being in the NHL and all. 

“I’m sorry?” You ask, shuffling uncomfortably in your chair.

“Or speaking to her, at least.” She corrects, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal.

“Speaking to who?”

“Her name’s Yasmin,” Ellie says, and you don’t know why hearing some random name makes your throat go dry - the fact that there even is a name, and it’s not just some bullshit nothing story Ellie is running with. “Jack says she’s a friend of one of the other wags, they met at some bar when they went out a couple of weeks ago and hit it off, he’s texting with her all the time apparently.”

You try to think back on the week, on all the times he’s been on his phone - that first morning, when he’d told you he was checking for nearby restaurants, at the hockey game, when he’d said he was ordering concessions straight to your seats, all the times you thought he was texting the boys - could he have been secretly messaging Yasmin and not telling you?

“He would have told me,” you say, more to reassure your self than defend Luke, if you’re honest. He would have told you, right? You guys tell each other everything. You’ve told him more than you’ve told even Ellie about yourself, about your life. 

He’s your best friend.

He would have told you. 

“I think Jack has his wires crossed or something,” you say, feeling like your throat is closing up on you, or like the walls are closing in. “He isn’t seeing anybody.” And just as she opens her mouth, “Or speaking to them.”

“Would it matter if he was? Even if it’s not Yasmin, if it’s somebody else, is that a problem? Could you watch him just move on?”

You just about stop yourself from biting back, of course it would matter, or, of course I couldn't watch that, your lips staying parted and gaping back at her like an idiot as you try to think of any other response. 

“We’re friends.” Is all you can come back with, but it feels like a lie when you say it, this time. 

“Okay then,” Ellie shrugs, pushing herself up and reaching back for the brush. “Can you stay still while I finish your hair please, I can’t deal with the guilt of burning your neck.”

You feel catatonic, after that, so it isn’t hard to stay motionless, staring blankly at your reflection as you try to compute the information she’s just spewed at you. 

Yasmin, who he hit it off with weeks ago, who he texts all the time, who he hasn’t told you a single thing about. 

You replay those facts over and over in your head, somehow managing to get ready in a zombie-like state, somehow managing to walk with Ellie all the way to the hockey house, integrating yourself into a group in the corner as everyone moves around you, people talking and music playing, and everything just blurs into noises and shapes until your phone buzzes harsh in your pocket.

You don’t know what you’re expecting when you check the notification - mindlessly scanning the words until you’re shocked back into reality, and you have to read it again for them to register. 

It’s an email, and your settings allow you to read the sender and first line only.

From: NYU Office of Admissions

Congratulations! On behalf of the admissions committee, I’m delighted to-

You gasp, and you don’t even open the whole thing up to read it before you’re pushing yourself away from the group you’re with, shouldering past a mass of bodies and trying to catch a glimpse of brunette curls as you crane your neck into every room.

“Hey, have you seen Luke?” You grab Ethan as soon as you see him, who responds with wide eyes and catches you as you stumble.

“I’m pretty sure I saw him in the kitchen with-,”

“Thanks!” You yell, rushing off in the other direction before he can finish, until you finally get there, pushing straight into the room before you can think anything of it.

Luke is in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter in the far corner, a playful smile on his face, the kind he gives you when he’s trying to make you blush or something. And you’d recognise who’s stood in front of him anywhere, even by the back of her hair. 

Victoria Anderson, reaching her chicken claw hands up and pushing Luke’s curls out of his face. 

You feel a little like the world is spinning around you - like you’re stuck in the middle, and everything else is flashing by in a dizzying blur. You don’t even think your heart is beating anymore, the blood draining from your head as you watch what’s happening in front of you. 

And before he can see you in such a pitiful state, you turn on your heel and push your way back out of the door, slipping through the same bodies you’d passed before until you’re out the front door, the shock of the cold air bringing you back into consciousness. 

Would it matter if he was? It it’s somebody else, is that a problem?

Ellie’s words from before ring like a warning bell through your skull.

Of course it fucking matters. 

All Luke needs to see is a flash of your hair as the door to the kitchen closes to know he’s fucked everything up, once again. He doesn’t know why it takes him a minute to register just how bad the situation is before he makes a move, though. 

Victoria had cornered him a while ago, had been clinging to him for a good 20 minutes or something, and she had been relentless with her questions and attempts at conversation. It had been a little suffocating, even more so when she told him that her and her boyfriend had broken up before the new year, and he’d tried to excuse himself for a drink, but she had followed. 

He’d tried to let her down gently, had told her that he wasn’t interested anymore, and she had pushed her luck, cornering him against the counter, and asking, “Not even for old time’s sake?”

Hooking up with her in the first place all those years ago had probably been a mistake - he’d known it back then, never pursuing anything serious, and he knows it now, when she just can’t take no for an answer. “I’m into somebody else,” he had smiled, pitifully, wincing a little as she ran a hand through his hair to try convince him. “I’m not interested.”

And that had been about as plain as he could say it - thankful for the distracting creak of the kitchen door as it swung shut that he could look away from the way her face turned into a scowl, and then immediately panicked by the sight of you leaving. 

All he could do was blink, wondering if it had been a figment of his imagination. And then he figured that even if it was, he doesn’t want to be in this kitchen with Victoria Anderson. He wants to spend his last night in Michigan with you.

He edges out from where she has him trapped, and rushes out of the kitchen in search of you, looking over all of the heads in the larger space to try and find you.

Ethan catches him by the elbow as he passes, and asks if he’s looking for you.

“Yeah, have you seen her?” He asks, feeling a little breathless as he still tries to scan the room. 

“Uh, she walked past a few seconds ago, looked pretty upset. She was looking for you, before.”

“Why didn’t you go after her?” Luke frowns, watching as Ethan’s brows furrow in response. 

“She’s grouchy when she’s upset, starts getting all mean and bitey, I’m not getting in the middle of that.” He scoffs, crossing his arms, defensively.

“You’re supposed to bite back.” Luke sighs, knowing then that you hadn’t been a figment of his imagination at all. “Where did she go?”

“Think she’s outside.”

“Great,” Luke snaps, figuring he can apologise later for blaming Ethan of all people. He storms off, heading straight for the front door, relieved to find you outside when he bursts through it, ignoring the bite of the freezing cold as he takes you in - leaning against the rail on the porch, wiping at your face before you turn to fake a smile his way - a smile that makes his gut churn when it’s flashed alongside the tears you hadn’t quite managed to hide.

“Hey,” you say, voice small and weak, “Was looking for you.”

Okay. You’re not mad.

You’re upset, which is probably worse, but he can explain things if you’re willing to listen. 

“Ethan said,” he tells you, moving to your side and leaning on the rail, too, his body facing yours. “That wasn’t what it looked like, in the kitchen,” he swears, and you nod, the movement short and subtle. “I swear, I’ve been trying to get her to leave me alone for the past 30 minutes.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug, and his heart plummets at the way you seem to close yourself off to feeling any type of way about it, again. “You can do what you want, with whoever you want.”

“I don’t want to do that,” he frowns, “Not with her.”

“Okay,” you pretty much whisper, your eyes barely meeting his before they dart away, your body turning back to lean against the side. 

He watches you for a minute, trying to gauge how best to handle this, how best to make sure you understand that this is important, that this is something the two of you need to talk about, especially before he leaves for Jersey, tomorrow. The two of you have come too far to let something as stupid as this ruin what you’ve made for yourselves. 

“Hey,” he calls out, reaching to swipe his thumb at the little trail left behind by your previous tears, using the leverage to turn your head until you’re facing him again, and he leans in. “I don’t want to be with anybody but you tonight, I promise.”

Your smile is small, but there’s something there to cling to this time, the soft crinkle of your eyes as you lean into his grip. 

“Okay,” you repeat, blinking up at him as he tries to level his breathing. 

“You gonna come back inside with me before you freeze to death?” He asks, taking his hand away and sliding it slowly down your arm until he can grip weakly at your fingers, hoping they open to let him slide his own through the cracks.

“Wait,” you grip back, your smile growing a little. “I have something to show you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, holding your hand between the two of you, “Did you get me a going away gift?”

You wordlessly hand him your phone from your other hand, and he takes it in the one that’s free, frowning as he looks down at it. “This is your phone.”

“Duh,” you scoff, “Look what’s on there.”

He taps on your screen until it lights up, eyes squinting to read the tiny text - having to read it twice until it registers in his still-a-little-panicked brain. 

“You got in,” he mutters, like he can’t quite believe it - and it isn’t that he wasn’t expecting you to get in, but the excitement feels like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head, shocking and exhilarating all at once. “You got in!” He repeats, this time louder, prouder and the intensity of the smile that breaks out is almost instantaneously achey.

He drops your hand to grab you by the face, holding onto your own smile like it’s the most precious gift you can give him, jumping as he caresses you and letting the sound of your giggle seep into his skin. 

“Yeah,” your voice comes out a little like a whine, tears prickling at your eyes as they almost close with how big your smile is. “I’m going to NYU!”

It’s the first time you’ve said it - the first time you’ve known it for sure - and he’s so lucky he’s the first to hear it, he thinks, that he’s privy to you letting yourself have one more good thing without the fear of it being taken away or falling apart.

“You’re going to NYU,” he tells you, prouder than he’s ever been of anybody else in his life, probably. 

You’re gonna be across the river - a mere 30 minutes away on a good day - and he’s gonna get to see you all the time. Movie nights can be in person, you can come to his games, you can taste all the food you’re convinced isn’t as nice as he’s making out - and all of those things seem selfish to be the first to come to mind, but he can’t help it, he’s so happy he could cry, himself. 

He’s so distracted by the thought of crying that he doesn't realise you’re reaching up - that your fingers are curling around the back of his neck and you’re pulling him down, your lips colliding and moving together until his body turns to autopilot.

His hands grip at your waist, his mouth deepens the kiss until he can swipe his tongue against yours, and his feet shuffle clumsily until he’s guiding you away from the rail, toward the house, and pressing you gently into the cold brick wall. Your back arches until your chest presses to his front, and you kiss and kiss him until you both run out of breath, relying on muscle memory to guide you to all the places you know each other likes.

He’s in a daze when you part, panting and blinking rapidly and trying to form any single coherent thought.

That is, until you say, “I don’t want to watch you move on.”

What?

“I don’t understand,” he mutters, trying to make sense of what the hell you’re talking about. He’d explained the whole Victoria thing. Is that seriously the only reason you kissed him? Because seeing him with her made you feel a certain way? “I thought you wanted to be friends.”

“I did,” you respond, blinking back, “I do, but I-,”

“You don’t want anyone else to have me either?”

He doesn’t even know why he’s getting agitated, it’s probably the drinks he’d had before you got to the party - but he kissed you because he loves you. He kissed you because he’s proud of you, and happy for you, and excited to show you how much of himself he can give when you’re finally in the same place for an extended period of time. He kissed you because he’s spent the last week trying not to, the last 6 weeks convincing himself that he shouldn’t want to, ever since fucking Harry met Sally, and the last 8 or so months trying to fight the need to. 

And you kissed him because you were upset somebody else might have gotten there first.

“You tell me that we can’t ever be more, and when I try move on, you keep reeling me back in,” he huffs, “Like you don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me, either!”

“That isn’t true,” you frown, trying to grasp at a hand that he pulls away.

“Which part?” He asks, head tilting as he waits for you to figure it out. “You don’t even know what you want,” He sighs, tired all of a sudden and hurt that after all this time, you still aren’t sure on him. You still don’t want the same things, for the same reasons - still won’t let yourself believe in something good, even after the the universe just proved to you that it’s possible. “I don’t even think I know what I want out of this. I think about you all the time, you know, think about us. What we were, what we are now,” He had convinced himself only days ago that he could be your friend, if that’s what you need him to be, but now he can’t help it - not when you dangle the idea of more so carelessly in front of him like this. “What we could be, if you just let me all the way in.”

“I want to,” and because he knows you too well, he doesn’t get his hopes up at how quick you are to tell him that. “I promise you, I want to. I just don’t know how.”

Luke scoffs out a humourless chuckle, breaking eye contact as he clenches his jaw - thoughts working overtime to try and understand again where you’re coming from. 

“It’s been 8 months,” he sighs. “I don’t know how long I’m supposed to wait for you to figure it out.”

He doesn’t see the way your lips tremble, or your eyes well with tears, again.

“If all you want to be is friends, then I’ll be your friend,” he tells you. “But we both have to find a way to move on. It won’t work otherwise.” 

He doesn’t want to move on - the thought of being with anybody that isn’t you honestly makes him feel a little sick, but if it’s what he has to do to make sure he doesn’t feel like this again, maybe he should. 

Your lips stay parted, and you don’t argue back this time, blinking back tears as you stare at him, wide eyed and unsure.

“It isn’t fair to either of us to keep blurring the lines like this.”

You nod, pressing your mouth closed, averting your gaze until you’re not looking at him anymore, you’re looking past him, all the joy from before draining from you like sand in a timer. You stay silent, and he figures a nod is all he’s gonna get, because it’s another minute before he finds the words to say, himself.

“Let’s go back inside, yeah?” He asks, your hand slipping behind your back just as he thinks of reaching for it, the action causing his stomach to twist with guilt. “C’mon, we’ll get you a drink to celebrate the good news.”

“I think I’m gonna go home,” you mutter, so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it, and you look back up and give him that same small, forced smile that made his gut churn when he came outside, looking at his cheek instead of his eyes. “I have class in the morning, so I should probably go to bed or something.”

“Alright, I’ll walk you-,”

“No, uhm,” you step back, and all he can do is watch as you slip away one more time, “This is literally a party for you. It’s just around the corner, I’ll be fine.”

And if he had thought he fucked up before, this feels a thousand times worse, now. 

“I’m sorry,” you squeak out, and the joyous tears that were teasing his lashes earlier turn somewhat sour, stinging until they gather in a thick pool in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t.” He’d reach for you again if he didn’t think you’d flinch away - if the sight of you retreating from him once again wouldn’t make him want to curl up and die. “I’m gonna get one of the guys to walk you, alright? Please don’t go on your own.”

“It’s fine-,”

“It isn’t fine,” he doesn’t mean to snap - just wants to be firm, just wants you to feel that he cares - but it comes out harsh, because this can’t be another thing that you sweep under the rug to pretend you don’t care. “Please just wait.”

“Okay.”

He rushes inside then, and he grabs the first of his friends that he sees - thankfully, Ethan, who he knows cares about you enough to make sure you get home safe.

“Hey man, did you find her?” Ethan asks, his face twisting with concern as he takes in what must be sheer panic on Luke’s face. “Is she alright?”

“I need you to walk her home, she’s waiting outside, I need you to go before she goes on her own,” he drags Ethan towards the closet by the front door, where he’d discarded his jacket when he arrived earlier. “Give her this and text me when she’s inside, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” his best friend frowns, confused as he takes the coat from his shaking grip “Are you sure you don’t want to do it?”

“I don’t think she wants to be around me right now.”

“Oh,” Ethan huffs, shoulders straightening as he understands the gravity of the situation. If you don’t want to be around Luke, you probably shouldn’t be on your own. “Right, sure, I’ll take her now.”

“Just make sure you text me when she’s safe.”

“Yeah, I’ve got it, man,” Ethan chuckles nervously, “I’ll text you.”

And all Luke can do again is watch - watch as Ethan rushes out the front door, watch through the little sliver of window as you let him shrug the coat around you, as you accept the grip to both your arms as he tries to warm you up, watch as the two of you disappear from what the small rectangle allows him to see.

Watch as he, once again, lets go of the one thing he wants more than anything else in the whole world.