#so fun to write something for it

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[essycogany]

Rare But Not So Rare Sonic Moments

Sonic Swooning Over Amy

So, Sonic’s been kind of the driving force of Sonamy recently. Let’s analyze that.

I’ll show Sonic having feelings for Amy in almost every media aside from Fleetway and the few cartoons she isn’t in. I’ll also present the “whys” in more detail then just “Amy calmed down.” While that’s part of it, I’d like to add my own can of worms. And possible headcanons too. Bear in mind I never grew up with Sonic, so forgive my mixed opinions.

While I love Amy having a crush on Sonic like the energetic sugarplum she is, nowadays Sonic’s oddly been the drive of their dynamic. Any examples of it beforehand? Let’s look outside of the games first.

Sonic X

This Sonic takes more time to himself. He’s introverted, so his feelings for her isn’t displayed as obviously as the others. In fact, most people think he didn’t like her in this show because of how much he runs away. He even manipulated her by flirting in one episode. In my opinion this show has Sonic running away from Amy more often than not. Hot take: Sonic and Amy never had a real conversation either. They didn’t…talk like they do now. Unless you count,

“Oh, Sonic I love you!” “Ah! C’mon, Amy. Knock it off!” No, it wasn’t constant but still common.

From my point of view, the conversations were short lived to none existent. It was the same in the earlier games too. Compared to how they talked to other characters or now, you might be able to notice. At least until Sonic And The Black Night where he talks to both The Lady Of The Lake and Amy. The two would also have visual gags of Sonic getting aggressively hugged by Amy. Or Amy falling on her face while trying. Aside from one moment in Sonic Riders where Sonic put Amy in danger, it wasn’t good or bad. Just cartoony for lack of a better term.

Maybe I’m just insane. You decided.

Anyhow, their dynamic in X is clearly built on actions. Like Amy giving Sonic a seashell bracelet and Sonic giving her a rose. Those little things. While I do prefer them being able to hold longer conversations, I don’t mind how X handles them. But let’s get to Sonic’s crush. I assume in Sonic X Sonic is conflicted. He’ll run away from Amy or try to pull from her on most occasions and others Sonic would constantly hold onto her when he doesn’t have to. For a long period on time no less. Amy’s the same way. One moment she’d be head over heels and other she’s bashful. Goes to show how young they were I guess. I have no clue as to why Sonic liked her back because there wasn’t much to go off of. Except the bracelet moment or her general kindness like feeding him one time. She was a bit much to him and most characters back then.

It’s possible Sonic just liked her and that was it, but I’d imagine due to all of the hand holding and small reciprocated gestures were enough to convey something was there. Straight forward and simple like the show itself. I headcanon this Sonamy being where the boyfriend gets dragged into a relationship and is fine with it. This version of Sonic’s attraction seems to be chaotic pink hedgehogs apparently.

Sonic Boom

Should I even explain it? Might as well because not only do I have something different to say, but these two haven’t been brought up much. Sonic and Amy’s romance mostly is played for laughs. Not saying their love for each other means less because of that, but the humor is the main reason they exist. Much like why in the main canon they started out the way they did. Regardless, I’ll dive deeper into Boom!Sonic’s affection for Amy to the best of my ability.

Boom!Sonic is egotistical, so whenever he thinks Amy’s crushing on someone else, it bothers him. Apparently he’s the only one she’s allowed to like. No “Radical Speedsters” or “Celebrities” can take her attention away from him. Like in Sonic X he tries to keep his crush to a minimum. Even though both him and Amy are terrible at it.

The moment in “Fortress Of Squalitude” a episode where everyone is a bit rude to Amy, close to the end Sonic says, “We may have a hard time saying it Amy. But…well you know.” Then she responds with, “Yeah, I know.” It’s such a sweet moment. Not as powerful as most moments with them but for Boom it’s very nice. Sonic and the others still value her as part of the team, but it’s Sonic who expresses it out loud. Goes to show how much he cares about her for even attempting to open up in this instance. Didn’t even have to finish the sentence. Amy understood perfectly. I also noticed how much he tries his best to impress her. When he needs to return her book back, finds her hammer in Archie, (Vector did it in the show and Sonic got jealous) shows off randomly or dreams about her, and stopped racing to get her some eggs in one episode.

The funny thing about this Sonic is how much of a people pleaser he can be. Especially since the towns people are very spoiled and ungrateful. He wants to be needed and that’s possibly why he goes out of his way to do special things for Amy like go out on picnics, implied dates, and comforts her. She’s very take charge in Boom and Sonic has no problem calling her out when he needs to. Much like Amy in the show and games. Sonic will even put effort into doing things he doesn’t feel like doing for her. How honorable of him. Sure, sometimes he tries to make her jealous and isn’t perfect, but he tries. I believe Sonic likes Amy because again like Sonic X Boom isn’t canon, so more outright reciprocated feelings are allowed in this case. Not to mention the dude likes being shipped with her in the show. Which is a win in my book.

Sonic enjoys bugging Amy much like a playful boyfriend. He probably admires her leadership, but I’m saying this by observation. It could be for anything. Maybe he thinks she’s cute when she’s mad and finds her temper amusing. It could also be for her stubbornness. Some people like each other because of how much they can relate to their partner and in Sonic Boom’s case they’re two cuts of the same cloth. Although still different, due to the show’s theme, they carry the same condescending, slightly self centered, hotheaded, stubborn, and humorous traits. But they’re still good hedgehogs with a heart of gold and usually makes reasonable decisions. Not to mention they’re both equally shy about their crushes. In Sonic Boom, Sonic and Amy is that married couple who doesn’t get along much, but when they do you’ll understand why they stay together.

Reboot Archie Sonic

I haven’t read the comics (unless you count watching a few dubs and internet reviews) but I’ll give my limited thoughts. Luckily there’s not much to say. Although most people believe it was unintentional, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch that someone from Archie thought it was a fun idea to have Sonic crush on somone in this reboot. Maybe it’s unintentional but it doesn’t seem that way.

I’m basically using this part of the post to ramble about how Reboot Archie’s Sonic still manages to be a casanova. He’s like a mixture of his old self and how he is in the games. That’s also why he acts the way he does around Amy. Could it also possibly mean he’s meant to like her canonically too? Reboot Archie did have to follow a more accurate way of writing Sonic after all. Anyways, let’s run down the list of Game!Sonic if he was allowed to be down bad for Amy like they’re already dating. Which is how I view this continuity. It’s basically if Boom and X had a weird fusion and this version of Sonic’s crush was the result. Except here he manages to be more bold and upfront. He knows what he’s doing. Here’s a run down.

First of all, THIS. No joke, more of these interactions would send me to the moon. I would explain why but the panel speaks for itself.

Sonic says, “I was worried about you.” Which he hasn’t admitted to her before this to my knowledge. He states this by giving her a side hug. Along with other out of nowhere physical affection and flirting. Not to single out Sonally fans. Sonic and Sally clearly have a close connection people appreciate and I respect that. In any case, Sonic and Amy in Reboot Archie also matches energies so much. They’re both clearly running off the same brain cell. You’d think they were together. They’d be a chaotic couple that’ll do the most outlandish things and somehow manage to survive them. After willfully risking their lives they’d do it again because being normal and safe is boring. I promise you, this version of Sonamy would be a huge force to be reckoned with.

-I’d also like to mention my friend Salty showed an example of Sonic being jealous of Knuckles coming with Amy on a mission and it’s brilliant. Dude gets all bratty about it too. Archie!Sonic does not play around. The post in question.

Sonic Prime

Already talked about this in another post, but I want to mention it again. Prime!Sonic is the most sensitive version of the character, so it’s no surprise he displays his admiration for Amy freely and out loud.

This moment says enough on its own. Sonic’s like this throughout the entirety of Prime and even changes the tone of his voice when speaking to or about her. It’s so authentic and adorable and makes him stand out against other variants.

Amy’s crush on Sonic in Prime is up to interpretation, but I don’t think she likes him in that way personally. Like other characters, Amy tends to be done with Sonic’s childishness. Guess she thinks he’s probably too immature to be boyfriend material whether she has feelings or not. Sonic on the other hand, acts how you wouldn’t expect. I personally see him as his own interpretation, so I’m fine with it. If he wants to have goo-goo eyes for Amy in Prime, it’s cool.

Prime!Sonic has it bad and I wouldn’t be shocked if he’d be the one wanting to go out on dates. Maybe he’d cook dinner for her sense he cooks in the show. I’d imagine Amy declining at first, but does it after his constant begging. They’d be swapped version of most emotional to least emotional. Prime!Amy would be a girlfriend who feels more like a parent than a partner.

Unleashed/Black Night

No one can bring up Sonic Unleashed without the lovely Amy meeting the Werehog scene. I love how Sonic didn’t like Amy hugging him, but right after she left he solemnly mopes around for probably the first and last time. He’s never in any game slowly moped around disappointedly before. Proving he only has certain reactions when it comes to Amy Rose. At least in some continuities. Unleashed gives you a choice to go on a date with Amy or not. Then the next game Sonic Team followed through with it, but ended up having Amy mad at Sonic for missing it. At least Sonic tried. Not to mention his reaction to The Lady Of The Lake and him flirting is fun to watch.

See how Sonic still likes her back but it isn’t because she’s “calmed down?” She’s still the same excitable love strucked Amy. There must be something more to it. Other than the obvious answer with Sonic Team wanting to do something with the pear. I have no idea why but having multiple hints even in the past must’ve been done for the fun of it. “We created this love interest but then railed back to Sonic not reciprocating her feeling. But we still want to market them as a couple in some way.” This franchise never cease to confuse me.

Amy encouraging Sonic in one of the cutscenes could’ve been where he started liking her back. Not in the way he does now, but he admired her none stop compassion and might’ve wanted to return the favor. “Eh, she’s sweet. Maybe a date won’t be so bad.” The fact he went out of his way to get her a chilidog and flirted with a different version of her should tell you enough. Of course it would take a while before anything else happened. 

IDW/Sonic Frontiers

Yeah, after issue 2, Sonic’s never felt the need to run from Amy. From the comics to Sonic Frontiers there’s a lot of moments of Sonic being somewhat emotionally candid. Not by much, but close. I believe Amy’s the reason for that in a way. Sonic’s not afraid to hang out with her anymore. He even hugs her back on some occasions. “Ames” was a nickname from fanfics and Boom which became canon over time and he occasionally calls her that.

Sonic wishes to share an umbrella and spend more time with her. He also gets excited to see her more often. It’s like Reboot Archie but slightly toned down. At least up until the hard to trigger lines from Sonic Frontiers. The same game where he outright admits to being worried about Amy and smiles back at her with a Coco looking between the two. Then he supports Amy’s decision to leave etc. We all know where we are now.

Crazy how the more you look into this franchise the more tiny details you notice. It’s also crazy how much Sonic’s been into the love interest he originally was already supposed to love. To me, Sonic had a crush on Amy in Unleashed but fell in love with her in IDW. What makes Sonamy gripping though is how unique it is compared to most romantic relationships. Leaves it to be more entertaining whenever something unexpected happenes. It keeps you engaged.

Why Sonic Crushes On Amy?

1. Amy doesn’t want to slow him down. Obviously because of IDW issue 2’s love confession with Amy saying “I can’t change you. I don’t want to change you.” Amy joins Sonic and he includes her more often because of that. His speed is no match for her persistence anyways.

2. She shows compassion and love for those around her. Not just to Sonic, but everyone. She’s the definition of soft hearted. Even for people Sonic and his friends would be weary about. Think about now in the recent comics and games where Sonic’s trying it out. I do think it should be more of Amy’s thing then Sonic’s but it just goes to show how much she probably inspired him. Who knows? Even in the past he had respect Amy for her tenderheartedness.

3. Amy’s energy matches Sonic’s. Though sometimes she can be overly enthusiastic compared to him. Even before now, Amy’s always been adventurous and that’s probably something Sonic liked from the start. Not in a romantic way, but in a respectful way. If he were to have a partner he’d need someone to keep him grounded and be on the same level. No exceptions.

4. Her loyalty. No matter what Sonic does (including times she disagrees) she’s one of Sonic’s most loyalist companions. Obviously other characters are too, but Amy has her being a long time childhood friend/Sonic 06 and Unleashed going for her. 06 for trusting Sonic over Silver and Unleashed for still loving Sonic despite his transformation. Heck, before she knew who the Werehog was she wasn’t disgusted. Amy’s commendable for that.

From all these points here physical attraction isn’t included. What I like about both characters is their crushes don’t stem to how they look. Though it is worth mentioning Sonic has called Amy “Radiant” in TMOSTH, but that’s probably the closest we’ll ever get to an outright physical compliment. From Sonic at least.

- Side note thanks to @saltynsassy31 again, Sonic and Amy’s dynamic can be summed up as not a relationship but rather a situationship. Yes, it’s a real word. What does it mean? Basically two friends who has crushes on each other but doesn’t do anything about it. Just a fun detail for you guys.

Why Did Sonic Run From Amy In The Past?

I’ll make this quick, but the reason Sonic ran from Amy wasn’t because he didn’t like her. On the contrary. Sonic always could’ve ran at his normal speed to get away from her. Sonic’s the fastest thing alive. Why would he let someone he “didn’t like” catch up to him? I personally think he enjoyed the thrill of the chase. It’s why I believe he misses it nowadays. Though I do understand Sonic didn’t often treat Amy like a friend. Not in a way I can understand at least. Not that I think their relationship was bad, but from what I’ve seen, it was more told then shown due to Sonic and the gang not including her on missions. Amy normally had to catch up with them which was a running gag. Especially in SA2. It might be why some prefere her in stuff like Reboot Archie, Boom, IDW, and Frontiers. Because Amy’s friends includes her on adventures now. At least in my opinion. Correct me if I missed anything.

Final Headcanon

Since Sonic in the games has been the one to push the Sonic side of Sonamy much more then Amy does for herself, I’d like to think in most cases (especially as their dynamic grows) Sonic would start carrying other versions of him traits like trying to mess with her.

He’d want to get her to chase him more often and Amy would probably ask once or twice, “What’s going on and why are you acting weird?” He’d definitely play it off as him fooling around. Sonic doesn’t know much about romance, but he does know what Amy likes. Maybe he’d ask her out or go on a bunch of traveling missions. Anything to get her to pay attention to him again. After all, there’s been examples of the guy feeling ignored by her in and out of canon. It’s possible.

-There’s also a consistent detail where Sonic’s finally ready to open up but has to deal with Amy doing her own thing. Or when he’s face with different variants of her, he’s flirtatious with them. For the fastest thing alive, he has terrible timing when it comes to making his mind up.

Conclusion

Welp, there you have it, darlings. Examples of Sonic crushing on Amy more than some would think. It’s a Sonic character analysis and Sonamy post all in one. I know there’s more, but I think this gathers examples from the actual content.

Stay Creative! 💜

[chimerafeathers]

you know what i think Mirabelle deserves to get a little fucked up freaky in how she processes learning about Siffrin’s loops post-canon. for fun. as a treat

thinking about this line in particular and stretching out the implications like taffy

this is a more romanticized, cutesy facet of her interests but she’s still framing Siffrin’s situation through storytelling. so like. What If.

i mean. this woman loves horror and gore and monsters and horrible things happening to innocent people. IN FICTION. in fiction!!! obviously!!!! and it’s beyond terrible that something even remotely close to any of that happened to her real friend in real life!!

BUT.

maybe. maybe sometimes, if the conditions are right, she gets a little too wrapped up in her imagination about the bloody, awful poetry of it all. maybe Siffrin tells a joke that's a little too dark and gory for anyone else, borderline or full-on Concerning, but she latches onto it without thinking about the Implications and plays along with increasing gruesomeness because FINALLYYYYY someone will play with her in the Horror Space (like Isabeau does in the romance space!!) and then. OOPS. the implications!!!! and she has to recalibrate out of Fun With Fiction mode into Oh No, My Friend Underwent A Horrifying Ordeal mode.

but being able to joke about things, even the awful things, is...kind of comforting, to Siffrin. makes them feel less like they're being babied and pitied and more like what happened was something...normal, almost? something that doesn't have to feel like the end of the world all over again every time it's mentioned, at least. so he tries to reassure her, and Odile and Isabeau have to go “actually can you PLEASE not joke about dying horribly it’s freaking us out and also might not be the Best for you? mentally???”

maybe Mirabelle will get a little Too Into trying to weave meaning and symbolism into the scant details that Siffrin gradually reveals, like she’s trying to finish the orange poem all over again, or eagerly meddling with the romantic reunion of the two actual people in the House with undelivered bonding earrings, writing their story for them without their input.

it’s easier to justify the tragedy of it all when it has a purpose, isn’t it? finding the beauty in the darkness, the love powerful enough to end the world. romanticizing the horrors until her friend can talk about them without shutting down.

and she feels guilty about hearing something and immediately thinking “ohhhhhhh this is JUST like Blorbo From My Novels,” because she should treat Siffrin’s situation with the gravity and care he deserves!! they’re a real person, not a character who exists for entertainment, to represent the ~themes~ of some story.

but if she admits as much…maybe Siffrin is safe to admit that he had started seeing the rest of them as actors, endlessly reciting their lines. maybe that’s just how people process things sometimes, grasping for metaphors when unfiltered reality gets to be too much. maybe it’s okay to talk about that part of it all, too.

[copypastus]

To encourage and celebrate fandom creativity this @tamlinweek i made a PICREW!

Here's to you, TamlinxOC enjoyers! Take a picture with Tamlin!

Some tips on how to use it under cut:

If a body part has a "move" icon, it means it can be moved around. Keep in mind to get the details just right!

Arrow buttons move the parts around, rotation arrows tilt them. Reset button returns it to the default setting.

When picking eyes and pupils make sure you pick the ones facing the same way.

When making a haircut you can either use a short top part, then add hair strands and/or long hair OR create the top part out of top hair and bangs.

If you wish to make a new character and want to reset all the parts, go here.

"Reset all" will reset everything to the default setting. Randomiser buttons will make cursed creations. Have fun!

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[mirage126]

R.I.P. Killer /jk

[bratbarzal]

The Secret of Us (LH43) 1/3

aka the sequel to let it happen

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 21k (oops)

I felt it, you held it, do you miss us? wonder if you regret the secret of us.

General Warnings: angst (lol), a severe lack of proofreading, mentions of injuries, a couple of angsty flashbacks with avoidant behaviour and fade to black type smut

A/N: just want to say thank you guys for liking this so much 💖 seeing all the comments and the messages and people recommending this to others and the sweet things you're all saying (even if I betrayed you lol) made me so unbelievably happy!!! I could never let these two go out like that, I enjoy writing this dynamic way too much, and I also have way too much discussing this fic with people!! shoutout to the let it happen film club lmao!!! I hope you guys enjoy this sequel, and I hope it lives up to LIH, they really are my babies!!

and I know what you're thinking, maggie how could we ever trust you again after let it happen??? you can't!! and you shouldn't!!! but I wouldn't do that to you twice.

or would I???

I wouldn't 😌

OR WOULD I?!?!?!?! 😏

You need to start getting more comfortable saying no to people.

It’s something you tell yourself all the time, that being a people pleaser is going to lead to your downfall - it’s something you’ve always known.

So why you would ever possibly agree to attend a football game with your sorority sisters after weeks of hiding away in the safety of your childhood bedroom, you have no idea. You’ve spent the last 4 weeks alone convincing yourself to grow a backbone, and you’ve only been back in town a week. 7 whole days and your resolve has crumbled to pieces.

And now you’re squeezing yourself through a crowd of sweaty, yelling men to find your seat in the cramped spaces of Michigan Stadium, after already being packed like a clown into the back of your friend Molly’s car, and your head is throbbing, already.

A football game.

You at a football game.

It’s absurd.

Dressed in team colours with a ridiculous yellow M painted on your cheek like you’re some sort of local.

It’s your own version of a living hell, and you can’t wait for it to be over.

“Are you guys always sat this low?” You yell out to Molly as the rest of your friends amble in, surrounded now on all sides with no way out.

“Aren’t the seats, great?!” She yells back, louder than you, causing you to wince a little at the shrill sound in your ear.

The seats are not great, but you wouldn’t be happy anywhere in here.

You can barely even see the field, the sidelines packed with God-knows-who, and your back hurts already, and all you want is to go back to the version of you that was first asked if she wanted to come with. A version of you that should have told Molly straight up that you’d have rather sat at home plucking at any remaining body hair with a pair of pointed tweezers than to come to a Michigan Football game.

“Oh, look!” Molly jumps, and you’re assuming she’s just going to point to her boyfriend, following her finger with a bored gaze. You’ve seen him, before. You don’t need to see him again.

Only Molly’s finger doesn’t point to her boyfriend.

It points to the sidelines - to a group of guys stood with a shorter girl with curly blonde hair.

Ellie’s down there, dressed in team colours, too. She’s stood next to Jack, who’s stood next to Quinn.

And you don’t even need to look past Quinn to know who’s gonna be stood beside him.

It’s way too late to go home, now, you fear.

Not when Molly is digging her phone out and pressing immediately on Ellie’s contact, and you can see the whole situation unfold in front of you. 

Ellie never has her phone on silent, and when it rings, it rings loud - a high-pitched, horrific tone that honestly sets off your fight or flight, and you can see the immediate reaction the boys have to it chiming in her hand. 

She answers, instantly, and you can hear Molly’s side of the conversation, guiding Ellie to where your group are up in the stands, waving like a lunatic until Ellie finds you all - and, as if your life isn’t bad enough, she then starts gesturing at you.

“Look who I managed to convince to come with!” She yells, still pointing like you’re some circus attraction, and, if you could remember what the ground felt like, too long in the stands, now, that you miss it, you would honestly want it to swallow you up.

Because obviously Ellie isn’t the only one looking.

Jack is looking.

And Quinn is looking.

And you know, once again without looking yourself, that the person beside Quinn now has his eyes on you, too.

The weight of them takes you back in a dizzying flash, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the lake house, sobbing into your hands until you were pulled into the soft embrace of your best friend.

“Hey, you’re crying, what’s wrong?” Ellie cooed as she came over, throwing her arm around your shaking frame and rubbing a hand up and down your back. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” you tried through shaky breaths, attempting and entirely unconvincing smile, like it would at all mask the flood pouring down your cheeks, “Go back to your party, I’m just being dumb.”

“I’m not gonna leave you like this,” she told you, “What's going on, is it Luke?”

The mere mention of his name brought back the onslaught of tears, your face scrunching as you tried to hold them back, but it was no use. Every single part of you ached with regret, your throat, your chest, your limbs - and all you wanted to do was curl up and cry it out. “I fucked it all up, El.”

“No,” she reassured you, “He fucked things up, he should never have spoken about you like that, it wasn’t fair. Not if the two of you are into each other, he shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

“He was right, though,” you sobbed, “I’m a mess, I just ruin everything good, I don’t even know why.”

“Aw, babe, no-,” 

“I told him I’d go out with Cole. I don’t even know why, I just wanted him to stop trying to make things work, he kept trying to tell me that he didn’t mean any of it, but I know he did.”

“Do you?” She asked, “Want to go out with Cole?”

“No, of course I don’t.” You shook your head, although you didn’t know how obvious it was, especially to everybody else, how little you wanted to be with anybody that wasn’t Luke. “I just want to go back to this morning, before I heard him say any of that stuff.”

“Why don’t you come downstairs, huh? We can find him, and the two of you can try to talk again-,”

“I can’t,” you refused, the thought of trying to communicate your feelings while you looked the way you did - eyes red raw and face all swollen - filling you with anxiety. “Can you just tell people I’m sick if they ask? I know it’s your birthday but I can’t go down there, Ellie.”

“Okay,” she had agreed, although the worry in her eyes made you feel even worse - missing your best friend’s birthday party because you were too chicken to face your feelings?

What sort of friend does that?

“I’ll come check on you, though. And tomorrow, you’re gonna have a serious conversation with Luke, alright? You can’t keep pushing people away, it isn’t good for you.”

“I know,” you sniffled, “I promise, I’ll try tomorrow.”

But trying had been futile. Luke wanted nothing to do with you - he could barely even look your way. He didn’t come downstairs for breakfast the next day, and when he finally did, he turned straight back around. Every time you tried to talk to him, he would shut you down, and by the tenth day of trying, you’d given up, entirely - booking yourself a ticket home, packing your things up one night and leaving the morning after. 

The following weeks were spent wallowing back home with your mom - texting Ellie, waiting for him to reach out, even though you knew he wouldn’t. Watching sad movies, staying inside, spending your days alone, while your mom was at work, and trying not to miss him so much.

And coming back to Michigan had only been made easy by the fact that he would be gone - due to go back to training in Jersey, and the two of you wouldn’t cross paths.

It won’t hurt as much, you had thought, if you didn’t have to see him.

But now here Luke is, following Ellie’s gaze as she waves up to you in the stands, stood on the sidelines of the football game you’d only attended to finally get yourself out of the house - still in Michigan, stood at the end of the path you thought no longer led to him. 

This might be the first time he’s met your eye in a while, and there’s a visceral feeling that shoots straight through you - your heart falling into an alarming, irregular thump that reverberates through your entire body, and it’s a strange sensation, like the slowing of time, the blurring of everything around you but him. 

His arm is held to his front with a sling, and you try to ignore the way your stomach turns at the sight of it. It’s nothing to do with you, he doesn’t want you to care. He doesn’t even want to talk to you, and you don’t want to talk to him, either - not anymore. Not after almost 6 weeks of silence - of forcing yourself to think about anything but him, like you even could.

You offer a tight lipped smile and a wave to Ellie, and try to ignore his presence for as long as you can, try to watch the game, to focus on your friends in the stands beside you - only, he keeps looking back. Craning his neck, surveying the crowd as it fills up just to find you, and your heart starts to hammer in your chest every time you catch his eye.

What happened to him avoiding you at all costs? What happened to ignoring your attempts to talk, the knocks at his door, the pleading, persuasive looks you’d try to give him when it all got a little too much in the end. 

Why can’t he just let you slip away into nothingness, like it would be so much easier to do?

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket as you’re trying to focus on the game, the desire to flee growing by the second - cramped and claustrophobic in your seat, dying for a drink and a minute of reprieve away from the crowd, away from Luke and whatever weird telekinetic powers he has on your heart.

Luke: can we talk?

Luke: I’ll be at the closest concessions in 5

You slip your phone back into your pocket without responding, and by the time you look back down to where he had been stood, he’s gone. 

You should be relieved. 

Maybe if you ignore his message, he’ll stop looking at you.

Maybe this is where it ends, and you can finally let each other go - too far gone to fix, nothing left to say.

Only your legs are now moving, side stepping Molly and the other girls, along with the rest of the people in your row, and your mouth is apologising to those you bump into, and your feet are carrying you down the stairs to where you know he’ll be, sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor as you search for him in the small concessions queue.

He stands taller than most, waiting by the counter, facing the other way, and you take the second that his back is turned to you to reconsider.

Stuck in place, staring at broad shoulders you’d once spent tracing the freckles between while he slept, and wondering which might hurt more - walking away or hearing him out. 

He turns before you get the chance to choose, his eyes meeting yours , widening in surprise, as much as they can, considering his current predicament, and he immediately heads your way.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Luke just about says as he precariously holds onto a plastic cup between his teeth, offering you the one in his free hand - what you assume is diet coke with ice sloshing a little over the rim and onto the already sticky floor. 

“Can hardly leave a one-armed man to navigate the concession stand on his own. Not one with your appetite, at least.” Your brows furrow when you notice the distinct lack of snacks in his hold, but you figure he prioritised using what little carrying capacity he had to get your drink. “Do you want me to hang around while you get something to eat? I can hold your drink,”

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he says, clearer now that he can hold his cup in his hand instead of his mouth. “I’m on some pretty strong painkillers, can’t eat without feeling sick.”

“Oh,” you frown, eyeing the sling that holds his other arm. He had been fine when you left the lake house - and even last week, in Ellie’s story on instagram, he hadn’t seemed injured then. It must be a recent development, and so close to the season, for him to be out in public wearing a brace, it can’t be good. “What happened?”

“Took a pretty bad hit on the ice,” he shrugs with his other shoulder, lips turning down like he’s trying to play it off, “Been telling myself it’s karma.” The way he chuckles is distant and noncommittal, and not at all like all the ways you’re used to seeing him smile or laugh. His eyes don’t squint, his mouth barely turns up, barely pushes those tell-tale folds into his cheeks that you used to press at when he was close enough to do so. Back when being in such close proximity made your heart thump in a different way.

But maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe one of Luke Hughes’ signature crooked grins might have made you do something stupid, like touch him again. You’ve worked too hard to push away the feeling of wanting to for the past month. 

“Karma for what?” You ask instead, head tilting to survey the damage, like you’d even be able to see anything through the thick yellow hoodie he has on. It’s better than looking him in the eye, you think.

“For what I said to Cole,” he tells you, the shame that lines his words doing little to alleviate the way they so quickly jab at you, all the memories of that day and that conversation rushing back at you full-force. Memories you’ve worked really hard to suppress. “For hurting you. I probably deserved to get hurt, too.”

“I’d never want you to be hurt, Luke.” You say before you can think better of it, narrowed eyes meeting his finally, watching as they soften slightly, let your words sink in and melt like warm butter, seeping into his every pore and breaking down his hardened exterior. 

“Me neither,” he almost-whispers, “For you, I mean. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

You nod, momentarily pressing your lips together, your focus dropping to a patch of lint on his hoody, clenching your free hand into a fist behind your back to save yourself from reaching out to pluck it off. 

“Is that all you wanted to see me for?”

You don’t want to be rude to him, but it’s hard, especially when every instinct in your body is telling you to push him away - to keep him at arms length where he can’t pull you back in. 

“No,” he utters quickly, his feet shuffling as if he wants to step forward, reduced the metaphorical distance you’re trying to force between the two of you. “I was hoping we could talk.”

You just about save yourself from having your jaw drop wide open.

You’d tried to talk to him last month, before you left, and he had wanted nothing more to do with you. 

“In the middle of a football game?” You frown, daring to glance up - taking notice of the panic in his eyes when he reads you like a book, can recognise your retreating form from a mile off, by now.

“No,” he blurts out, “No, I mean later, if you’re free. Somewhere else.”

“I don’t know-,”

“We’re having a barbecue back at the house,” he interrupts, a look on his face like he couldn’t possibly accept no for an answer. “Like an end of summer send-off thing, you should come over, I know the guys would want to say goodbye properly.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you finish your earlier thought, “Besides, your family probably all hate me.”

“Why would they hate you?”

“Because of what happened with us,”

“Oh,” He frowns, “No, they don’t hate you, I promise, not even Jack.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you scoff - when he had helped Ellie move rooms back in the sorority house last week, he could barely even muster a smile to send your way. He hadn’t been his usual stand-offish self, but he had hardly been friendly, either. You didn’t expect laughs and hugs and welcome-backs, but after the two of you had kind of made up back at his cousin’s wedding, and things were finally solid between him and your best friend, you thought some kind of bridge had been built.

Apparently not.

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Oh,” you don’t know whether you feel relieved or disappointed. He can’t have been that heartbroken about the whole thing if he never told a soul, right? Even you told your mom when you got home - granted, she was a whole bottle of rosé deep into the night and seconds from falling into a wine coma, but you still at least acknowledged your feelings to somebody. 

What did he do, just bottle all whatever feelings remained up and send them off down the lake? Enjoy the rest of his summer like you never happened?

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” he continues, “You never really liked me talking about us with other people, so I didn’t.”

“Right,” you nod, biting your tongue to save from throwing out a bitter, thanks. You spent the last month watching heart-wrenching sad movies in your bed all day and he just went about his life like the two of you were nothing That’s fine. That’s cool.

“Ellie’ll be there,” he tries again, like she won’t be attached to Jack’s hip all night and you’ll be left on your own. “And a few of the Michigan guys, if you need a ride back to campus. I’d offer to drive you, but,” he nods down to his arm, “Or you can stay, your room is still free.”

Yourroom. Like you have any claim on any part of his world, still.

“I’ll think about it,” you tell him, because you can’t fully bring yourself to say no to his face. It’ll be easier when you’re back home, later, and can just ignore his texts, if he even cares enough to send any. “I should get back.”

“I can walk you back,”

“You shouldn’t be in a crowd with your arm,” your head shakes and you step back, your body language saying more than your lips even dare. “It’s fine. Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem.” He chews at the corner of his lip as he watches you retreat, like he has more to say. 

Despite spending the last month doing everything in your power to wipe your thoughts clean of Luke Hughes, you want nothing more than to hear it - but where you’ve been suffering and relating every pathetic, sad song you hear back to him and fighting every urge to reach out through fear of rejection, he’s been ignoring your entire existence. Repressing whatever feelings he may have had and neglecting any instinct he might have had to reach out, too. 

“Promise me you will?” He calls out when you’re a little ways down the tunnel, causing you to turn back to see him in the same spot, “Think about it, I mean. I’d really like to talk to you.”

Your fingers tense at the mere mention of a promise tumbling from his lips, your pinky sending signals to your feet to run straight back to him, practically itching to reach out and link with his. Instead, you nod, eyes darting to the big M that stretches across his chest, easier to look at that and lie than into his hopeful gaze. 

“Sure,” you tell him, because you can hardly make a promise you can’t keep. 

Not to Luke.

You’re not coming.

Luke realistically knew as much when Ellie arrived on her own - immediately going over to Jack and sparing Luke a glance out of the corner of her eye as she whispered to his brother.

But it’s taken him almost 2 hours to really come to terms with the fact - to stop keeping an eye on the door and whipping his head around any time a newcomer enters the house. 

He should have known when you refused to make a promise to him - not like you owed him anything in the first place. Should have known when the few attempts you made at joking around with him like old times, you’d barely mustered a smile - that familiar glint in your eye that shone only for him watered down into a dull gaze you refused to hold. 

God, he’s an idiot, he thinks.

He should have spoken to you when he had the chance - those few times you had tried to offer an olive branch, pushing a pre-poured glass of juice his way at breakfast or making space for him on the couch he’s now conveniently slumped on, all alone.

It feels a little like a lost cause now, trying to reignite some sort of spark between the two of you - not when you won’t even hear him out.

He’d felt a bit of hope when you’d met him at the stadium, thinking his text might have been left on read - and even though he’d made the effort to buy you a drink, he hadn’t entirely expected you to turn up. 

He thinks maybe that had been the first thing to throw him for a loop - arranging a meeting on a whim and you actually making an appearance. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, or relay any sort of confidence in himself or what he was trying to sell you on. 

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t convince you to come.

He can’t blame you - your last 10 days here at the house had been miserable, on his account, and if he was in your shoes, he wouldn’t come back, either. He wouldn’t hear himself out, wouldn’t forgive himself.

The night of Ellie’s party should have been where he drew the line at avoiding you - the initial aftermath of your fight still sizzling, too hot to touch while the both of you were still reeling.

The morning after, he had been hungover - throwing back drinks like nobody’s business just to drown you out - and there was no chance of having a serious conversation, then, even though he had woke up alone in his bed wanting nothing more than for you to be there.

He’d gone downstairs sometime in the early afternoon, ignoring his growling stomach until he couldn’t do it any more , and had trudged into the kitchen only to find you there with Cole.

The bitterness within him fought violently with his need to puke, and he stormed back up to his room, no longer having any sort of appetite, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

The days that followed were no better - avoiding you at every given opportunity, ignoring your pleading eyes, leaving no chance for you to speak to him, despite all the times he could see that you wanted to. He’d leave every room you entered, turn away from every conversation you joined, and the final nail in the coffin was probably the time he ignored you knocking on his bedroom door one night, the soft call of his name feeling like a knife that twisted in his gut. 

You were gone the next day - your bedroom door open and the room empty when he walked past, your seat at the table vacant when he came downstairs for breakfast, and he seemed to be the only one who didn’t know. Ellie seemed unbothered, already having moved into Jack’s room, Quinn was drinking the green tea you had bought, that no one else was supposed to touch, Alex probably wouldn’t have cared either way, and Cole was already talking about meeting up with some other girl.

“Wow,” Luke had scoffed, throwing himself into the chair beside Cole’s and sneaking a peak at his phone screen, suddenly feeling a burning need to call the guy out. He was to the entire reason you called things off with Luke, and now he was talking to someone else? “Her bed isn’t even cold and you’re already moving on, huh?”

Ellie had glared at him from across the table, and Jack had frowned too, no doubt wondering why after 10 days of complete silence about the whole thing, he was daring to bring you up now.

“What are you talking about?” Cole chuckled, leaning back in his chair and raising a brow at Luke, who just said your name in response, with a pointed stare. “What about her?”

“Thought you were ending your summer with a girlfriend.” 

“Dude, where the hell have you been?” Cole snorted, amused, if anything, “She couldn’t have turned me down quicker if she tried. Man to man, don’t ever follow instructions from that one,” he pointed over to Ellie, “She led me on a wild goose chase all summer just so that I’d help her get her guy.”

“Hey!” Ellie called from across the table, “It’s not my fault you have no game. And I would have gotten my guy just fine without your help.”

Before Cole could retort, spurred on by the way Jack was chucking by her side, Luke frowned, straightening in his chair. “She didn’t want to go out with you?”

“No, but before you say anything, it has nothing to do with my game, alright? She’s into someone else, I guess.”

“Someone else?” Luke’s eyes darted over to Ellie, who just rolled hers in response, turning her attention back to Jack before she excused herself from the table.

“That’s my guess,” Cole shrugged, “She said she wasn’t into me like that, but come on.”

Wasn’t into him?

That wasn’t what you had said to Luke.

“Sorry man,” Luke offered, absentmindedly, head craning to see which direction Ellie left in. “As you were.”

He jogged out of the kitchen and up the stairs, just about catching her before she disappeared into her and Jack’s room. “Hey, wait,” he had called, watching as she let out a heavy sigh and turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. “She turned him down?”

“Did you not just have this exact conversation with Cole?”

“Ellie, c’mon,” he pleaded, desperation creeping up inside - feeling a little too much like guilt, and causing a serious discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “She said she wanted to date him.”

“You’re so unbelievably stupid.”

It didn’t quite hit the same as when you said it, shame washing over him at the way Ellie was glaring at him. 

“She heard you tell him that she wasn’t girlfriend material, and that she would just be hard work, and not worth his time. Lucky for you, she didn’t hear the bullshit you said before that.” Regret formed like a heavy ball in his gut, the weight of it almost pushing him to keel over. “She said whatever she had to to get you off her back because it hurt her less to push you away.”

“I don’t-,”

“And you’re the dumbass who just let her do it.”

That’s not fair, he thought. What was he supposed to do, just watch you move on without a care in the world, cheering you on with a stupid grin on his face while his whole heart crumbled to pieces at the thought of you being with anybody else?

“I’m not a mind reader, Ellie,” he tried to defend himself, “I can’t keep pushing at a door that won’t open.”

“My God, do you have a peanut for a brain, Luke?” She had shoved at his chest, “She’s been holding the door open for the last ten days, and all you’ve done is walk past it. She wanted to talk to you, and you wouldn’t even look at her!”

“I wasn’t ready! I thought she-,” 

He had thought you had taken Cole up on his offer of taking you out - had thought that’s the conversation he had stumbled into the day after the party - and he didn’t want to risk hearing anything about it, or seeing it in action.

“She said it didn’t matter.”

You had said that - he had asked you straight up, so there was no confusing it, but when he tried to remember, he can’t picture your eyes as you did. He must not have been looking, he thought, or maybe you weren’t looking at him. Either way, how’s he supposed to muster up a clear idea of your intentions if he can’t remember the look in your eyes as you spoke them. 

You couldn’t lie to him - you never could, even in the beginning, pretending to be aloof, pretending you weren’t into him, he could always see through you, back then, so why didn’t he try harder when it was something he didn’t want to hear?

“She’s really gone home? Not just back to Ann Arbor?”

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie scoffed, folding her arms across her chest, “Chase her down?”

“I don’t know, if I have to. We need to talk.”

“She’s probably back at her mom’s by now, she left pretty early. And I think it’s for the best if you leave her alone, Luke. She gave you a hundred chances to talk.”

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t just leave things like this, I made a mistake, I need her to know that, I need her to know I’m sorry.”

“It’s better if you both just cool off a little. She’s hurt that you’ve been ignoring her, it isn’t fair to keep playing hot and cold with her feelings.”

“That’s not what I-,”

“I know.” Ellie sighed, leaning against the wall and giving him a pitiful look as she finally took in just how panicked he had become, running hands through his hair and shifting between his feet. “Just give it time, that way you can both think about it, think about what you want to say without just saying things and not meaning them.”

And that’s all Luke has been doing since then.

Thinking about what he wants to say to you - thinking about how to fix things. All without knowing when it is that he would even see you again, or if you’d be willing to listen. 

He’d distracted himself with it - his mind stuck on just how bad he had messed things up, and it had put him into a rut - so much so, that he ended up hurting himself in training, an injury that would have him out for a good couple of months. And he had meant it, when he told you he thought it was karma, because he deserved a reality check, he thinks. It had shifted things into perspective, at least - because now he could stay in town a little longer, could try and make amends before he had to go home and properly start his season.

And when he’d noticed Ellie scanning the crowd back at the game, had followed her beaming smile all the way to you in the crowd, he thought his heart had stopped.

It had been 4 weeks since he’d seen you last - almost 6 since he’d spoken to you. Since he’d touched you, or kissed you, or seen you smile, and when your eyes meet his from the stands, widened and hesitant, he could tell you were feeling the same.

An insurmountable longing for something the two of you should never have thrown away.

He saw the truth, then, even as you looked away and diverted your attention back to Ellie - the truth he was too hurt to notice all those weeks ago back in your room in the lake house. 

That you felt the same way - you always had - you just weren’t used to it. Weren’t used to loving someone, or having them love you.

But he can’t quite tell if you still feel it.

He can’t expect you to, not with how reserved you’ve become.

He sighs, sinking into the cushions of the couch, legs stretched out and head thrown against the back as he squints against the light - the noise around him dwindling to a constant buzz. 

He’s too caught up in his head to notice when Ellie sinks down beside him until she nudges at his side, and he slowly looks her way.

“If it helps at all, I could tell she wanted to come.”

Luke snorts out a humourless laugh, eyes rolling. “If she wanted to come, she’d be here.” He says, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“She doesn’t really open up to people,” Ellie sighs, and he can tell from the way she’s looking at him that’s only divulging this from a place of pity, although he guesses that’s better than her saying nothing at all. “It took us years to get to where we are, and even now I’m not sure she lets me all the way in, and we’re supposed to be best friends.”

“I feel like I don’t even know if she was ever into me in the first place,” he mutters, tracing at a scratch in the surface of the table. Even if he had thought different, back in the stadium, he can’t be so sure now that you haven’t shown. You’d have come if you still cared. “I’m still confused by the whole Cole thing-,”

“That was my fault,” Ellie interjects, “I thought I was doing the right thing, I didn’t realise that you two were-,” her teeth clash as she bites down, as if to stop saying the word, together. “Whatever you were. And she just got all in her head after she heard you saying all that stuff, it’s what she does, keeps her cards close to her chest until she loses them all.”

“That’s the problem, El,” Luke groans, “If she really liked me, she would have told you. If she was ever serious, you’d have known something was up. She wouldn’t have hidden it from her best friend and told me that she was gonna go out with Cole after all.”

“You know she turned him down, Luke, he said himself, she was into someone else.”

“Yeah, or so he assumed,” he grumbles, recalling the feeling he got when Cole had said as much, back on the day you left.

“And you know on my birthday when she overheard that conversation, she’d literally just told me that she liked you. That’s big for her, Luke. It might have taken her a while but she got there in the end. It’s your own fault for having such a big mouth and ruining it.”

“I told her I didn’t mean it,” he can’t help how whiney he sounds, lips pouting and a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I told her I was sorry.”

“And then you ignored her for almost two weeks until she had no choice but to leave. You don’t get to claim the moral high ground here, I’m sorry.”

“So what am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me.”

“You just have to give her time, don’t give up again.” Ellie nudges him a little too forcefully, the sharp jut of her elbow in his ribs causing him to wince. “Really think about if there’s a version of you that could be friends.”

“What if I don’t want to be friends, what if I don’t wanna keep taking one step forward and three back?” 

“Then think about if you’d rather be nothing at all.”

“She hates me that much?”

“I don’t know, she stopped talking to me about it.” Ellie huffs, leaning back a little more into the couch. “But I’d take that as a no. If she hated you, neither of us would hear the end of it, trust me.”

He knows that’s true - all the odd comments you’d drop about Jack back in the beginning of summer. He knows you never hated Jack, but there was always a clear dislike, and you were never shy about voicing it to anyone willing to listen.

If you’re not talking about him at all, it means one of two things. You either give so little of a shit about him that you don’t see a use in bringing him up, or you don’t want to show vulnerability by admitting how much he hurt you.

He knows what he’d put his money on.

“Can’t you talk to her for me? Put a good word in?” He pleads, rounding his eyes in the hopes that Ellie’s pity extends to doing him a solid - he dedicated his entire summer to getting her and Jack together, after all.

“I think it’s best for the both of us if I stay out of her love life. My meddling is what got you guys into this mess in the first place.”

Luke sighs as he resumes his previous position, neck thrown against the back of the couch and eyes cast to the ceiling. 

Your room is right above - the bed on which you’d kissed him that first time, away from your scheming at the mall, still made and empty. The bed where you two would lay atop the covers, watching movies on the old staticky TV, sharing snacks between you and spouting commentary into the night.

He wonders, then, if you’d watched anything since the last time - before you left - and it’s that thought that has him pushing himself up and making his way up the stairs. 

Despite the amount of time since you were in here, it still kind of smells like you - like melon sunscreen and passionfruit perfume - and he casts a glance around for anything that might remain.

There’s nothing, though. No loose hair ties, forgotten jewellery, not even a book left behind.

And then he checks by the TV - the shelf below it housing a DVD player, and he powers it up just to press eject.

After a few seconds, a disc spins out.

Silver Linings Playbook, with Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence.

He might have seen it once or twice, can vaguely remember some of the storyline, but it isn’t until everybody has left the house a good hour or two later that he thinks he should watch it - if it’s the last movie you watched before you left - just to get an idea of your headspace. 

When he’s lounging on his own bed, the movie playing on his TV, Jennifer’s Tiffany saying to Bradley’s Pat, “I used to think that you were the best thing that ever happened to me, but now I think that you might maybe be the worst thing. And I'm sorry that I ever met you.” And it turns his stomach in a way he isn’t prepared for, tears pricking at his eyes at the thought of you watching this and thinking the same.

And then Pat responds, and Luke sits with the line for a good minute, pausing the movie as he ponders the response, "Good for you. Come on, let's go dance.” 

He wonders if you smiled the same way - soft and small, hopeful that one day the punches you throw to defend yourself are met with the same resistance, with a hand that grabs at them, and instead of fighting back, just pulls you closer.

It’s almost by instinct that he pulls his phone out, loading up the same app he always does when he’s watching a movie, ready to fill in a review when it gets to a part that resonates with him.

And there you are, on his friends feed - the last movie you logged being an hour ago, La La Land, which you had unsurprisingly given 5 stars, and had reviewed with just a quote - It’s pretty strange that we keep bumping into each other. Maybe it means something.

And he grins, really and genuinely beams, for what feels like the first time in a while, a small chuckle rumbling up from his chest as he checks for your review on Silver Linings - the same quote he loved so much sitting there under your 5 star rating. 

He doesn’t want to be nothing, he decides, then, like it was ever in question. 

And he realises it’s up to him to do something about it.

Luke’s first thought when it comes to fixing thing is to text you.

It’s simple, and it should be easy, but he sits staring at your name in his phone for 30 minutes trying to think of what would be best to say.

A casual, hey, in the hopes that you’d just instinctively type it back.

A call out, like, Bummed you couldn’t come over the other night, thinking you might have been feeling guilty.

A question, or even an invite, along the lines of, Do you want to meet somewhere? Because leaving someone hanging on an invite is just plain cruel.

But then he feels like he doesn’t want to force your hand - weirdly inspired by that La La Land quote you loved so much, about bumping into each other.

Only orchestrating a chance encounter was hard when you weren’t going out. Ellie had mentioned everybody going for drinks at one of the bars on campus, and you never turned up.

She told him your favourite coffee shop, and despite him hanging around all day one time, like a total creep, he didn’t catch sight of you once.

You weren’t with Ellie when he bumped into her at the mall, or at the diner, when he had gone for burgers with the guys and seen a few of your sorority sisters on the other side of the restaurant.

And even when Ellie had told him to come over to the house, that she’d take him into town to pick up some suits, because he was still in his sling and couldn’t drive himself, he had been disheartened to find out you wouldn’t be there - that you had a morning class, and Ellie hadn’t even seen you.

He settles for looking at the cute photo of you and Ellie on the mantle, greek letters painted on your cheeks, beaming smiles as you looked straight into the camera, and he still gets that twinge in his chest even looking at a photo.

A twinge that only grows when he hears a gasp from behind him, and he swiftly turns to see you at the bottom of the staircase, looking back at him, alarmed and surprised.

Luke’s eyes trail slowly up your bare legs, his throat going dry as they land on the oversized shirt you’re wearing - his shirt, he’s pretty sure, although he knows it’s probably best not to comment on that - before cutting up to your face, wide eyes staring back at him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, stepping back toward the staircase where you rest your hand on the bannister, putting as much distance between the two of you as you can without completely retreating up the stairs. 

“I uh-,” he stutters, losing his train of thought as he stands there with his mouth agape, taking you in.

He hadn’t been prepared to see you, that much is clear - and especially not like this, dressed in his shirt, which you’ve obviously slept in, hair a little messy, skin bare of any makeup. It reminds him of those mornings in his bed, waking up before the rest of the house, your body bathed in the soft glow from the rising sun, trading sleepy kisses until you would sneak back off to your room.

It makes him yearn for that, again, and feelings like that need some kind of forewarning, otherwise they serve nothing but to make him ache.

“I said I’d drive him to an appointment,” Ellie says as she emerges from the kitchen, car keys in hand, “I though everyone had class this morning, you’re not gonna hand me in for having a guy in the house, are you?”

“I’m not a snitch,” you frown, tugging at the ends of his shirt, “I slept in, I didn’t think anyone else was here either.”

He didn’t exactly need the confirmation, considering your current state, but knowing you slept in his shirt makes the heat creep up his neck, his chest puffing as he really takes in the meaning of it.

So many things about you are screaming that you want nothing to do with him, but you’re sleeping in his old Michigan shirt, one you’d borrowed when your shoulders were burning out on a wakeboarding trip one day, he’s pretty sure - one he never even realised you kept.

“Do you need a ride?” She offers, stepping beside Luke, close enough that in order to look at Ellie, you pretty much have to look his way too, and every time you glance at him, he catches you. “We were gonna go get a drink before, so we’re heading your way anyway. Or you could come with, if you’re skipping."

“Uh, no,” you decline, without even thinking about it, Luke’s chest feeling a little tighter at just how quick you are to avoid being near him. “I’m gonna go to the library.”

“I could still drive you. I doubt you’d mind a detour, would you, Lukey?”

“No,” he breathes out, almost immediately, eyes staying on you. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” you offer Ellie a tight lipped smile, “I’ll walk.”

And that’s that - your figure retreating back up the stairs before Luke has anything to say about it, his shoulders slumping as Ellie offers a friendly pat to his back.

“C’mon then, I need to stop for gas, you’re paying.”

He follows Ellie out to the back of the house, where the girls usually park their cars off the street, and just as he’s climbing into Ellie’s Mini, he glances up to the one of the windows, just in time to catch the quick shift of a curtain.

“Don’t worry,” Ellie says as he adjusts the passenger seat, folding his long legs into the limited space, an assured smile sent his way before she starts up the car. “I’ve got a plan.”

“What happened to no more meddling?” He huffs as he buckled himself in.

“I can’t sit back and watch my best friend become boring trying to avoid you, Luke,” she sighs, “It’s borderline painful.” 

—

You don’t know when managing your social life became Ellie’s full time job - as if the two of you aren’t tumbling into the depths of your final year of school with very little direction or guidance - but you’re growing tired of it, quick.

First, it had been, you’re coming to the bar and I’m not taking no for an answer, except, she had taken no for an answer, she just relished in making you feel bad for it after.

Then it had been, I need your opinion on halloween costumes, and she had insisted you join her at the mall, but you had an appointment with the careers counsellor that you really couldn’t miss, and she had to settle with sending you photos, again adding incessant messages about how she wouldn’t let you turn down the next invitation out.

Never mind trying to avoid bumping into Luke during his extended stay, avoiding Ellie was becoming a real task - slipping out before she can corner you in the mornings and staying out most of the day.

She caught you off guard, the other day, though - inviting Luke around. Sure, you were supposed to be in class - would have been, if your alarm had gone off on time - but still, bringing him into your space was like crossing a line, breaking an unspoken rule.

She’s supposed to be on your side. She isn’t supposed to be bringing the guy who hurt you into your house and driving him around town like his personal assistant, all from the good of her heart.

She’s just trying to kiss up to Jack.

At least, you thought so, until she sent you a text later that day - a bunch of pictures of Luke in different suits, tailored perfectly to his lean figure, shirts that stretched taut across his broad shoulders and pants that clung perfectly to his hips, followed by the message, thoughts?

You had many, but none that you could possibly sent to her - only replying with a question mark until she apologised, claiming they were meant for Jack’s approval.

It became clear then, what she was doing - flaunting him in front of you until you burst at the seams, like one of those jackets looked like it was going to do in a few of the pictures from the back of Luke in the tailor shop. Sending you those had been no accident.

And that’s why you were sceptical when the weekend rolled around, and she was begging and pleading for you to go with her to a party at the hockey house - promising you that he was finally heading back to Jersey, and definitely wasn’t going to be around.

She’d buttered you up with groans of, I feel like I never see you anymore, and, school is stressing me out, already, I just want to let loose with my best friend!

And it was the promise that she’d let you wear a skirt you’ve been eyeing in her closet for the past two years that sealed the deal - a vintage Diesel mini that she had thrifted and guarded like her whole life depended on it. 

You can’t help it, anyway - it’s been so long since you’ve been out like that - probably summer being the last time - and you need to let loose too.

And that’s how you end up walking hand in hand through the front door, Ellie having styled your hair, the two of you looking like a million dollars, and it’s the first time in months that you aren’t disturbed by the feeling of eyes on you.

You kind of feel like your old self - confident, self-assured, like there isn’t a soul on earth who could possibly make you doubt yourself.

You wish the universe gave you at least five minutes to sit with that feeling before you saw him. 

Before you saw Luke, sling-free, bottle in hand, leaning against the wall, talking to Victoria Anderson, a girl you know he has history with - a girl you have history with, yourself.

You hate how quick the switch within you flips - the slight slump of your posture, the tension in your jaw, all your self-worth seeping from your pores like your body is actively trying to kill it.

Your hand slips from Ellie’s, immediately heading in the opposite direction to where Luke is - making a bee-line straight for the kitchen, straight for a drink.

Ellie is hot on your heels, grasping at your arm to keep up, “I’m sorry,” she calls after you.

“You said he wouldn’t be here,” you grumble, shoving through the swinging door and heading straight for the line of bottles on the counter. 

“What am I, his keeper?” She scoffs, trying to play it off as a lighthearted joke, but you can see it in her eyes that she knew. “I don’t know where he’s gonna be at all hours of the day.”

“You said he was going back to Jersey.”

“Yeah, well, I must have got my days mixed up!”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, pouring out a shot from the first bottle you find without even reading the label, and throwing it back before you can think twice. You pour yourself a proper drink, after - a vodka with diet coke - and sip at it just to cool your nerves, trying to calm yourself down.

You don’t want to be mad at Ellie - whatever she’s doing, she’s doing it because she cares - but you’re so tired of overthinking this whole thing. All you want is a break from it all, and no one is willing to give you one.

“I’m gonna go find Ethan,” you tell her, figuring you can kill two birds with one stone - ask him about the class you missed the other morning, and avoid speaking to Luke, “If you want to make this up to me, I need you to tell Luke to steer clear, okay?”

“Fine,” she scowls, rolling her eyes as she has to pour her own drink.

You storm off back toward the door, and just as you get close, it swings open, the edge of it knocking straight into you - into the hand holding your freshly poured drink, which is now dripping down your front.

Your whole body tenses at the sensation of the liquid seeping through your shirt, only momentarily thankful that you hadn’t added ice before you remember the coke - remember the vintage skirt, with the light denim wash.

You hear Ellie groan from behind you, and you squeeze your eyes shut in the hopes that you’ll magically gain some sort of time travelling superpower - a rewind button, like Click.

“Are you okay?”

Of course it had to be him, you think - because you’ve somehow unsettled the entire balance of the universe, and this is how it’s decided to repay you, your eyes opening to find those concerned, grey-green eyes peering back at you. 

He takes the empty cup that’s being squished in your grip and tosses it into a trash can to the side before you feel a hesitant hand on your side, watching as he surveys the damage.

“And here I thought that skirt couldn’t get uglier.”

Victoria’s piercing blue eyes gleam back at you, a sinister smirk plastered on her lips, and you’re lunging before you even know it until a strong arm curls around your waist, the heat of his skin slipping straight into the gap between your skirt and t-shirt, and sending a shiver straight down the spine that’s now pressed to his front.

“Hey, c’mon,” he warns, pulling you back with enough force that there’s a good couple of feet between you and Victoria now, and her eyes narrow at all the points he’s touching you. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You think you only let him guide you away to piss her off - and it isn’t until he’s ushering you into the small downstairs bathroom and closing the door behind him that you realise how little consideration you put into that.

You watch as Luke retrieves a towel from the small cupboard by the door, forgetting he probably still knows this place like the back of his hand, and starts to work at the front of your t-shirt before you snatch it away.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” You snap, entirely frustrated with the whole situation than you think you are with him, a small swirling of guilt immediately bubbling up inside you. 

You dab at the skirt, first, hoping there’s some way that it’s salvageable, or Ellie’s going to murder you. You lean against the counter by the sink, and glance down at the damage. It looks just like a water stain, for now, unfortunately placed, but you won’t know for sure until it dries, and dabbing at it with a towel isn’t really going to fix that.

“Did she hurt your hand?” Luke asks, low voice breaking the silence you were starting to cherish, and it’s only then that you realise where the door hit you. Your knuckles ache a little, but you can still flex your fingers, so you figure they’ll just be bruised tomorrow.

You do wish you could have bruised them another way - maybe with a fist to Victoria Anderson’s smug grin - but you’re supposed to be a pacifist, so maybe not. If anyone’s going to break that pattern, it would be her - your rival in every way ever since you came to Michigan. Academically, in all the same classes, socially, in opposing sororities, and even romantically, with her somehow always looking out for the same guys.

She’d even been at one of the parties back at the lake house, with her hands all over Luke - you remember hearing her shrill laugh and feeling like someone had just drug their nails down a chalkboard, all semblance of peace instantly lost. 

You’re brought out of whatever fiery daydream even her name elicits with the touch of Luke’s fingers to yours, the soft brush of his thumb over your knuckles as he checks for any real damage.

“I’m fine,” you croak out, dazed a little by the feeling before you tear your hand away, “It was just a knock.”

“You want me to kick her ass?”

You blame the shot you took for the way you snort out a laugh - caught by surprise and unable to even consider the reaction, slipping straight back into your unguarded self around him - like the walls you’ve tried so hard to rebuild just dissolved. Not even a knock or a tumble of bricks, just them fading into nothing like magic.

Luke smiles back, soft and hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to fade away, too.

And then there’s that silence you thought you wanted - heavy and tense, and it’s too much for you to handle, so you slip past him, wordlessly, and head straight back to the door. 

And just as your fingers grasp at the handle and you prepare yourself to pull, a large hand lays flat on the surface beside you, trapped by a warm chest closing in on your back.

It’s quiet for a minute, the dull thump of the bass from the music somewhere else in the house now distant and fading, and the room feels charged way beyond the atmosphere of the party you’ve been away from a little too long.

You see the bend in his elbow before you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and you can feel the distance closing - an inch or two now, so close that you have to stay vigilant not to take even the slightest step back.

“Luke,” you breathe, your throat stinging in preparation for some sort of hurt, and your lip trembling until you start to chew on it.

“Just one more minute.”

“You have to let me go.”

“Please, I just want to talk.”

You turn, slowly,  and you don’t know why you do it to yourself, because it’s inevitable you’ll fall prey to the pleading look in his eyes. Your back falls against the door, and you’re craning your neck to look up at him, blinking slow as his eyes flicker between your own.

Every passing second feels like a minute, and just as you’re about to give in - to tell him to go ahead and talk, the door vibrates behind you, a fist banging into the other side.

“Please tell me the skirt is okay!”

You press a hand flat to his chest and push, wedging some much needed space between the two of you - enough that you can swing the door open and face Ellie, and save yourself from plunging into whatever rabbit hole that would have taken you down.

“I won’t know until it’s dry, but if it’s bad, we’ll take it to the cleaners, okay?”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, grabbing you by the hand and dragging you back to the kitchen for another drink, “I’m so running her ass over the next time I see her on the street.”

You look back at Luke, still stood in the doorway, watching the whole way until you disappear around the corner, and it’s only when you can’t see him anymore that your heart rate returns to an acceptable speed.

You successfully manage to avoid Luke for a good couple of hours, almost forgetting him, miraculously, despite being in a house filled with his closest friends. There’s even a point where you think he might have left, until you stumble out into the backyard to a group setting up a small fire to keep warm.

You’re too buzzed to comment on the legality of it, so far gone that the thought of campus police coming around barely even crosses your mind, and you throw yourself down into one of the camp chairs with a drink in hand as the group discuss how to pass the time.

You can’t remember who suggests Never Have I Ever, too distracted by the figure settling down on the opposite side of the fire, long limps stretching almost comically out of the small chair, meeting your eyes for a moment before you look away at the arrival of Nick, who comes with cards in hand. 

You’d usually make some sort of comment about how juvenile it is, but there’s this part of you that’s probably trying to cling a little to that, lately, so you let it pass, leaning almost sleepily back into your chair as it kicks off.

The game is pretty tame compared to other times you’ve played it, stuff like, never have I ever crashed a car, and, never have I ever broken a bone, coming from the top of the deck, and there’s only a few complaints about it needing more spice before it gets to Ellie’s turn to pick, a few people down from you. 

“Never have I ever,” Ellie drags out before picking a card, flipping between her manicured fingers and smiling slowly as she reads the rest, “Been in love,” she coos, turning it to show the rest of the group with a love-struck grin.

A chorus of groans sing out from around the circle, Luca reaching to swipe the card from Ellie as she takes a big chug from her red cup. “That’s so lame,” he huffs, “Pick another, this isn’t the Ellie show. We get it, you're happy, doesn't mean the rest of us should suffer.”

You glance down at your empty cup as the two of them start to argue about the rules of the game, Ellie grumbling how she didn’t write the cards, and Luca retorting with how she could have at least gone off-script to make it a little more interesting.

If you had any semblance of your inhibitions, any control of your reactions, your gaze would have stayed on the last few drops swirling around the base of your drink. Your eyes wouldn’t have trailed up slowly, past the dancing flames of the makeshift-campfire, and fallen onto another cup at the opposite side of the circle.

It wouldn’t have watched intently as long, slender fingers raised to bring said cup up, pressing to parted lips, the contents gulped down as you stare at the movement of his throat around the liquid.

When you dare to look higher, you find him already staring back at you, piercing green eyes burning hotter than the fire between you, and your own throat goes dry as you watch. 

And of course he makes a show of it, squaring his shoulders and swiping a thumb across his bottom lip to make sure there's no residue. No evidence of all that he had just admitted to. Nothing but the memory of it burned already into the back of your retinas, lingering like an ache all the way down your spine.

No one else seems to notice - but you suppose that’s just how things go between you and Luke. One more secret to add to the ever-growing pile.

Your hand trembles as if it wants to copy him, but you’re thankful for the last shred of dignity you have that tells you that even if you wanted to drink - even if you could play it off as assuming the question had been vetoed, and you were just quenching your thirst in the brief break in the game - there’s nothing left. Even if you wanted to drink - which you brain is so loudly telling you that you don’t - you can’t.

And when Luke’s gaze shifts, lowers painstakingly slow as everything else fades to background noise around the two of you, you don’t know why you find yourself tilting your cup when his eyes land on it, making a show of just how empty it is.

“You’re not gonna drink?” Ethan frowns from beside you, a nudge of his elbow knocking at yours and bringing you back down to earth with a painful splat.

Why would he assume that?

“What?” You ask, frowning as you meet his chocolate brown eyes, the reflection of the flames basking them in a warm, melting glow. 

“He said never have I ever been kicked out of a bar,” he chuckles, quirking a brow as your face morphs from one of confusion to one of recollection. “I know for a fact you have.”

“Oh, right,” you laugh, nervously, the reaction coming out more like a stuttered breath as the panic swirling in your chest dissipates just the slightest. “I’m running on empty. I’m gonna go get a refill.”

Ethan nods as he shuffles a little to let you out of the circle, watching with narrowed eyes as you lift yourself from the chair and edge your way out of the group and back towards the house.

The kitchen is thankfully empty when you get back inside, sliding the door shut behind you to block out the noise, your thoughts overbearing enough without still being able to hear everyone yelling out in the yard.

You move almost on autopilot, heading for the row of bottles on the counter and reaching straight for the vodka you’ve been mixing with diet coke all night.

You pour out a measured shot first, swirl it in the cup before lifting the it straight to your lips, leaving little room to think much more about it, and throwing your head back.

The liquid burns the whole way down - all the way from the back of your mouth, past your aching chest, and into the pit of your stomach, pooling there in a nauseating bubble of heat and regret - and you don’t know entirely if the need to drink was just to quench your thirst, to alleviate the warmth spiking up your neck, to quell the rampant beating of your heart, or to play along with the game. With Luke’s game.

Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved. 

He wasn’t in love with you.

You think you’d know. He would have told you - he’s hardly shy about voicing his opinion, you learned that the hard way. 

He’s just being cruel, now, you’ve convinced yourself - probably payback for earlier, for leaving him in the bathroom and telling him to let you go. One final act of defiance, because he has to have the last word.

God, why would you even play along?

You shouldn’t have even looked his way - should have kept your eyes down, then you wouldn’t still be feeling like your whole body is on fire. 

Your eyes dart up at the sound of the screen door opening, and your heart thuds in your chest at the sight of who walks through.

You hold your breath as he slowly makes his way toward you - cautious steps carrying him toward the counter where you stand, and he places his empty cup on the surface beside yours, 

“You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I don’t have to avoid you forever,” you shrug, circling around him and trying not to let him trap you again, “I just have to avoid you until you go home.”

“I don’t want to go home without us talking,” he grasps at your wrist before you can fully get past him, levelling you with a tired look, one that says he’s resigned to his fate, but he can’t rest until he tries one last time. “Please.”

“Luke,” you groan, the remnants of intoxication slowly fading into exhaustion. 

“Just one conversation.” He begs, “Then you can be done with me, I’ll leave you alone.”

Your lips twist as you try not to give under the weight of his softened, pleading gaze. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that - and he’s technically surpassed the efforts you had made back before you left the house toward the end of summer, now almost 3 weeks since you had turned him down back at the football game. 

And do you really want him to leave you alone? You’re not entirely sure. Maybe talking to him can help you finally figure that out. 

“Fine.” You acquiesce. “One conversation.”

“You want me to walk you home?” He asks, his voice soft and low, a tilt to his head that makes his curls shuffle and a caring glint in his eye that makes your legs feel like jelly. It’s probably for the best if he does, you think, you’re at a serious fall-risk now. Tired and buzzed, a lethal combination.

You nod, wordlessly, watching as he seemingly tries to fight a small smile, straightening up to swipe your cup, stacking it with his own and throwing it in the trash. 

“C’mon, I already gave Ellie a heads up, I’ll come back for her.”

You soften a little at the thought of him considering her - even if it isn’t about you. If it’s on Jack’s behalf, and he’s just being a good brother, him looking out for your best friend is still sweet.

You let him guide you out of the house, and it’s quiet in a way you can’t stand, walking side by side down the otherwise empty street.

“You’re out of your sling, then?” You don’t know why you feel better to make small talk - but waiting with bated breath for him to say what he’s been trying to for so long now makes your heart pound almost painfully against your ribcage. 

“Yeah,” he flexes his arm a little, as if to prove a point. “I’m back in Jersey at the end of the week, will probably be doing no contact training for a while.”

“How long until you’re playing again?”

“They’re saying it’s looking like November,” he tells you, “Which sucks, but at least I don’t need surgery like Jack.”

“Do you miss it?” You ask, conscious of the way your steps are slowly turning toward his and trying to straighten yourself up. “Being back in New Jersey with your team, with Jack?”

“Jack doesn’t give anybody a chance to miss him, you should know that by now.” He grumbles, "In my texts 24/7 like it’s his second job.”

“Ellie’s too,” you tell him in a breathy chuckle, crossing your arms over your torso just to keep your hands busy with something as he shoves his back in the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know where he finds the time,”

“He doesn’t need time, he’s annoying to his very core.” Luke scoffs, “I do miss the guys though, but there’s a couple group chats. And I’d probably miss the guys here if I was back there.”

“So either way you’re missing somebody?”

He gives an affirmative hum, kicking a rock down the side of the curb, figuring you don’t quite realise just how true that question rings to him. The sorority house is at the end of the path, now - closer than either of you really anticipated, and you almost start to panic, like the walls are closing in on you, like you’re running out of time.

“Listen-,”

“Look-,”

You both stop in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at each other wide eyed until you press your lips together, and gesture for him to carry on.

“I miss you,” he says, plain and simple, like it’s all he can muster up - and if you’re honest, it’s all you want to hear, an acknowledgement that without you in his life, there’s this gaping hole that no one else can fill. “I know that if I want to fix things between us, that I should give you this huge speech about how much I fucked things up, and that I should have trusted you, and listened to you when you tried to talk to me, and I do think all those things. I know those things, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to say them without it sounding like some bullshit excuse, and I figure I just need to be honest with you.

“I feel like the whole time we were together, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know, like I could never just be in the moment with you because I felt like it was gonna end. And I think maybe you were doing the same.”

It’s crazy, you think, how well he knows you.

“And neither of us were ever gonna be ready to be anything more, because we weren’t even acknowledging that this thing between us probably wasn’t healthy.”

You’re quite thankful for the sting in the back of your throat, because you don’t know what you’d say to that, if you could speak.

It hurts to hear it, but he’s right. 

“I just wanted to believe it was a good thing for as long as you’d let me, and when you said you’d have dated Cole, and that you’d have thrown it all away, and I just left without a fight, I-,” he blinks, like he’s trying to rid himself of the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, like he doesn’t want to give in and let them shed. “I don’t know, I thought it was best to avoid you all together than watch you put that final nail in the coffin, or whatever.”

“You know I never went out with Cole, right?”

“I know. He told me before he left for training camp. The day you left. Almost considered running after you to apologise for being such a dick. Even thought about flagging you down in departures at Wayne County.”

You let that thought sit for a moment - Luke chasing you down like something out of one of the romantic comedies you would watch together - like the angsty movies you watched after you went home, laying on your bed and wishing the two of you could have had a happy ending. 

“Probably for the best you didn’t chase me through the airport,” you tell him with a wistful smile, “declarations of love freak me out,”

“I thought they might.” He chuckles, breathily, his heart not entirely in it.

“I also took the greyhound.”

“You know serial killers get those things, right.”

“You watch too many movies.”

His eyes flicker to yours, then, knowing and amused - like a new inside joke has cemented itself into your dynamic. 

“I don’t want to be nothing with you.”

It’s a weird statement, almost nonsensical, but you get it.

It’s what you’ve been trying for ever since you left Michigan, after all, and especially after you returned.

You let the thought settle for a moment, your lips twisting and your eyes tearing up as you watch him wait for a response.

“You really hurt me, Luke.” Your voice trembles as you say it, and you think you’re only part spurred on by liquid courage, the rest of it probably the incessant need to open up to somebody.

“I know,” he practically whispers back, choked up as much as you are. 

“I don’t think I can do that again.”

He nods, pressing his tongue to the side of his cheek like he’s trying not to press you on it, stepping back ever so slightly and huffing out a deep breath.

You almost think he might retreat, entirely - accepting your reluctance this final time and letting you go, just like you’d asked, earlier.

“What about if it’s not,” he shakes his head, sighing as he tries to think of the best way to say it, “What if it’s not romantic, between us?”

“You really think we could be friends?”

“You don’t?” He asks, wincing a little like the thought of anything else is painful.

“We’re hardly gonna see each other,” you tell him, “Is there really any point in keeping it up?”

“I’d like to try.”

You don’t know what concept hurts you the most, the thought of trying and failing, or not trying at all. Either way, you lose him.

You wish, for a moment, you were in any way good at math - that you could work out the statistic for the other option, the one where it actually works.

The option where neither of you get hurt, and you get to keep him.

You imagine that it’s slim.

“I don’t know, Luke,” you sigh, unable to shake the heaviness of your doubt, “It feels like we’re just stretching out the inevitable, here.”

“I don’t think so,” he fights back, taking that step forward that he just took back, “Just friends, it doesn’t have to be anything more than that. Hell, if you want to build up to friends, I’ll take that, too. Just not nothing. I miss you too much to be nothing.”

You miss him, too. You missed him the past 3 weeks while he’s been in town, and the two of you have somehow managed to avoid seeing each other for the most part. You missed him for the month you were back at your mom’s house. You missed him those ten days over in the lake house, when he was still technically right in front of you the whole time.

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah!” He nods, eagerly, the slight etching of a smile spreading across his lips. “Yes, you can think about it.”

You nod back, then, hesitant and before you can do something stupid, like wrap your arms around him as a goodbye, you step away.

You bid him goodnight, offering a thank you for walking you home, and you retreat into the safety of the house, watching through the window by the front door until he disappears back down the street. 

The start of your semester passes in a chaotic blur, and you very quickly, and very frantically, find yourself panicking a little about the what’s-next of it all.

With the last few months of your headspace occupied entirely by a certain brunette, you realise quickly that you really need to knuckle down and figure out what you’re going to do with yourself once school is over.

And that’s what brings you to New York City in the middle of October - one of your very few prospects for the aftermath of your college career discussed over iced teas in Midtown, Manhattan, before you’re crossing state lines through the Holland Tunnel and scrambling to get ready in the hotel room you and Ellie had booked.

You don’t know how you managed to hide all of your efforts behind a veil of secrecy, but Ellie had been all too distracted by you agreeing to accompany her to Jack’s team halloween party in Jersey City, and so she had little brain power left to question where you disappeared off to, or why you’d possibly have any sort of appointment anywhere near here as soon as you told her she could pick up a costume for you.

You should have known it would be something ridiculous, evidenced by the poofy yellow dress and cartoonish crown she had left on your bed for you to change into. 

When you emerge from the bathroom, fully dressed, she’s stood in her Princess Peach costume - the colour palette a lot more complementary to her than the yellow is to you, but you can hardly fight her on it now - especially knowing Jack is out there somewhere dressed as Mario.

You don’t know how it slips your mind that he and Luke play for the same team, or that they’re brothers, or that he could possibly at the same party, dressed as Luigi. Not until you and Ellie are walking into the party a little after it starts, and you meet his eye for the first time in a couple of weeks, your mouth falling agape as you realise just what Ellie has done.

You don’t even have a second to call her out before she’s prancing off to some far side of the room with Jack, all over him after their own extended time apart, and you literally have no option but to sidle up to Luke, tail between your legs, cringing at the entire situation as you stand beside him in a room full of his peers after you had only just shut him down not long ago.

Thankfully, it’s Luke - and he would rather choke than make you feel uncomfortable about it.

He offers an easy smile, amused, even, as he greets you from the tall table he’s occupying, handing you the beer he just opened for himself and reaching for another from the table behind him. 

“I don’t even know why I agreed to come with them, I knew they’d just split and make out in the corner,” you roll your eyes, taking a swig from the bottle and grimacing a little at the taste. “I don’t even know anybody.”

“You know me,” he shrugs, “I don’t mind keeping you company.”

“Yeah right,” you scoff, “You literally just came back, the last thing you need is to be lumped in a corner with me all night when you’ve hardly seen your teammates for months. I’m just gonna duck out in a little bit, no one will care.”

“I’ll care,” he chuckles lightheartedly, the ease in which the statement slips out and the certainty in which you feel it sends a slight shiver down your spine. “I’ve been back in training for a week, trust me, I’ve already had enough.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the convincing look he’s giving you - head titled, a lopsided smile and eyes filled with hope.

It was only just under two weeks ago that you told him you didn’t want to be friends, so you can’t really understand why he’s so intent on you sticking around. He should be personally ordering you an Uber back to your hotel and pushing you out of the door, but he’s giving you this pleading pout now that’s making you think his night would fall to pieces if you left so soon.

The thing is, you’re not that great around people you don’t know, not lately, anyway - especially not when those people are all big, bulky high performance athletes (and Jack) and their drop dead gorgeous partners. You feel like an intruder, like you don’t belong, and you can’t imagine anything happening to change your mind.

“I still feel like such an outsider at these things,” Luke huffs, elbows resting on the tall table in front of you, his body leaning onto it in the absence of any stools nearby until he’s more around your height. “This is the first time Jack’s brought anybody with him so I can’t exactly stick to his side like normal.”

You frown.

Is he serious?

Luke has never been the type to stick to his brother’s side - not from what you’ve seen, anyway, and you’d pretty much spent your entire summer observing the guy - you’re way past the point of trying to deny that, now.

“Isn’t that Seamus over there?” You point to the opposite side of the room, where you’re pretty sure you recognise another of yours and Luke’s previous classmates. “Aren’t you two friends?”

“We got into a pretty heated discussion during Thursday Night Football the other night, we’re on a break.”

You almost forgot how quick Luke can be, the slight quiver in the corner of his mouth giving away his attempts at deception, but you’re hardly in any position to call him out on it.

He’s trying to do you a favour, after all.

“In fact, I need you to stay for my protection. He might be out for my neck, you can’t let me die in a Luigi costume, that would be cruel.”

You snort as you take him in in his entirety, from the ridiculous hat, to the stretched out one-piece outfit topped off with a pair of white sneakers.

“Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to have a moustache?”

“It’s in my pocket, didn’t want to make Jack feel bad, ‘cause he can’t grow one and all,” he mutters, reaching into the front of the outfit to retrieve the stick-on prop, the back still taped up and in-tact. 

“Right,” you scoff, taking it from his hand and peeling the tape, “Jack can’t grow facial hair.”

You reach forward and press it to his upper lip, holding it in place until it sticks, careful not to actually touch his mouth in the process.

“I can grow it,” he rolls his eyes, “I just don’t suit it.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug as you pull back, admiring the results and trying not to laugh, “I’d say you suit it just fine.”

You reach into the pocket of your own dress to retrieve your phone, and snap a picture just to show him, pressing your lips together as you see his eyes widen in horror.

“Delete that,” he huffs, and you just about manage to stop him before he rips the thing off.

“No,” you whine, “Keep it on, it’s funny!”

“I don’t want to look funny, I want to look cool and hot.” He huffs, frowning when he seemingly realises how ridiculous that sounds.

“Halloween costumes aren’t supposed to be hot.”

“Easy for you to say, Princess,” he gestures down to your dress, and you once again have a visceral reaction to how natural it is for him to say things like that. You feel your ears going warm, and you break eye contact just so that he doesn’t see straight through you.

“I meant to say, sorry about this,” you gesture down, too, all of a sudden feeling every fibre of the costume that’s covering your skin, “I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots sooner when Ellie said she and Jack were doing Mario and Peach. She just said she’d get me a costume, I didn’t think that we’d be-,”

“A couple?” 

“Yeah.”

“It’s no big deal,” Luke shrugs, sipping at his drink with a nonchalant frown. “S’just a costume. Besides, what else could you have been? I don’t think they sell sexy Goomba outfits.”

“Please,” you scoff, swatting lightly at the blue overalls stretched across his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, if anything, I’d be sexy Toad.”

“Hmm,” he considers, with a long glance down your figure. “That might have actually worked.”

You feel the heat creep back up your neck before you can regulate yourself, not concealed at all by the sweetheart neckline of your dress, or the way Luke’s eye linger on any exposed bit of skin.

You press your lips together and divert your attention to Jack and Ellie in the corner, feeling every extended inch of Luke’s presence beside you, your heart thumping at the mere proximity of him, and you start to chew on your bottom lip. 

“Can’t believe we tried so hard to get them together,” you mumble, watching as they start to kiss, “They’re disgusting.”

“Absolutely revolting,” he agrees, “We were out of our minds all summer.”

You know he’s referring to the scheme you two kept up, you’re the one who even brought the topic into conversation, but you can’t help the instinctive way your chest starts to ache again at the mere mention of summer.

The two of you had talked about this, back in Ann Arbor, before he had come back to Jersey. You’re supposed to be over it, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You swallow thickly before reaching for your drink and chugging down the contents, avoiding his gaze as he watches you.

The thought of leaving crosses your mind again, but there’s a larger part of you that has missed this - missed him, maybe - a little too much, and those weeks back in Michigan last month had only served to weaken your resolve.

Keeping your distance had been a giant failure from the second you started to attempt it, and Luke is persistent - that much has always been obvious - so denying him any sort of contact is just pointless, now.

You had thought, back when he had dropped you off at the house the other week, that turning down his offer of friendship had been the right thing to do. You’d told him you would think about it, but it was always going to end up in rejection.

He’s in Jersey, you’re in Michigan. He has a really hectic schedule and career, and you’re supposed to be putting your head down and studying for your final year.

He broke your heart, and you broke his right back.

But you realise that you were naive to think that your paths would hardly cross.

Your best friend is dating his brother. You have so many mutual friends that you can hardly avoid him when he’s back in town. And beyond all that, you miss the versions of the two of you that just got on - before it all got messy in the summer. 

The banter, the inside jokes, the deep understanding of how each other worked.

And you had regretted it since - turning his offer down. 

Bringing it back up again is daunting, though. Opening yourself up to him, to say that you’d been thinking about him this whole time, and feel a deep, ever growing pit in your stomach now at the thought of being nothing, just like he had said he felt.

“Listen,” you start, with all intentions of figuring it out as you go along, only now feeling a serious urge to fix things, somehow, before you go back home, tomorrow, “I-,”

“Hold on, I gotta introduce you to someone. Hey, Pesce,” he calls out to his ever so-slightly taller teammate as he passes nearby, waving him to stop by the table the two of you are at before he walks away. He introduces you both by name, and you don’t miss the silent interaction between the two of them as he does, wide eyes and wiggling brows, a telepathic taunt from Brett and a wordless warning from Luke. “She’s my friend from back in Michigan, and he’s been my rehab buddy.”

You allow yourself to be distracted by that - not Ellie’s friend. His. Not a plus one of a plus one, or an outsider hovering around the edges of a private party. Someone he wants his teammates to know.

You like it more than you ever thought you would.

You feel your lips turning up into a natural smile, and a weight lifting off your shoulders - 7 words erasing the need for an entire conversation, already.

You probably could have told him to go fuck himself and that you hated his guts back on the street outside your sorority, and he’d still be out here calling you his friend.

Persistent.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Brett, reaching out to shake his hand, matching his firm grip and meeting his steely gaze. 

“You too,” he smiles back, “I’ve heard-,”

“Lukey! Finally got a girl to notice you, huh?”

Another of Luke’s teammates approaches the table, and the absolute comedy of being introduced to a bunch of people in ridiculous costumes isn’t lost on you as he comes closer, a gigantic, teasing smirk almost overshadowed by a glaring red headpiece he wears.

“Nice to see ya, Curtis,” you watch as Luke embraces his other teammate, a wry, crooked grin on his face as he rolls his eyes fondly, and you try to ignore the weight of Brett’s discerning gaze on you. When he introduces you this time, Curtis shows no sign of recognition at your name, offering you a kind smile and extending his hand for you to shake. 

“Not talking your head off, is he? We’ve tried to train it out of him, but he’s a stubborn thing,” he chuckles, ruffling Luke’s hair like he’s petting an excitable puppy. 

“I’m used to it by now,” you shrug back, smiling when Luke scoffs, returning to your side.

“Nice costume,” Curtis looks Luke up and down, and it’s like you can see him trying to formulate a joke in his head, your lips twisting as you notice Luke anticipating the same, watching with a raised brow and a bored roll of his eyes. “That might be the closest we ever come to seeing you with facial hair.”

“Big talk coming from a dude dressed as shrimp.”

“I’m obviously a lobster, Luke.” 

“Obviously,” Luke mimics back like a child, his face sour and his lips pouted as his older teammate just laughs in his face. 

“C’mon, man,” Brett claps a hand on Curtis’ back, “Enough bruising the kid’s ego, you owe me a drink, remember?”

He knocks his free fist against Luke’s as he passes, offering you a wink and a nice to meet you before he’s guiding Curtis over to the bar and leaving the two of you alone, once more. 

“Sorry about them,” Luke mutters, “I could save them both from a burning building and they’d still treat me like their annoying baby brother.”

“It’s cute,” you shrug, sipping at your drink and catching his eye as they narrow toward you, clearly taking further offence at your choice of adjective. “They do it ‘cause they love you, Luke, it’s sweet.”

You try not to react to what you’ve just said - try not to think of that sentiment in the context of your own interactions with Luke, lightheartedly poking fun at him just to get a reaction because he can be so gut-wrenchingly adorable. 

It’s not the same.

But you can tell he’s thinking it too, looking at you with eyes that see straight through you, and a tilt to his head that’s almost mocking. 

“I uhm,” he sighs, stepping back a little closer to you and leaning down on the table so that he has to look up to meet your eye, “I told Pesch about you. About us.”

You blink back at him, waiting for him to say more - not really knowing how to respond, because you kind of had a feeling anyway. Brett has the worst poker face you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“It’s just been me and him training together, and we were getting to know each other, and you know how it is, he asked me about how I spent my summer, and about girls, and there’s just you for both, so it sorta just came out. Plus, I kinda felt like I had to talk about it with someone or I was gonna go crazy.” 

You look down, giving a slight nod of understanding - because you do get it. 

Also, the confirmation of something you’ve been wondering is kind of a relief. He hadn’t started anything with anyone else after you left, or back in Michigan, when you were making everything so hard on him.

There’s just him for you, too.

And it’s really hard, having one person consume your thoughts in such a way when you have no outlet to properly talk it through with anyone.

You never felt like you could talk to Ellie about any of it, and having all these feelings fizzing up inside you for so long is starting to make you feel like a volcano on the brink of eruption. 

Luke had done the sensible thing, finding an unaffiliated third party and seeking advice from someone with no bias. No scathing comments from his brothers, judgement from any of the guys back in Michigan or pitiful looks from your best friend.

“I didn’t say anything bad,” he assures you, “Not that there is anything bad, I promise I don’t think poorly of you or anything, and I wouldn’t go around telling random people if I did, especially not my teammates, I don’t want you to think-,”

“Luke, it’s fine,” you place a hand on his forearm, his eyes snapping up to meet yours at the slightest touch, wide and alarmed, like he feels like he’s digging himself into a hole. “I get it. Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna go crazy, too.”

“You do?” He frowns, like that was the last thing he expected you to say. 

You had told him you were hurt, so it can’t come as that much of a surprise that you feel some type of way about everything that went down between the two of you.

You’re not that heartless.

“What did you say to him?” You ask, hoping to engage with his incessant need to talk, rather than any attempt to eke information out of you. “About us?”

“Just that I didn’t like how we left things,” he tells you as you lean beside him, “It’s hard, not knowing where we stand, or what it’s gonna be like when I see you again. I still get the urge all the time to text you, even about stupid things. Someone was telling me about this Matthew McConaughey movie the other day, and I thought of you. Wanted to ask if you’d seen it.”

“It’s probably safe to assume I’ve seen all the Matthew McConaughey films. Even the bad ones.”

“It wasn’t on your Letterboxd.”

You swat at his bicep, your lips turning slowly into a grin as you can’t help but laugh at how little he cares about hiding his intentions.

You’d caught onto him monitoring your account somewhere between him coincidentally watching Notting Hill a couple days after you did while he was back in Michigan, the five star rating he gave to Call Me By Your Name, and him somehow knowing all the most obscure but gut-wrenching quotes from all the movies that really tore your heart out - writing them in his reviews like he was talking to you in some secret language that only the two of you spoke.

I think I’d miss you even if we never met, from The Wedding Date. 

I’ll do anything to make you happy. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, from Past Lives.

There will be a piece of you in me always, from Her.

All movies you had listed after going home from the lake house - had laid in bed with teary eyes and trembling lips for the most part, and associated all those same quotes with him, too. And even without you putting them in your own reviews, he just knew every time which part of the movie made you think of your relationship.

You’d even tried baiting him out with Barbie, the other week, snorting to yourself despite your heartache when you imagined him seriously typing out, I only exist within the warmth of your gaze, without it, I'm just a little blonde guy who can't do flips, and hoping you would see it.

If anyone else had done it, it would probably have been corny. You’d have blocked them, the level of perception and lowkey invasion of privacy making your skin crawl - but Luke seeing you was different. Him being on the same wavelength - feeling the same feelings, thinking the same thoughts - was something you couldn’t ignore. 

“You’re not supposed to admit to cyber stalking me, you idiot.”

“What?” He chuckles, rubbing at his arm, “I missed watching movies with you.”

He shrugs at that like it’s nothing, but you can feel your cheeks go warm even if his don’t. You missed watching movies with him too - missed the long stretch of his legs far surpassing yours on top of the sheets, and the way he’d hold out candy for you to get some every few minutes. 

“Plus, you were stalking me, too. Why else would you be watching The Mighty Ducks on a Saturday night?” 

“I thought it might teach me about hockey.” You frown, although you’d been all too caught up with just how cute those movies were. You still know very little about the sport, but you can still appreciate the charm of a young Joshua Jackson.

Luke smiles, lopsided and gentle, but you know by now that’s his version of cocky - the kind of smile that shows you that something you’ve said has scratched at his ego, and he’s banking it somewhere in the back of his head.

“I can teach you,” he says, his voice an octave lower as he leans in - and you know he isn’t doing it on purpose, but it makes the hairs on the back of your arms raise, how he almost purrs over to you. “Can give you a crash course if you want?”

“Now?”

“Nah,” he sips at his drink, “Another time. Need an excuse to text you remember?”

“You can text me whenever,” you tell him, chewing at the corner of your bottom lip as he smirks at you, “Just so you know.”

You don’t tell him that you’ve been waiting for him to do it, anyway.

That for those first few days after he finally left Michigan, every buzz of your phone had your heart rate doubling. 

The first instant you had started to regret your decision, you had been hoping he would still try to change your mind.

You don’t tell him you started following a random team update account for news on how he was getting on with his injury, because he wasn’t letting you know, himself, or that you once spent an hour reporting people trolling him or talking smack in the comments just for something to do.

“What about FaceTime?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

To say you were planning on leaving as soon as you had arrived, you enjoyed yourself way more than you thought you would with Luke and his teammates - in fact, you’d probably go as far as to say it’s one of the best nights you’ve had since the summer.

Luke had introduced you to pretty much everybody, flitting around the room and making the rounds, and it had been nice to see how normal and nice everybody was - instantly making you felt like you belonged, to the point where you figured out that Luke had only said all that stuff about feeling like an outsider because he knew that was how you felt, knew it would tug at your heartstrings and make you stay.

You know from how close he is with the guys back in Michigan that Luke loves his teammates, but seeing it in action for the first time had been sweet. Seeing the other guys ruffling at his hair, play fighting, throwing their arms around him and indulging him in his corny jokes kind of made you feel less tense about the way you’re so instinctively affectionate with him. 

Even after what had happened toward the end of summer, and swearing off any sort of romantic connection since, you still want to touch him, still want to be near him, and while you don’t think his teammates exactly have those same thoughts, it makes you feel a little more normal, how much they all love him. Makes you feel less like you should be wedging all this distance between the two of you - because if they all love him like this, then why can’t you?

You don’t even realise that Ellie and Jack have long snuck off until you get a text to say not to come back to the hotel, and that Jack’s bed is freshly clean for you to sleep in. The thought of it is gross, but you figure that two athletes will have a comfy couch, so you’re not all that bothered in the end.

Plus, it gives you more time with Luke - to have a proper conversation, to figure things out. So, when it’s time to leave, and he ushers you out of the bar with a hand on the small of your back, you let him cross the boundaries of being nothing, and lean into his touch until you’re out in the cold, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Put this on,” he demands, throwing it to you and watching as you catch it with a clumsy grip, “We’re walking.”

“Walking?” You ask, stumbling to catch up with him as he starts to make his way down the street, his long strides making it incredibly difficult, especially in the stupid costume heels you’re wearing. You ease into his jacket as you move, shaking your arms until your fingers just about peak out of the ends, and relishing the warmth that encapsulates your body.

“Yeah, it’s 10 minutes. I know that sounds like a lifetime in campus terms, but I’m assuming you still know how to walk.”

You scoff as you pretty much jog to keep up, taking rushed, small steps until you just about make it to his side. “I don’t have a car, remember, I walk everywhere. I just assumed we’d be getting an Uber or something."

“S’good for you,” he shrugs, “Clears the mind. And it’s only a few blocks back to the apartment. I can show you all the best breakfast spots for you and Ellie to visit before you leave tomorrow.”

“But it’s dark out.”

“What, you’re scared of the dark, now?” He looks down at you from the corner of his eye, his height advantage meaning you can so clearly see the amused way in which his mouth curves up on the side closest to you. 

“I’m scared of being abducted in a back alley and brutally murdered so that my organs can be sold on the black market.”

“That happens more on the other side of the river,” he hooks a thumb in the general direction of what you assume is the Hudson, but it could be anywhere for all you know. This is your first time in New Jersey, and your brief expedition into Manhattan in the morning had done very little to clue you in on the lay of the land.

“Murder is an international issue, Luke, I don’t think they draw the line at what state they do it in, look it up.”

“You watch too much TV,” he chuckles, “Who’s gonna mess with you when I’m around? Look at me,” he gestures down to his ridiculous costume, “I’m the picture of intimidation. You don’t think I’d protect you from the black market organ thieves?”

“You’re dressed like an Italian plumber, you dork, and you’ve got arms like toothpicks, they’d probably kill you first just for fun.” You retort, grabbing at his arm to bring him back to your pace. You almost can’t believe that in the brief expanse of one evening, you could possibly have returned to this level of comfort, but you’re trying not to think too hard about it - especially with a mind partially loosened up by a couple of drinks. “Could you at least slow down? Your legs are like twice the length of mine.”

“Aw,” he pouts, “Do you want me to carry you?”

“Don’t joke, I’d pay good money for a piggy back right now.”

“Shame I’ve got such toothpick arms then, isn’t it?” he fakes an exaggerated smile, and you narrow your eyes until he drops it.

You huff as he carries on, thankful at the slightly slower pace he seems to have adopted, and the way his chin keeps jutting in your direction to check on how well you’re keeping up.

“What about a fireman’s carry?” You suggest, looking up at him with pleading eyes and pouted lips.

“The best you’ll get is me giving you my gloves to wear as socks and I’ll carry your shoes for you.”

“And if I step on glass, cut into a vein and bleed out?”

“I suppose then I’d carry you.”

This feels familiar.

Feels comfortable and right, and when you look back on those nights in September when you had seen him - at the football game, in the living room back at the sorority, and the party at the hockey house, this is what you’d felt like you had been missing.

It doesn’t have to be awkward, or charged, or tense between the two of you. 

Maybe it can be like this again.

Like it was in the beginning, before everything got messed up.

“I meant to ask earlier,” he nudges at you with his elbow, “Ellie said you had an appointment over in Midtown,”

“You’re such a stalker,” you snort, shaking your head with a wry smile as you glance over at him, “Literally the snoopiest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Snoopiest?” He scoffs, “It’s called curiosity. I can’t wonder what my friend did with their day, now? I’m snoopy?”

“There’s a masters programme at NYU,” your eyes dart down to the floor as you start to tell him, figuring that you’ll feel less nervous if it just feels like you’re speaking in general, instead of confiding in him. There’s also a part of you spurred on by his immediate adoption of you being his friend - still reeling from the ease in which he had been introducing you as such to everyone all night. Opening up to him is just as easy, and now that you’re embracing the dynamic, it’s like the pieces that form all the resistance within you are shifting out of place, creating a bunch of cracks for him to seep straight into. “One of my sorority sisters has a cousin who’s in her final year, she set up a meeting so that I could talk about my application.”

“You’re applying to NYU?” He asks, quickening his step until he is a little ahead of you, turning on his feet until he’s walking backwards, giving you no chance of ignoring his presence anymore. 

“I’m thinking about it,” you shrug, “It isn’t a done deal, so don’t tell anybody.”

“I can keep a secret,” he promises, and that same ache starts to form in your chest again, at just how well you know that to be true.

“Plus, it’s a long-shot, so even if I did apply, I probably wouldn’t get in, and I don’t want to get Ellie’s hopes up that I’ll be sticking around.”

You have a job lined up elsewhere already for when you graduate - an entry level role in a PR agency over in Chicago, close to home, close to your mom - but the more you’re considering it, the less sure you are. The job would be pretty much you getting taken advantage of for being a recent graduate, and furthering your education could help secure something bigger and better. But throwing away a sure thing seems stupid, and you don’t really want to do so if you don’t have something else secured.  

“Getting into the NHL is a long shot, and you’ve just spent the night in a room full of people who made it happen,” Luke tells you, ducking his head a little lower until you look him in the eye, “Don’t underestimate yourself, you’re really smart, you’ll get in if you do end up applying.”

The way he says it is so sure - so different to anybody else, who you feel like is just saying it to make you feel better. Luke believes it, you can see it in the way he looks at you, confident and certain of your abilities more than you’ve ever been in yourself.

“I don’t think you can call you getting into the NHL a long shot, unfortunately,” you tell him, your lips twisting in the corner as you bite back a smile when he starts to frown. 

“Not you too with the nepotism stuff,” he scoffs, only partially feigning offence.

You swat at his chest, “Hey, I’d never,” you gasp, “I meant ‘cause you’re so talented.”

“I bet you did,” he snorts, falling back into step beside you, a little closer this time, your elbows knocking as you continue to walk. “Haven’t even played yet this season, what would you know about my talent?”

You think it’s the way he’s leaning in a little that seems to hypnotise you, rendering you a speechless, practically-spluttering mess as you struggle to form words or a single, coherent thought. You wonder if this is how he felt, all those times when you turned on the charm and innuendo and purposely tried to push his buttons. Defenceless and weak. 

“I’ll tell you what I do have a talent for,” he straightens up a little, increasing the space between you so that you feel like you can at least breathe again. “Important old man voice. If you ever need to put someone down as a phoney reference.”

“I’ll bare that in mind when the NYU admissions board loosens their policy on Kevin McAllister level schemes, thanks,” you chuckle, your smile lingering when he returns it, cheeks folding into a lopsided grin. 

“Hey, give a guy some credit, there’s a little Ferris Bueller in there too.”

“Yeah, ‘cause schools love Ferris Bueller types.” You scoff, “You’re such an idiot.”

You glance over to see him pretty much beaming in response, and, if you were a betting person, you’d put all your money on knowing his exact train of thought.

You have a tell, after all, you remember, for when you’re enjoying yourself more than you think you should be.

Walking back to his apartment gives the two of you a little time to properly catch up - away from tense conversations and teary admissions - he tells you about his training, you tell him about school, and it feels like seconds pass before he’s ushering you into his building with that same guided hand on your lower back, the heat of his touch felt even through his jacket, and into the elevator. 

You stand by his side as it slowly ascends, hands buried in the warmth of his jacket pockets and ever so often meeting his eye in the reflection of mirrored doors before you glance away with a flush to your cheeks.

Every time you look back, he’s smiling a little, soft and small, but sure of himself in a way that makes all those hardened parts of you melt a little inside. 

There’s something different about him that you can’t quite put your finger on - something in the way he carries himself, around his teammates, around you, even just in general - like he stands taller, somehow. Like here in Jersey, he makes a point to hold himself up a little more, and it makes you cherish the version of him you had, those months ago - vulnerable and raw.

You hadn’t appreciated at the time, just how much of himself he gave to you - all the little quirks and insights you got to see - but you appreciate them, now. 

“I had fun tonight,” you tell him, smiling instinctively when he meets your eye, “Thanks for not letting me leave.”

“Thanks for not leaving,” he chuckles, the doors opening in front of you and that hand going straight to your back again until he’s guiding you towards his apartment. “It’s been nice just talking to you again, I missed it.”

“Me too,” you admit, because there’s really no use in keeping it bottled up when he’s so freely opening himself up to you. He so easily tells you that he misses you, and wants to speak to you, and it enjoys your company, so you not doing the same only feels like you’re doing yourself a disservice - especially when admitting as much back to him earns you one of those cute, crooked smiles he’s so good at giving. 

He holds open the door for you and you have to brush past him to go in, but your hesitance to touch has long dissipated throughout the night, so you don’t entirely mind when he follows you straight in, and you can feel the heat of his presence.

“Are you wanting to go straight to bed?” He asks, hand on your waist as he passes you and heads for the kitchen, flicking on the lights under the cabinets and getting two glasses down from one of the cupboards.

“I probably should,” you huff, despite wanting to stretch this out with Luke - your mind going back to I miss watching movies with you, and considering flopping down onto the couch and putting something on, for old time’s sake. “Is your couch comfy? I don’t really want to sleep in Jack’s bed.”

“You can sleep in mine,” he offers, before he even has a second to consider it.

“Oh, I don’t know-,”

“I’ll go in Jack’s, it’s fine,” he nods down the hall, gesturing you to follow as he carries two glasses of water, knocking the handle to the room on the left until the door opens and letting you go in first. 

The sheets are the same as on his bed back at the lake house, and it’s the first thing that takes you aback, a familiar grey-blue comforter that you already feel the softness of from across the room, and a cream throw haphazardly thrown across the top. 

You can tell the sheets aren’t entirely fresh - slightly crumpled, and not-very-neatly made, pillows askew - but if you’re sleeping in Luke’s bed, weirdly enough, you would probably prefer it that way.

“Sorry, I should have tidied up a little,” he chuckles nervously as he passes you to place a glass down on the nightstand. 

“It’s fine,” you shrug, stepping forward just to fall down onto his bed - the mattress plush enough that you already feel yourself sinking into it, tension easing away from your muscles. 

You’re kind of glad you kept an eye on him, watching his gaze shift to the way your dress now rides up on your thighs, and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly before looking away.

“I’ll just get something to change into then I’ll get outta your hair,” he mumbles, trying to busy himself with something else as a distraction. Just before he can pass you to his closet, you reach out to grab at his wrist, and it’s almost like muscle memory is forcing you to do so - something within you not allowing him to get away.

He’s in front of you now, close enough that you kind of have to crane your neck the whole way to look up at him, and you watch as his eyes drag slowly from the point of contact to meet yours, every movement he makes unhurried and purposeful. 

“I just wanted to say thank you again, for tonight,” you start, speaking without any real plan as to what you want to say, but wanting to keep him just a little longer, “For keeping me company, and letting me stay in here-,”

“It’s no big deal-,”

“And for not letting me push you away.”

It might be the first time you’ve ever owned up to it - being the master of your own downfall, or the downfall of your relationship with Luke, and anything you still could have been after the fact - and it isn’t easy, admitting that you’re the problem.

But you feel like you owe it to him, as a reward for all this resilience in the face of your constant rejection. He’s been nothing but patient, and you’ve been nothing but hard work, and you’re willing to admit, now, that you’re done with it.

He smiles, eyes knowing, the relieved, breathy sigh he gives dissolving all the guilt that’s building in the depths of your gut, and sinks down beside you on the bed, his thigh brushing yours as he settles in. 

Hours ago, being this close would have terrified you. You’d have shut down, turned away, shuffled across the sheets until there was a healthy distance between the two of you, but you don’t move. You just turn, a little, to be able to meet his eye.

“Are you saying you’re done with that?” He asks, a little hesitant, assuming, probably, that you won’t be entirely open with him.

But you nod, chewing at the corner of your bottom lip as he presses his own together, eyes darting a little lower.

“So we’re friends?” He asks, his voice low, the depth of it causing a weird vibration to wrack down your body - a buzz that won’t go away, now that he’s this close, and he’s looking at you the way he is. 

“If that’s what you still want to be.”

The thought of him changing his mind makes you a little dizzy, an ache growing in your chest again at the thought of being nothing - but you’d deserve it, you think, after all the times you turned him down. 

It would hurt, but, as always, it would be your own doing. 

“And we won’t ever be more?”

The pleading tone in which he asks makes the back of your throat go dry, and all you can do to respond, now, is shake your head. Slowly, and hesitantly, but it shakes all the same, tears welling in the corners of your eyes as you take in his resigned acceptance.

And then, something shifts.

A subtle shake of his head, as if he’s fighting an inner monologue, and then an assured switch in his demeanour - a tilt of his head as he surveys your reluctance, and the swipe of his tongue to wet his lips, like he’s preparing to fight back.

“If I kissed you right now,” he asks, voice still low, eyes lower, pinned to the curve of your lips as they part as if by instinct, “Would you tell me to stop?”

“Luke,” you warn, no more than a whisper as you watch his lips too, “We can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked,” his eyes trail slowly up until your gazes meet, and his head tilts again in question, blinking heavily before he asks, “Would you push me away?”

Your lips form around a response that you can’t even think to give back, opening around an answer you’re not ready to give at all, and all your body wants to do is deny. You fight the urge to shake your head, but you think that it’s a losing battle, especially considering how much your brain feels like it’s being rattled around anyway.

You don’t know what you do to make him move forward, but you figure by now you don’t actually have to do anything. He can probably read your mind at this point, spurred on no doubt by the way your eyelids flutter closed when he’s close enough, and the tip of his nose presses to yours, slow, heavy breaths falling into the decreasing space between the two of you. 

You should stop him. You know that.

It isn’t good for either of you, letting this carry on, leaving the edges of your relationship so frayed that even the smallest tug could pull the whole thing apart, thread by thread. 

You should tell him to stop, should push him away, should hold a lighter to the loose ends and singe them together to prevent further damage. You’ve only just settled on friends, and now you’re not sure, again.

But the second he gets this close, you’re not in charge, anymore.

It’s like some force of nature takes over, brings the two of you together like tectonic plates meeting, and causing unfathomable destruction to both of your hearts in the aftermath.  

His kiss is so instantly tender that it hurts already, tears prickling at the seams of your scrunched-closed eyes, and all you can do is push through the pain. You kiss him back, lips closing around his again and again as your faces smush together, and you start to feel the passion consume him - something takes over almost like an urgency, where you’re clawing at his the front of his costume and he’s clutching at your waist, doing anything physically possible to close whatever gap still sits between you.

The pressure of his lips is almost bruising, now, but you like it that way - soft exhales puffing out from his nose so that he doesn’t have to part to catch his breath, fingers pressing so hard into your flesh that you hope they leave a mark.

He tastes just how you remember, and it takes you back all those months to summer - to stolen kisses over centre consoles and making out in his bed when everyone else was out. There’s a part of you that feels giddy with it, just like you had then, partaking in something so precious that was just for the two of you, and it starts to distract you from what this actually is.

A mistake. 

You pull away instead of pushing, bringing your chin back until your lips part with much effort, a hmmph and a furrow of your brow, and you can’t bring yourself to open your scrunched eyes, not yet, but you know when he’s going to chase.

“Luke,” you whisper in warning before your eyes flutter open and you peer up at him through your lashes. He looks so soft, you think, despite all the ways he tries not to. Despite the sharp line of his jaw, and the hardened look in his eyes. You feel your walls crumbling at just the sight of him - defenceless to his charms, once again, because how much could Luke possibly hurt you? “Friends don’t do that.”

“Maybe our friendship starts tomorrow,” he hums back, “Maybe we get this out of our systems one more time.”

And it’s sitting on the precipice of that feeling you’ve been chasing since July that has you considering it - ever so close to finally getting closure on whatever the two of you were, or could have been.

Getting it out of your system sounds healthy. Sounds like a clean slate, a fresh start, and you have no doubt that if you’re going to be friends with Luke Hughes, that it’s exactly what you need in order to do so. 

Because, if you’re honest, it’s that exact thing that’s been holding you back this entire time - closure. With such an abrupt end to what the two of you had, how could you ever possibly close that chapter mid-sentence? How could you ever move on?

“One more time,” you try to sound stern, try to convince yourself of your own words, “Then we have to let this go.”

“You got it.”

“No more Luke, I mean it.” You have to push down this feeling of impending doom, or you’ll never get anywhere, but you need to warn him one last time, just to be safe. “Strictly friends after tonight.”

“I already agreed, can you please just let me kiss you again?”

“Okay, fine, just,” you huff, hands splayed across his broad chest and pushing until your bodies part, his butt shuffling back on the bed. “Take the costume off, first, I’m not feeding into whatever dorky cosplay fetish you probably have.”

You’re only part joking, but it’s the only way you know how to relieve the tension a little, and your nerves start to dissipate at his reaction.

He chuckles, with the kind of cocky smile that makes your heart jump, reaching behind himself to unzip the back of his costume with an affectionate shake of his head. He stands, then, to shuck it off, the whole thing dropping off of him until he kicks it across the floor, towards his laundry hamper, then stands in just his briefs, which are slung low on his waist. “You can keep yours on, I don’t mind,” he tells you when you’re distracted by the taut, defined lines on his stomach, eyes trailing slowly up to meet his, gleaming back at you.

“You’d love that wouldn’t you,” you scoff, watching as he draws closer, shuffling back a little on the bed to accommodate him, “You absolute freak.” 

“You can’t sit there and pretend you don’t want me to call you princess again.” He smirks, bending down until his hands are on either side of your hips, and you’re leaning back with your fingers pressed into his sheets and your head craned back to meet his eye, “Saw you getting all flustered about it, earlier.”

“Shut up,” you huff, curling a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down into you - the two of you colliding in a clumsy, messy kiss. His body crawls over yours, encapsulating you entirely in an intoxicating warmth, and you find yourself melting into his every touch - large hands running down your sides, settling on your waist, and the other easing its way under the skirt of your costume. 

You put both hands to use too, one remaining behind his neck, scratching into the grown out curls that sit there and tugging when he starts to tickle up your thigh, the other on the warm skin of his chest - the rampant thud of his heart beating against your palm.

One more time, just to get him out of your system.

And then you can be friends.

What could possibly go wrong?

another a/n: I'll try to finish the next part asap!! thank you for reading, I know this was long lmao!! would love to hear your thoughts!!!!

> PART TWO <

[anna-scribbles]

chapter cards for thirteen: november - april

read on ao3

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Some of my favourite Sonic Movie Marathon doodles

[sceletaflores]

OH HONEY, HONEY, I COULD BE YOUR KEVLAR || FRANKIE MORALES

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 4.6k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, drinking, smoking, some spanish dialogue cutely sprinkled in, reader is ex-special forces, established relationship, implied age gap, insecurity, semi-jealous frankie mmmh, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering, finger sucking, more brief allusions to a foot fetish whoopsies, p in v, public sex (bar bathroom RAAAHHH), creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT'S NOTE: finally got off my ass watched triple frontier and i’m a changed woman. i mean it was kind of a snooze fest but pedro pascal in a slutty little baseball hat saying “come on, baby” for like three minutes? that’s pure cinema. i’m praying that my spanish isn’t absolute dog shit, i’m still not a hundred percent fluent and dirty talk is such a struggle so please give me some grace if it’s ass and maybe some pointers! that would be very very helpful thank you love you. title from beyonce's 'BODYGUARD' because it's a beyonce summer in this house. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune! extra special shoutout to angel @daydreamingmiller for the wonderful gif!

you and the boys go out...

The bar is buzzing, alive with easy laughter and the sharp crack of billiard balls meeting in the center of pool tables.

It's a dive in every sense of the word, a real shithole. The kind of place where you can smoke indoors because the owner doesn't give a damn. The walls are littered in old road signs and vintage rock band posters.

The floor is sticky and all the booths have tears in the bright red leather cushions. Neon signs are hung sporadically, each one lit up with a phrase more vulgar than the last, drowning everything in different hues of red and blue.

It’s perfect.

It’s familiar, safe in the only way a shithole can be when you’re surrounded by people who’d take a bullet for you. Who’ve taken bullets for you, just like you have for them.

You’re not drunk. You’re not even tipsy.

You’re a couple drinks in and resting on the perfect knife's edge of pleasantly buzzed. You’re warm, a tingly kind of warmth that seeps into your skin all the way down to your bones and loosens your limbs.

The cigarette you bummed from Will only adds to it, smoke flooding your lungs and curling in wispy grey loops around your head like a halo on every exhale.

Music floats in the space all around you, a beat up jukebox is shoved in the corner spitting out song after song. 

Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Rolling Stones. The Who. Guns N’ Roses. The Doors. Aerosmith.

Fleetwood Mac when that quarter you spent thirty minutes ago finally gets put to good use.

You’re standing near the same booth the five of you always pack yourselves in, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and some beat up darts in your hand. Benny goaded you into a game of 501 after his third beer made him feel cocky enough.

You’re sitting at 113. Ben’s only at 326.

He’s at the throw line, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up his aims for what feels like the hundredth time. Going Mobile kicks on as you wait for your turn with dwindling patience. 

"You gonna hit the board or just warm up your wrist for later tonight?" you say over the music.

“Fuck you.” Ben doesn’t let his gaze stray from the board, flipping you off with his free hand. He finally takes his shot, but his dart hits wide—buried in cork about four inches from the bullseye. ”Damn!”

You laugh, a low, warm sound, pulled from the back of your throat. “Alright hotshot shove over, my turn.”

“Come on, Sniper.” Santiago’s voice calls from behind you. “Make it three in a row.”

Your laughter doesn’t fade as you step up to the throw line, rolling the darts in your hand to feel the weight of them. Your fingers curl around them, metal cool against your skin, the sharpness of the tips familiar. You take your stance without even thinking—weight balanced, eyes narrowed, limbs loose. It’s second nature.

The first dart hits just inside the treble thirteen. Sharp thunk. Clean.

The boys heckle you from the table, ranging from supportive—Santi and Will—to whining about the board being rigged—Ben. You don’t turn around, but you can’t fight the smug smile on your lips.

Another flick. Another hit—just right of the center. Double twelve.

“Bullshit,” Ben groans. “You said you were rusty, you goddamn liar.”

“I am rusty,” you say over your shoulder, spinning the last dart between your fingers. “If I wasn’t I would’ve beat your ass three rounds ago.”

You line up your last shot. 

“Call it,” you say to no one in particular.

“Bullseye,” Will says.

You exhale slowly, wrist held high and right foot forward. You throw.

Bullseye.

The table behind you erupts. When you turn around, Ben’s groaning from where he’s leaning against Santi’s shoulder, who just gives a few approving slow claps. Will’s got that quiet, impressed smirk on his face.

You catch Frankie’s eye, he’s grinning behind the rim of his Modelo. All spread out on the left side of the booth, one leg kicked up over where you were sitting. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, showing off the dark hair scattered along his chest and the chain he bought from a street vendor in Ciudad Juárez when he was there on an assignment. 

The very same one hangs around your neck, just under your collar.

You smile, a real one—small and just for him in the way it tugs your lips up. Frankie winks at you from under the brim of his hat, a look you’ve seen hundreds of times swirling through the chocolate brown of his eyes. 

Later, it says. A promise. 

You can't wait.

“Loser buys shots.” You make your way to the table, leaning your hip against the edge. “Next round’s on Benny.”

Ben rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Kiss my ass.”

You smile down at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. “Not with aim like that, Miller.”

The laughter that surrounds the table is easy. That’s how it’s come to be with them. Even on days like this, when you all feel like ghosts, carrying sand in your shoes and shrapnel in your lungs.

It started a long time ago. You met Santi first, back in Kandahar. You weren’t officially on the books with the same unit as him back in the day—your ops were blacker than theirs—but you'd cross paths on enough shared missions to get familiar. He was cocky. You were mean. He liked that.

You pulled him out of a burning Humvee with a busted comms rig and a bullet in his thigh. He paid you back when one of your jobs got blown wide open in Girardot and saved you from bleeding out in a ditch after he dragged you two klicks to a medevac sight.

Through him came Frankie. He was quieter than you expected after all the stories, and thoughtful in a way that made you curious. It didn’t take long for something to shift there—some gravity between the two of you that pulled you closer before either of you had a chance to name it.

You still aren't sure when exactly it had changed. There hadn’t been one single moment. Just a hundred small ones. Quieter nights. Warmer looks. Shared smokes in the silence. And eventually, one drunken night back in Bogotá when he kissed you outside a safehouse, the rain dripping off his cap and into your collar.

Neither of you looked back.

Will and Benny came much later. A package deal, good on their own but great together. One couldn’t exist without the other. Ben brought the noise and a young, unshakable enthusiasm. Will brought the strategy and experience.

They all introduced you to Tom when you were back stateside. He was calculated and quiet, the only man you’ve ever seen clear a building with a heartbeat under sixty. 

It all seems like a lifetime ago.

When you think back to it, it’s the smell of gunpowder and the phantom ache in your shoulder from the viscous recoil on your Barrett M82. It’s kevlar squeezed around your ribs tight enough to leave angry red lines of remembrance branded in your skin long after you took it off and the sound of bullets piercing flesh.

The six of you were never an official unit. You were all off-books more often than not. Contracts, black bag jobs, unofficial recon. Nothing that would stick. But when it went bad you called each other. Always. No matter the time zone. No matter the cost.

You’ve seen the best and worst of each other—on dirt roads, jungle trails, blacked out hallways. In safehouses and active war zones and cheap motels.

They’re your people. Your family, even if the word is slick with blood and drenched in ash. 

It’s family nonetheless.

So when Santiago called about recon work in Colombia, you didn’t even let him finish the pitch.

You were in.

Now, months after everything went down—the heist, the Andes, the loss and anguish you all carried home—you’re here. In a shitty bar with your family. With Frankie.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

“Alright, alright.” Ben stands from the booth, carrying five empty shot glasses. “Nobody ever said I wasn’t a man of my word, what are we drinking?”

“Surprise me,” Santi says, already on his feet. “I gotta hit the head.” 

Ben nods as he walks off, turning his attention back to the table. “Surprises all around?”

You shrug, stealing a sip of Frankie’s Modelo. “Works for me.”

Will shakes his head, sliding out of the booth. “Hell no, I’m coming with. This isn't spring break, I’m not knocking back any damn tequila shots.”

You watch them go, disappearing deeper into the crowd until you can’t make out their silhouettes anymore. You turn to Frankie, resting your palms flat on the table. “You up for a game, Morales? I’ll let you win if you promise to make it worth my while back home.”

Frankie laughs. “Only if you throw it just bad enough I don’t notice,” he says, chin dipped low, voice just rough enough to make your skin prickle. His eyes are fixed on yours—warm, focused, like he’s already replaying whatever making it worth your while might look like. Probably more than once.

You smirk, pushing off the table. “No promises.”

You make your way over to the board, plucking the darts out one by one. You’re alone for the first time all night, almost.

“Are you always this good, or is tonight just for show?”

The voice is unfamiliar—low and a little too close. 

You glance over your shoulder. Young, younger than you–early to mid-twenties if you had to guess. He’s tall, lean and muscular in a way that screams college wrestling. Sharp jawline, white teeth. 

You give him a polite smile. Nothing that invites, but nothing too rude either. You’re good at being nice. Trained for it. There’s strength in it, control.

“Used to be better,” you say, turning back to the dartboard and yanking out the last one. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“Wasn’t just a compliment,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’ve got a great arm.”

He’s not the only one.

Frankie’s watching you. You can feel it before you see it. Like a hum under your skin. A pressure point at the base of your neck.

“Thanks.” It’s as dismissive as you can make it, a clear send off.

The guy doesn’t take the hint. “Let me buy you a drink, maybe we could play a round? I’d love some pointers, I’ve never seen a girl throw like that before.”

A girl. You don’t even flinch.

“I don’t think you could keep up.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I don’t know.” His eyes rake up and down your body with all the subtlety of a car crash. “I’m a fast learner.”

You keep your posture relaxed, but your hand tightens a little around the dart. “Maybe, but I’m already here with someone.”

His eyes follow the way yours flick to Frankie out of habit, sizing him up unashamedly. He snorts, turning back to you with a cocky grin. “Is that your dad, or something?”

You don’t even blink, just cock your head and smile—sharp as a blade this time. “Careful,” you say, voice overly sweet and saccharine. “This girl might just lay you on your ass for that.”

It takes him a beat too long to realize you’re not joking. Your tone is calm, flat, with that old edge you haven’t used in years. When it sinks in, his eyes narrow, mouth working like he’s deciding whether to double down or cut his losses.

Smart boy chooses the latter. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble,” he mutters, taking a step back.

You toss the darts on a nearby table. “Then don’t,” you say, and turn your back on him.

Frankie’s standing by the time you reach the booth, he’s already got that look in his eyes. Quiet, a little withdrawn. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something but doesn’t. You close the space between you, laying your hand on his chest.

“You mad?” It’s soft, quiet enough so only he can hear it.

He shakes his head, brows pinching together. “Of course not.”

His arm slides around your waist, big hand spreading out possessively over your stomach. He’s not lying, you know he isn't. It’s not you he’s mad at, it’s not even the jackass slinking his way back to his buddies he’s mad at.

He’s angry at himself.

You can see it still simmering under the surface, and it’s not real anger. Not entirely. It’s something else entirely—the insecurity he carries. The one that creeps in late at night when he’s lying behind you in bed, one arm slung heavy over your waist. 

The kind that whispers in his ear that he’s not good enough when he sees someone younger—someone who hasn’t been through what he has, who doesn’t have a road-map of scars or night terrors or hands that still shake sometimes when they’re too still for too long. Someone without graying hair or creaking joints or the softer gut that comes with love and recovery.

Frankie still doubts himself, even after all this time. He doubts that he’s really what you want, that you’re not just stuck with him out of guilt or some fucked up version of shared trauma that ties you together. 

“Hey,” you say gently, reaching up to hold the side of his face. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” His voice is gruffer now, lower. The furrow of his brow makes the skin in-between crease, you rub your thumb over it a few times until he relaxes his face.

You’re always struck by how handsome he is, even in the shitty neon lights bathing you both. His round, chocolate brown eyes stare down at you with so much care and love that it makes your chest ache. 

“Get in your own head. You really think I’d be out here flirting with some college guy when you’re sittin’ twenty feet away looking like this?”

Frankie shakes his head, embarrassed. “I’m fine, baby. Just didn’t like the way he was looking at you, that’s all.”

You lean into him, pressing your chest to his so there isn't an inch of space between you. “You’re the only one I want. You’re it for me, Frankie.”

He doesn’t speak, his lips pressed into a thin line as he holds your unwavering gaze. You hope he can see the look on your face, that he can hear the truth and the weight of your words. 

He wraps his arms around you and he breathes you in, pressing his nose into your hair. The tension in his shoulders eases the way it always does when you’re close. 

It’s nice, a step in the right direction, but it’s not enough. Not yet. You can still feel the stiffness lingering in his body, the way he’s holding you more out of possessive worry than relief—like he’s still scared you’ll bolt at the last second. 

You bite your lip, an idea sparking to life in your mind. It’s a risk, especially when Frankie’s feeling like this—but it also has an undeniable warmth flaring up in your stomach, phantom flames licking their way up your legs.

Besides, you’ve never been one to back down from risky situations. You made a career out of it.

You pull back, only slightly, just far enough to catch his eye. You notice the second he sees your pupils, blown out and dark as an oil spill. His brows furrow again, but it’s different than before. It’s curious, a silent question you’re more than happy to answer.

“If you want…” Your hand trails down his chest languidly until you’re toying with his belt buckle, hooking your pointer finger under the band of his jeans and tugging gently. “I could show you just how much I want you.”

Frankie’s eyes darken, his lips parting on a shocked breath. His arms twitch around you, fingertips digging into the fabric of your shirt. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t even wait for him to respond, your patience fizzling out into pure, blinding need.

You grab his hand and pull him behind you, slipping into the crowd without a backward glance. You lead him down the narrow hall past the pool tables, past the jukebox playing Dream On, until you reach the dingy single-stall bathroom.

The door’s not even all the way closed before Frankie’s on you. He backs you up against the graffiti covered wall, mouth already on yours—hungry, possessive, a little desperate. You love it when he kisses you like this, like he’s staking a claim.

His tongue licks a dirty stripe over the seam of your lips, fucking into your mouth when you moan. He tastes like beer, like lime and salt and something under it all that’s just him. It’s addicting, you can’t get enough—you never can.

Your hands are greedy—yanking his hat off and letting it topple to the ground carelessly, your fingers tangle in his curls, nails scratching along his scalp.

“You’re mine,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah?” he pants, kissing you again, hands skimming down your body.

He presses you into the wall harder, his hips grinding against yours, and you can feel him already. Hard, thick and aching through his jeans. Your pussy leaks wet and sticky into your panties, impatient and wanting.

“You really think I’d want anyone else?” you whisper against his jaw, licking the stubble, biting it. “You think anyone could fuck me the way you do?”

Frankie groans, hips jerking forward. His hands dig into the meat of your hips, hard enough to ache in the best way. You hope that it takes, that your skin is bruised come morning.

You rut against each other like you’re still overseas, like there’s mortar fire behind you and you’re stealing time you don’t have.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” you breathe, arching up against him. “Tell me how to make you feel better.”

“Wanna taste you,” he says roughly, voice thick. “Muero por saborearte, princesa.”

Heat rushes through you like an electric shock, lighting up every inch of your body. “Fuck, yes–”

Frankie drops to his knees before the words leave your mouth, hurried hands not even bothering to unbutton your jeans before he’s yanking them down your hips. He groans when he sees your panties—damp and clinging to your folds, soft cotton pulled tight. 

“Que cosita linda...” It whispered, soft and almost secretive—like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You brace yourself against the wall, one hand gripping the chipped edge of the sink, the other in his hair when he mouths you over the fabric. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy, the hot drag of his tongue through the soaked material making your knees threaten to buckle.

“Frankie,” you gasp, hips twitching toward him. “Don’t tease—”

He hums like he likes hearing you beg, like he needs it, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one swift, greedy motion.

The moment you’re bare to him, he’s buried between your legs.

He licks up your slit, slow and obscene, tasting everything you’ve made for him. He groans like it hurts, like your pussy’s a salvation and a punishment all at once. He spreads you open with thick fingers and dives in, eating you like he’s starved.

“Fuck—Frankie,” you gasp, knees almost giving, fingers fisting tight in his curls. He only groans, the vibration making your hands twist his hair tight in your grip as his nose bumps against your clit. 

It’s loud, the way he devours you. He’s always been messy with it—and soon the filthy sounds of his mouth fills the bathroom, dirty slurps and sucks bouncing off the walls. Your head thunks against the hard brick behind you when you toss it back on a broken moan, you hardly notice.

You lift your foot off the ground, not hesitating as you press it against the thick line of his cock still tenting the front of his jeans. Frankie shudders, his eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into it, chasing the pressure.

“Shit, Frankie, I—” You whimper, dizzy, aching. “Need more—need your fingers—please—”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and molten. “Show me,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to kiss your inner thigh, teeth scraping along the delicate skin there. “Show me what you want, hermosa.”

Your hand trembles as you reach down, slipping two fingers through the wet mess of your pussy. Slick and saliva coats your skin, eases the way as you circle your clit—once, twice—before you push them into yourself with a soft moan.

Frankie watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. His hands knead the muscle of your thighs, his hips jerking up against the sole of your boot like he can’t help himself. “Mierda…look at you. So fuckin’ perfect.”

You fuck yourself slow, wrist twisting—and just as your thighs start to shake, you slip your soaked fingers out of yourself, strings of slick catching in the air, and bring them to his mouth. You don’t say anything, but there’s an unspoken order that fills the air between you.

Frankie’s a good soldier, he’d never disobey a direct order.

He looks up at you, gaze dark as he slowly parts his lips—his hot breath fans over your skin. Eyes locked on yours, he takes them in, sucks them deep, tongue curling around them lewdly. He moans at the taste, hand closing around your ankle to keep you in place as he grinds up against your foot harder.

You press your fingers against his tongue, rubbing the taste of yourself over his taste buds. Your pussy clenches weakly, pulsing with pleasure and emptiness.

Frankie pulls back, your fingers falling from between his lips with a soft pop. “Sabe como cielo.”

He doesn't give you a second to recover before he’s on his feet again, surging up like a man possessed. His hands grab your thighs, lifting you with ease, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively. Your boots clatter against the stall wall with the motion, the dull thud-thud-thud drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right here?" he pants, rutting against your slick heat through his jeans, the zipper catching on your swollen clit. "Right here, in this filthy fucking bathroom where anyone could hear us?"

You nod frantically, arms looping around his neck. "Yes—yes, fuck, Frankie, please—"

"Say it again," he growls, teeth scraping over your jaw. “Say my name like that again.”

"Please, Frankie," you whimper, biting his earlobe. "I need you to fuck me. Right now. Right here.”

That’s all it takes.

Frankie fumbles with his belt, one-handed, the other arm bracing your ass, keeping you pinned to the wall like you weigh nothing. The second his cock springs free, it slaps hot against your thigh, smearing precome across your skin. Thick and flushed, angry red at the tip.

You glance down and moan, already slick for him, already open.

He fists the base of his cock, running the head through your folds once, twice—and then he’s pushing in, slow and deep.

The stretch makes you cry out, back arching off the wall as he sinks in slow, his hips flexing forward inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re soaked and open from his tongue, but he’s still thick enough to sting just right. You feel all of him—every vein, every twitch.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulders, your thighs tightening around his waist to drag him as close as you can. 

"Mierda…tan apretadita," Frankie groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat already dotting his temple. “Siempre tan buena pa’ mí.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as your pussy flutters around him. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and erratic against your cheek.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding up into you slow and deep. “Nobody else gets to feel this. Nobody else gets to fuck this pussy.”

“Only you,” you manage, voice thick. “Just you, Frankie—fuck, please—”

He starts to thrust, hips snapping into you with filthy, wet smacks, the obscene sound echoing in the tiny stall. The sink creaks beside you, the mirror rattling in time with every thrust. You’re soaked, dripping, cock-drunk already.

Frankie captures your lips in another dirty kiss, all tongue and teeth and stealing the breath from each others mouth. “¿Que sucia, te gusta eso, eh?” He whispers against your mouth, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. “You like taking it like this, with all those people out there? Anybody could walk by and hear us, baby. They could hear how good you're taking my cock.” 

You whine into his mouth, nails dragging down his back, you can feel the thin material of his shirt straining under the force. The silk is so delicate, so fragile. That much more strength and you’d tear it clean down the middle. It makes your stomach clench, the idea of Frankie walking back out into the bar with his shirt in tatters, the angry red welts your surely leaving on his skin on full display.

“Tell me,” he pants wetly against your cheek. “Dime la verdad.”

“Yes,” you whine. “I love it. Fuck—I want everyone to know. Want them to know how good you fuck me, how good you make me feel.”

Frankie groans, a deep, almost animalistic sound. He grips your thighs harder, burying his face in the sweaty column of your throat. 

Your whole body jolts when he pounds into you deeper than before, the angle filthy, punishing. The dark hair around the base of his cock scrapes meanly against your sensitive clit with every thrust, teetering just on the edge of too much and just perfect.

You’re gonna come—you can feel it already coiling inside you, white-hot and snapping.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come, Frankie—” you cry, clutching his curls.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

"That’s it, baby," he pants against your throat, licking the sweat from your skin. “Dámelo. Come for me. Let me feel you soak my cock.”

Your orgasm rips through you like a gunshot—fast, brutal, and all-consuming. Your thighs tremble around his hips, your boots slam into the wall, and you clamp down around him so tight that Frankie lets out a raw, strangled groan.

“Dios,” he groans, the rhythm of his hips stuttering. “You gonna let me fill you up?” His voice is a snarl now, hips slamming forward. “Gonna let me come inside you, baby? Gonna walk out of here dripping with it?”

“Yes,” you beg, drunk on it. “Come in me—fill me up, Frankie—want you to come inside—wanna feel it—”

“Fuck.” He slams into you one last time and stills, every muscle in his body drawn tight as he spills inside you with a rough groan. You can feel it—thick and warm, leaking down your thighs even before he pulls out.

You stay like that for a long moment—both of you panting, trembling, stuck together with sweat and come and something sticky-sweet that lingers in the silence.

When Frankie finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are soft again. Warm and full.

You reach up, brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Feel better?”

He nods. Kisses you slow this time. “I love you,” he says against your lips, almost shy.

“I know,” you smile, cupping his face. “Now help me clean up before someone breaks the door down.”

“…I’m not pulling out yet.”

“Francisco—”

“I just got in a good mood, bebita. Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh into his mouth, still full of him, still dripping down your thighs, and it feels like the first time all over again.

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! i had a lot of fun with this one love you chickens <3

[kaisentine]

imagine rin snitching on you to sae about your little crush on him.

“…that was 11 years ago, sae.”

“you wanna watch big bro again?” the black-haired boy groans out in annoyance. “uh-huh!” you gleam out while smiling—flashing him with your braced teeth. you’ve been asking rin that question a lot recently and it’s starting to irk him a little bit. he isn’t stupid, he can put two and two together to compose a theory about you having something a little more than friendly feelings for his sibling. however, he can’t deny the fact that he does want to see his brother play too. that’s what brings you to the neighborhood’s field to watch the muddy-red-head kick around some stupid ball. it looks like sae didn’t seem to care about the two pairs of eyes watching him—it makes you question whether he even remembers rin shouting to him 30 minutes prior. “girl, you don’t even like soccer.” he deadpans next to you with this hands shoved into his jacket’s pockets—that is a very true statement—and the fact you don’t know anything about the sport other than playing against other people to shoot a ball into a goal. you stay silent to contemplate the answer (you’re lowkey just distracted by the way sae moves are so languid). “hey, i watch you play too!” you retort, suppressing the urge to punch his shoulder. “that’s because i ask you to,” so he’s doubling down and admitting he actually forces you to watch him play? “but last time i checked, i don’t see big bro asking you.” he finishes before sticking his popsicle back into his mouth. there’s no arguing with that so you don’t respond any further.

rin is very observant—he can tell your body stiffens whenever sae comes onto your radar even just for a second. the way you stop mid-conversation to hold your breath when he asks rin (and you but you do nawt speak) what you guys want for dinner when you stay over. rin can’t contain his laughter when his brother leaves the room. “what are you laughing about?” you sound annoyed and flattened after holding your breath—he has to hold his hand up to signal you to just wait until he’s done laughing. “what the heck was that?” he says in between chuckles. you catch onto what he means by that… you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are, are you? “it wasn’t that funny!” you finally get to punch his shoulder in embarrassment after he makes it very apparent that you are quite obvious. despite the fact you haven’t ever actually vocalized to him that you like sae yet, you basically already have. but he’s like an ongoing court case—everybody is innocent until proven guilty.

it’s the way you refuse to go anywhere in the itoshi house unless you’re with rin. he thinks you’re insufferable when you have to insist there’s a ghost who doesn’t allow you to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water—good thing rin is an exorcist! he begrudgingly leads you downstairs only to lean against the wall to wait for you to finish getting your water. oh but if sae is also there? you crawl your way back up the stairs with rin following close behind you, whispering displeased questions. “you just said you were dying of thirst!” he whisper-shouts the moment he closes his bedroom door—he’s getting real annoyed of your antics. “not anymore…” you’re pathetic, making him do a lot just to become a scaredy-cat? “i’d rather not drag a dead body out of my room.” he alludes as if you were actually going to die of dehydration.

you can’t just (basically) live at the itoshi household without interacting with sae at least once. panic begins to set in your stomach when you hear shuffling from behind rin’s bedroom door—is it a robber? is it a murderer? oh no, it is much worse—it’s sae! you hear the doorknob twist and it’s too late for you to hide under the bed or maybe the closet… aw shit—he’s already standing there in all his glory with rin’s training bag. “oh, it’s you.” he says in sight of seeing a familiar figure on his younger brother’s bed. ���where’s rin?” he asks and cocks an eyebrow when you don’t respond immediately. why did he have to go looking for him at the worst time? (which is all the time) “h-he’s in the bathroom…” bruh wtf goes through your head which you mentally slap in absolute cringe at your stutter. “oh okay, i’ll leave his bag here. bye.” he drops the bag on the floor before taking his leave—without closing the door! you’re too flushed to care about the gesture. when rin eventually does return to his bedroom, he’s met with the sight of an open door and his friend looking traumatized on his bed.

or that one time where you accidentally clung onto sae after getting an adrenaline rush from a horror movie rin really wanted to watch. you didn’t understand why sae insisted on sitting next to you on the couch when there was a perfectly open spot beside rin. “…and i’ll blow your house in!” a crazed man wielding an axe says before hacking the white door in-front of him the scene was the equivalent to actually being chased and you subconsciously gripped anything beside you which turned into full on hugging. “uhm…” there’s a voice beside you that brings you back to reality. you look at the direction of the voice then hesitantly look up to whatever you’re hugging. oh. my. word. you are clinging onto sae’s arm. safe to say rin was in the middle for the rest of the movie viewings.

“can you just admit it?” rin grumbled after a match with another school. “no idea what y’er talkin’ ‘bout!” you sing-song happily while extending your hand to give him the water-bottle he asked for. his movements halted, the towel on top of his head being left there to rot. he looks at you like he hates you for saying that, he snatches his water-bottle like it’s a crime for you to even be holding it. the man in-front of you is absolutely tired of your bullshit that he has tolerated for at least 3 years. “admit it right now.” he’s a lot more serious and anticipating an answer—more than any other situation he’s asked you in. “legit, no idea what you’re talking about.” there’s a lot of things you do need to admit, like how you still need to admit that you’re the one who added the vinegar in his soy sauce… “you like big bro, don’t you?” he bluntly states. “w-what makes you think that?” you stutter like the one time sae directly spoke to you. “everything.” it’s disturbing how much rin means to you that you actually finally admit your feelings.

it’s like you’re the 3rd child of the itoshi family, being at the airport to watch (the love of your life) sae depart for another country. there were tearful goodbyes which you wanted to relate to but you couldn’t because then it would out you for liking him because you never really talked to him anyway. he was exchanging goodbyes with each of his family members—his dad, then his mom, lastly rin. okay… why’s he looking over to you… “it’s okay to cry over this, i know you’ll miss me.” he winks, his stupid bangs actually looking good for once—it feels like every blood cell in your body is rushing to your cheeks and ears. “why’d he say that…” you turn to rin who is beside you after sae turned his back towards everybody for who knows how long. “i told him.” he blurts out. “RIN!!!!”

your feelings were definitely not resolved that day. you still have silent beef with rin for him outing you, you didn’t even know he snitched until he told you! the last time sae was in the country other than for u-20, he had a really bad comeback with rin—making you ice over your affections (not an effective way for getting over somebody btw).

“so?” he’s condescending. the absence of his bangs make you realize how much more grown he looks now. however, the thing that you really take note of is his eyes. sure, he’s grown more into his face but the way his eyes are half-lidded and no longer the bright annoyed ones make you really question everything.

gosh—literally every time he speaks to you, you just can’t make up the words. that ‘that was 11 years ago, sae’ was probably all your confidence for the next 11 years to come. “a lot can happen during a decade.” you push through to retort, clutching the bag that hung lazily over your shoulder. out of anywhere, he chooses to confront you like this—after a game?

“i didn’t even say it myself, that was rin!” you defend yourself, not letting yourself give into his advancements. he steps forward and you know he’s shorter than rin but fucking hell… “i changed a lot, didn’t i?” it’s a rhetorical question—he knows you can tell. it’s like he was testing the waters because when you don’t respond but you don’t react violently either, he continues, “i’m not stupid either. you don’t think i couldn’t tell?”

which event was he referring to? what if he was referring to when… oh not now. “okay, so what if it was true? that doesn’t mean i like you anymore.” you scramble around your thoughts to find words. “too bad, i still like you.”

ugh, i waited this long.

ALSO I JUST WANNA THANK EVERYONE 🙁🙁🙁 thank you guys for 100 followers :)

[gammija]

tiefling jon's first day at the Archives

[brainmuncher]

Visiting an old friend

The whole way to Bludhaven Danny kept on telling himself that surely he’d made a mistake. He knew he could be impulsive sometimes but flying to Bludhaven on a rumor? He felt like he was a teenager all over again.

It’d been some dumb article he’d found while trying to focus on editing the design of a Fenton battery. It was a Bludhaven paper he’d forgotten to unsubscribe to that sent him a breaking news email. He used to eat up those papers, glad to have any way to see how his old friend was doing, but now it just felt suffocating to remember. He’d almost deleted it without even opening it, but some nagging feeling told him he should open it. He never would've expected to open it to a new blurry photo of a figure in blue, soaring above on the rooftops.

He barely got a couple of sentences into the article claiming that Nightwing could be back before he shot out of his apartment. Ever since that day when he watched invisibly as his coffin was laid in the ground he searched for Dick’s ghost. But no ghost this new could control their appearance that well. Colors were some of the hardest to control after all. So Dick could be… he really could be…

After that, the rest of the flight was much more nerve-wracking. He hadn’t ever met the other bats, but he knew that they could have some interesting rouges. Some kind of convoluted plan might have been behind all of this. Maybe someone was impersonating him? Or maybe some other blue vigilante has taken up Bludhaven… Was one of Dicks siblings taking over the Nightwing name? That last one was quickly shot down though. He saw how distraught the group was, he doubted if they would’ve even been able to touch the suit without breaking inside.

So all that led him to now, standing outside Dicks apartment building. Before they lost touch this was the place Dick told him he could go if he ever needed help. And seeing the lit-up rooms from the outside, Danny knew that at least someone had to have been there.

For the sake of normality, Danny decided to take the stairs within the building to Dicks floor. It definitely wasn’t because he was nervous or anything… it had nothing to do with that at all. Although the stairs seemed to reach the top quicker than he expected. 

He walked up to the apartment number that he was told about. A snarky ‘This house has gone 0 days without a pun’ welcome mat sat outside the door. The joke actually helped Danny calm down a bit, breathing in a deep breath of the slightly dusty hallway air before letting it out again. Without further ado, he rapped his knuckles on the hardwood door. Internally he winced at the loud noise. It was much later at night than any normal person would be awake. If someone was here and had a good sleep schedule then Danny probably just woke them up.

A few minutes passed by before his hearing picked up movement in the apartment. One part of him jumped in excitement, while the other sank with anxiety. Was that Dick? Or was it one of his siblings? Damn, Danny should have gone through with this invisibly, that way if it is one of the siblings he won’t have to face them. But it was much too late for that now, he knew that there had to be at least one camera facing him right now. Maybe he can just pretend to be lost? But then why would he climb up so many floors just to ask for directions? He really should’ve thought this through…

Before he could sink any lower into his panic the door let out a click of a lock. Momentarily frozen, he watched as the door slithered open without so much as a creak. To his amazement, the Dick Grayson stood staring back. He looked tired and was dressed in comfortable civilian clothes, but it was Dick. Before anything could be said Dicks eyes went down to look into Danny’s. His eyebrows creased in confusion, no doubt surprised by the random visit.

“Danny?” Dick questioned, his voice sounding a bit rough around the edges.

Danny couldn’t help the disbelieving smile from creeping up on his face.

“Hey Dick,” He spoke, his grin never leaving his face. “I’ve really missed you.”

A small breathy laugh of shock left Dicks lips as he looked down at Danny. He loosened his stance at the door, seeming to relax now that he knew who was there. Danny couldn’t help but feel bad at the scare he must have given the other. 

“I hadn’t thought we’d be seeing each other again. It’s been…” 

Years, Danny finished in his head. We haven’t seen each other in years.

They initially met on the streets funnily enough. Danny had been on the run from the GIW and Dick had been freshly fired from Robin and kicked out of the manor. Not that either one knew that much of each other at first. Danny had been hiding in a warm corner of a building when Dick bumped into him trying to find a warm place to stay as well. Danny offered for him to stay, not seeing any danger in letting someone around his age stay with him. After that things got revealed slowly, like Dick realizing that Danny wasn’t just homeless, he was hiding. And Danny noticing the odd skills that Dick had and the way the other held himself back in other situations. Slowly their secrets were shared with each other… and they found that they didn’t mind.

Eventually, they drifted apart though. Jazz and his friends finally found a way to create him a safe identity and eventually, he enrolled himself in college, deciding to take a break from Phantom for a while. Dick ventured out and created the Titans, even forging a new hero identity for himself as Nightwing. They slowly just stopped talking to one another after that. Not out of malice or anything, but just because they got busy. Life took over. It was only when a life was taken away, that Danny frantically tried to find out what happened to his friend.

But now that he’s here in front of him… He’s noticing the same things he’d seen from when they were on the streets. Dick had bags under his eyes like he was watching the candle burn at both ends and doing nothing to stop it. His clothes weren’t just baggy, they were unwashed. There was a faint toothpaste drop on his shirt that had been attempted to be rubbed off… but to no avail. His hair was shiny with unwashed grease and grime. And his face… He didn’t look like he was eating enough.

Like a truck had hit him, Danny suddenly found himself much less happy than he was before. Something was wrong with his friend. And if the crystae around the grave that Nightwing was supposedly buried were any indication… then… 

Danny straightened his stance subconsciously. It seems like he was due a serious conversation with the other.

“Can I come in? I’d rather not have this kind of conversation in the hall,” Danny asked awkwardly, looking around himself as if there was another person that he could see.

To Danny's concern, Dick’s body tensed up at the prospect of letting him in. He swore he saw Dick grimace at that for a split moment before a plastered-on smile was on his face. Nonetheless, Dick opened the door with much less bravado than he would’ve years ago and waved him in.

“Welcome to my abode,” he tried to joke, but the tone felt forced.

Danny didn’t understand why the other had looked that way until he walked through the doorway. While he may be no Kryptonian with insane super everything, he did have enhanced senses. And every single one of those senses went off like a bomb when he walked into the apartment. There were dirty dishes and clothes haphazardly left around collecting mold and mildew. He could see a portion of the Nightwing suit stuffed into a corner like Dick had tried to hide it from his sight. There were more than a few bottles of soda and coffee mugs spread across the room, some carrying a scent that Danny could live without. Then there was a shattered photo face down on the side of the room, glass still spread around the frame like a horrific halo. 

But the worst was probably the energy of liminal surrounding the whole place. The emotional energy within it was heavy, grief and desperation covering every inch. Everything just screamed pain pain PAIN PAIN-

Danny had to close his eyes, steeling himself against immediately answering the cry. It went against his very core to go against the cry for help but he knew he’d only make things worse if he dived straight in. Dick wasn’t one to accept help easily. He’d shown that multiple times in his various rants about Bruce’s attempts to help as Robin. Instead, he had to go about this differently.

“Man, you almost outrank me in the messy department,” Danny tried to joke instead.

He turned to look at Dick who finished locking his apartment back up against intruders. Hopefully, his eyes weren’t glowing from the intense cries his core was trying to fight against. Dick seemed to attempt to go with the jab, his smile not looking all there.

“I doubt that. I'm not the one who lost his phone and found it in his shin,” Dick replied, settling himself further into the apartment. 

Danny scoffed, waving his hand in the air like he could physically wipe away the comment. Slowly they started to migrate to where the couch was. There were blankets and pillows at the end like Dick would fall asleep there. Judging by the open case files on the table in front of it, he didn't sleep on purpose. 

“I actually keep it in my arm now. Much more convenient,” Danny winked, hopping on the couch and letting himself bounce on the spring underneath. “Although I do keep everything else in my haunt. I can make little portals now!”

Without further notice, Danny opened one of the said portals with his hands. As he hoped, although in any other circumstance, he normally wouldn't, a group of blob ghosts were near his things. A couple of them filed through the gap, chirping up at him. However, that sense of play quickly left them as they felt the energy around the place. Silently they flew away, off to do what they do best. 

Danny saw a twitch of a real smile for a second on Dicks face. Although it was quickly shut down like a sour memory. Like he was trying to escape it, Dick joined him on the couch, sitting a whole cushion away. 

“Should I be worried about them?” Dick motioned his chin towards the silent blobs making their way into his things.

Danny waved them off, still playing into his old impulsivity. He wasn't nearly as bad as he was as a teenager, but Dick didn't have to know that yet. Dick gave a skeptical look at him, watching as one of the blob ghosts swallowed one of the dirty cups whole.

“They're like bottom feeders in a fish tank. At most, you'll just find less dirt around. At the least… you might gain a cuddle buddy,” Danny hummed, watching the same blob from before sneeze and drop a perfectly polished cup back out.

At that, Danny could see Dick turn to look at him in his peripheral vision. Turning to join him in looking right at one another he could see Dick staring at him. Dick held a look on his face that Danny couldn’t uncover. His eyes wandered over Danny’s face like he was searching for something. But the rest remained perfectly blank. It reminded Danny of when they were still teens, trying to see if they could trust one another. Dick had given a similar look then before he'd nodded and sat down to talk. Hopefully this time it'll be no different. 

Although, Danny doesn't know how to feel when Dicks face shuts down a little. He can feel the exhaustion in the air. Somehow he feels like he just failed whatever Dick was searching for.

“Danny, why are you really here?” Dick asked finally.

The question was so out of the blue, and the answer so obvious. Danny couldn’t help the way his head tilted in confusion, not understanding why such a thing had to be asked. This wasn’t at all how he had planned for their conversation to go. He had wanted to keep things light so that the emotions wouldn’t make Dick clam up… or lash out. His next words need to be chosen carefully…

“Because I was concerned. One of my good friends just came back from death and I needed to make sure you were ok. Dying isn't an easy thing to process,” Danny spoke carefully, his own experience trickling into his mind.

The words seemed to make Dick even more defensive. It was exactly the thing Danny had been trying to avoid. But despite everything his efforts still led him to this moment. Dick had his guard up, his eyes glaring into Danny’s core.

“Well I'm alive,” Dick spoke with terseness, “so why are you still here?”

“Because I care about you,” Danny reiterated, his confusion turning over into concern. “Dick, you died. That type of thing sticks with you. I'm not about to leave you to deal with that alone.”

Dick scoffed. He readjusted himself on the couch, sliding a bit farther from Danny. At this point, he was almost leaning on the edge. The physical representation of the distance between them hurt more than Danny was willing to admit. He hadn’t had Dick run from him before.

“Ignoring me for years is one hell of a way to show it,” Dick bit back.

A wave of annoyance hit Danny from the comment, but he instead closed his eyes and ignored it. Dick used to do this constantly when they were young. He'd use a healing mental wound to pick at to bring the other person away from his own hurt. Except Dick made the mistake of using it too many times on Danny in the past. He was old enough now to stop and learn from what he was trying.

Letting out a breath of air, Danny looked up into Dicks eyes. He could feel the pain all around him. The wails of someone touched by death echo all around. This wasn't something he could let go. No matter how much Dick tries to push him away, he isn’t going to go anywhere.

“Dick, I'm not asking you to tell me what happened… or even how you came back. I would know more than anyone how painful it can be to relive those memories. I'm just asking for you to let me stay and help you. You're not okay.”

If Danny's words made an impact on Dick, he sure as hell didn't show it. He looked away from Danny’s eyes, instead staring at something far off. His movements seemed almost robotic. Like there was some kind of memory playing in his head that Danny couldn’t see.

“Whoever said I died? I went undercover Danny. Nothing happened. Nothing to talk about.” Dick spoke with a scarily devoid tone of voice, almost like he was reciting someone else.

Danny couldn’t stop the scoff from coming out of his mouth. Dick looked his way again, seeming to be surprised at the action. As if he could simply lie his way out of death. Danny tried the denial shtick. You can only tell yourself it was nothing for so long before you realize that not breathing in your sleep is probably a sign. 

“Dick I saw your grave. I don't know the details because I wasn't exactly invited, but I saw the crystae flowers blooming around the dirt. Those only bloom around memorials for the dead,” Danny explained carefully, watching as Dick looked more and more like he'd panic. “Even now I can feel death's touch on you. Your place is soaked in liminal energy… I can feel that you're in pain.”

Danny was a little hesitant to reveal that last bit but knew that Dick would pick up on it eventually. Especially with Danny sticking around, that liminality would only get stronger. That's just how ectoplasm is. It won't stick onto a healthy person unless they've already been exposed to it. Depending on how long Dick had been dead, it might be more attracted to him.

Although now Danny couldn’t help but feel awful about it as he saw Dick flounder. He at least took his time in coming to terms with his death, he should've known an emotionally repressed bat wouldn't be able to handle it all at once. Danny tried to reach out a hand, as something for Dick to physically hold onto to stay in the present. But in a moment of fear, Dick slapped it away. He jumped up from his spot on the couch, never looking at the same spot for more than a couple of seconds. 

“Dick I'm sor-” Danny tried to apologize but Dick started to do a panicked angry rambling right over him. 

“No! It doesn't count. I didn’t die. My heart only stopped for a couple of minutes. I was fine. Everything is fine!” He tried to reason to himself, his pacing taking a hysterical turn.

Danny winced at that. It doesn't matter how long you die. Ectoplasm doesn't care about that, only that you have some kind of exposure to it. Even in the first seconds of death you already create the energy for ectoplasm in the body. How much was created, and how much was in the air already, is what determines if you become a ghost. It's a natural part of life.

“Dick please,” Danny began again, but was stopped by Dicks piercing stare.

“I didn't die, Danny. I didn't die because that would mean he was right and I can't-” 

Dick let out a noise somewhere between a gasp for air and a dry sob. It tore at Danny's core to hear but considering how Dicks reaction to the last time he tried to reach out went, he stayed in place. One of the blob ghosts must have felt his pain, rushing over and chirping into Dicks chest. It caught the other off guard long enough to stop and take a few ragged breaths of air. The blob continued its chirping assault of cuddling into Dicks chest while the other refused to look at Danny. But in that moment Danny couldn’t have felt any more thankful for the blobs and didn't mind if Dick needed a moment. So they sat there for a moment, Dick sitting in his emotions and Danny waiting for him to calm down. 

The air was charged with a tone of sorrow. It was the kind that Danny was all too familiar with. It was the kind that left you feeling that there was no chance for your life to be happy again. The kind where everything felt like it had fallen apart all around you with no hope of it being repaired. It tore at Danny’s heart that Dick of all people was left to feel this way. Where were all the people that should be here supporting him? Where was his family in all of this? Surely Danny can’t be the only one to see the pain Dick is in.

“How…”

Danny looked up at Dick who seemed to be at a loss of what to say. He wasn’t looking up at him at all, only absentmindedly playing with the blob curled against his chest. 

“How did you get over it?” Dick spoke again, now looking up at Danny with an unsure gaze. “How can you just go on with your life without it constantly playing in the back of your head?”

Danny pursed his lips, knowing that his answer wasn’t one that Dick would like. Just at the action alone, he could see the little hope in the other's eyes die out. He once again turned his head to the blob ghost. With a gentle hand, Dick pets the back of the ghost's body.

“I’ve never gotten over my death. With help from my friends and sisters, I was able to accept it and heal from it… but I can never forget it,” Danny spoke solemnly.

He couldn’t help but notice the way Dicks petting movements momentarily paused at the mention of his support. It sent an alarm of concern through Danny. While he was here he couldn't believe that things could get so bad around here. There was just too much time in the layers of sadness and grime for this to be new. So why hasn't anyone tried to stop it and help? There was a disturbing painting being made before his eyes. For the sake of the heroes on this planet, he sure hopes his suspicion is wrong.

“But I promise you, Dick, that this is not the end. It might not seem like it, but things will get better,” Danny promised, something he didn’t take lightly. “I will be here to do everything I can to help you heal.”

Dick didn’t say anything back for a long time. He simply played with the blob on his chest, flicking its tail side to side in between his fingers. The blob certainly didn’t seem to mind, blubbering little chirps to itself. Neither did Danny, who could see that this was a bit too much at once for Dick. 

“Are you still retired?” Dick asked eventually, looking up at Danny with a begging look.

It was one that Danny could recognize. One that was asking for them to try and pretend that nothing was wrong. To give him time to break away from reality and think things over with himself. So Danny let the conversation lead off. It would just be more damaging than helpful to continue on this path. So, conceding to Dicks wordless pleas, Danny let it go.

“Technically. But I wouldn’t mind going back out again if it means I can work with the great Nightwing,” Danny smiled, hoping to bring back the light atmosphere of before.

It seemed to work if the small smile that Dick gave was any indication. Danny hadn’t realized how happy he would be to see a real, albeit small, smile from the other again. Giving a last pat on the blob ghost's head, Dick walked over to where half of the Nightwing suit was discarded.

“Then I hope you still have your spirit,” Dick quipped back, stepping away towards a hallway. “Cause I won’t be going easy on you old man.”

Danny scoffed at the old nickname, jumping off the couch in fake offense. Although it was much too late to say anything about it before Dick scampered down the hall. He could hear a door open and close, signaling Dick is putting his suit on. Danny doesn’t envy the suit that Dick has to put on. Who would’ve thought that putting on a skin-tight suit might take someone a bit?

Luckily Danny didn’t have to even lift a finger. Letting out a breath he let the cold of his core take over, feeling a rush of weightlessness hit him. Knowing that he still had plenty of time to wait for Dick, Danny turned and opened another temporary portal. This time he had opened it directly to his keep, spotting Fright Knight in the distance.

“Frighty,” Danny called into the portal, half laughing to himself as the said knight nearly jumped. “I need a favor from you.”

After years of beating up multiple ghosts, quite a few of the citizens of the realms held respect for Danny. Honestly, it was refreshing to be able to just talk with half of the ghosts he used to fight. While he still held fights with them, cause it’s a form of affection apparently, things had cooled off for the most part. 

Which means it allowed Danny to get to know a lot of them better. This is how he found out that Fright Knight was cursed to serve the king. Thankfully with a little help from Jazz studying the books in Ghost Writers library and a surprisingly life-or-death adventure, Danny freed the ghost. This led to Fright Knight giving his servitude to Danny… which kinda undermines the whole point of the adventure in the first place but it wasn’t Danny’s place to judge.

“What can I do you for, Sir Phantom?” Fright Knight asked, getting closer to the portal and standing guard right outside it.

Oh yeah, and had he forgotten to mention the nickname? Yeah, it bothered Danny too. Although he’s learned that there's not much he can do to change it.

“There are some mortals I’d like to keep an eye on. They are the vigilantes of Gotham,” Danny proposed, making it a suggestion even though he knows Fright Knight will just do anything he says anyway. “Could you look over them for me?”

Fright Knight gave a deep bow before stepping through the portal. His extremely tall frame still absolutely dwarfed Danny in size. Which means it was kinda funny to watch him step through a portal that was sized for Danny's height. He's just so used to making a portal no bigger than that that he hadn’t even considered it.

“I would be honored,” The ghost replied, to which Danny nodded with a thankful smile.

“Thank you Frighty. I’ll check in with you every once in a while,”

And with those last words, Fright Knight nodded and disappeared. He tended to be less on the wordy side anyway.

Was it smart to send someone to spy on the bats? Probably not. But chances are, Dick isn’t going to say anything. Unfortunately, Dick had a mentality that he had to deal with things that are hurting him on his own. Whether from a sense of guilt or fear of not being enough, Dick would rather lead himself into the deep end than call for help. So to figure out why he’s been left so hauntingly alone, Danny is going to have to investigate. Thankfully just him going ghost had already scrambled Dicks security cameras, so the entire conversation wouldn’t be noticed.

The sound of a door closing took Danny out of his thoughts. He turned to the opening of the hallway, feeling himself smile at Dick. It’s been a very long time since he’s seen Dick in costume. The last time he saw the Nightwing suit in person it had honest-to-god tassels. He’s honestly really glad that Dick had changed the costume since then. This new suit in front of him was much more sleek. 

As he nodded to himself he could see Dick raising an eyebrow at him. He stood much more relaxed than before, a smile that didn't look entirely fake on his face.

“At least you’ve gained some sense of style after all this time,” Danny hummed, finding delight in Dicks scandalized gasp.

“I thought you loved the old costume!” Dick said, trying and failing to smother his amusement with an upset face.

Danny shrugged and folded his legs underneath him. It felt so easy to use his powers like this again. While he wasn’t exactly shy to use his powers normally, his range of them was muted in human form. As he hovered in place, he tilted his head teasingly at the other.

“Sorry, I was so busy staring at your chest that I missed what you were wearing,”

Dicks off guard laughter was the best thing Danny had heard in years.

[radiance1]

Danny often felt tired, as of late.

He wasn't certain as to why he did, though. It happened after his, apparent, coronation as the Prince of the Infinite Realms and after finally getting a boyfriend out of that damsel in distress who made him into one.

Which was unfortunate, because though he may try, it was very hard to pay attention on dates when Danny felt he just came from using the Ecto-Skeleton and no amount of sleep would make it go away. Fortunately, however, Billy was very understanding and accommodating of his plight, letting him sleep on him whenever he wanted and having their dates be less mentally/physically demanding things.

Man, Danny loved his boyfriend.

Unfortunately, he was away on one of his Justice League mission things.

Another thing he noticed, is that he liked to sleep in more cold places now. Very, very cold places.

So much so, that he genuinely debated moving to the Far Frozen if not for his parents turning his room into a literal walk-in freezer for him.

Did he ever find out why he needs to sleep so much? No, not really. But man.

Danny could go down for a nap right now.

---

Pariah was having a good, very good day.

He woke up, stretched, ate some food he didn't actually need to, did some light exercises after aeons of not using his sword and just fighting in general and sat down for some tea.

Even had a letter from the Master of Time with a P.S that two humans would be busting down his door!

Wait what-

"Ghost King!" Came the rather loud, effeminate shout accompanying the loud slam of his castle doors. "Where is our son!"

Honestly, Pariah is impressed by the lungs on that human.

"You heard her!" He looked down calmly at the... Actually, what in the infinite is that? Since when did humans go walking around with cannons??? "Tell us where our son is our so help me! Ghost King or not we'll exorcise you right where you stand!"

Pariah blinked slowly, very, very slowly.

Then took a sip of his favorite ghost blend then calmly placed the cup back down.

"You must be the boy's, human, parents I presume?" He asked calmly, gaze sweeping over them both. They seemed to be prepared for war, a burning fire in their eyes as they stared down the very King of Infinity and saw only an obstacle.

Oooooh, how that made the part of him that longed, sung for battle purr in sheer delight.

"Why don't you join me for tea?" He said, waving a hand and conjuring forth two extra, human sized, chairs on the opposing end of his table alongside two more tea cups. "And explain whatever is going on, while you're at it."

The two shared a glance between each other, then slowly lowered their weapons down to a point where they could still draw them at a moment's notice, yet not actively antagonizing the king at the same time-

Oh, he just loves these types of mortals.

-before slowly making their way to their seats, which were right next to each other of course. Married and whatnot.

"Tea?" He flicked a finger, filling their cups with the same that was in his cup but before remembering. "Ah, right. Human and your mortality." He casually mentioned, flicking his finger and changing the liquid to one of the few mortal blends he could still recall. "Worry not, for they are not poisoned." He chuckled lightly.

Honestly, doing such a thing would be beneath him, especially when faced with mortals of such fire.

"Now," He brought his cup to his lips. "Why don't you inform me as to what, exactly, has brought you to my doorstep prepared for battle?"

They, once more, exchanged a glance between each other, making sure the king was still in sight before Maddie opened her lips.

"Our son is missing."

---

The summoning was a success.

A terrible, terrible success.

One that the Justice League, One John Constantine especially, had valiantly attempted to stop.

But, unfortunately, once it got going it seemed to be incapable of stopping.

Faced with an entity being summoned from the Infinite Realms, they had called all of the heroes who were capable that weren't occupied. Shazam, unfortunately, was one of said heroes occupied.

Superman and Wonderwoman? Were not. So, at the very least, they had two of their heaviest hitters available.

The circle glowed a toxic green, growing and growing in glow until it reached its zenith.

Then was snuffed out as brightly as it glowed.

The air stilled, followed by a chill that rivaled the chilliest of snowstorms as if they were standing within one that very moment.

The next moment?

Ice.

Pure, unflinching, jagged pillars of ice rose from the circle the same moment it glow returned. Sticking out from the circle haphazardly and nearly impaling those that stood too close.

Mist, thick, blue mist. Rolled from the pillars of ice, descending down onto the floor with a gentleness that was almost deceptive if not occupied by such cold and being completely and utterly unnatural as it was.

The Justice League readied themselves.

[comicaurora]

Do you have any advice for trying to avoid ripping off other people's works in original stories? I've been stuck in a weird writers block where anything I do to try and string plots together end up just being plots of other stuff I've read. Is that a problem you've come across before?

Honestly? This might be a hot take, but just get it out of your system. Write the story that's just your three favorite plots in a trenchcoat. Any writing will make you better at writing. To me, this is the storytelling equivalent of doing frame redraws or art style challenges. Art done for practice doesn't need to be free of all influence, and in fact pursuing that total originality is detrimental to the learning process because it forces you to continuously reinvent the wheel.

In my experience, through the process of just writing what you want to write how you want to write it, you'll find both that it's easier to find originality in the execution than you expected, and that originality has very little correlation with what makes a story good. When you go to write the plot you recognize as the plot of something else, you'll probably find yourself making changes. A different character moment to highlight an overlooked concept that spoke to you, a slightly more cruel twist of fate for a character to wrangle. Little original concepts will find their way in, because having ideas is the driving motivator behind creating art. It's always there, even if it's being sneaky or uncooperative.

Most of the time, inspiration is less "this story is good I think I'll replicate it in every detail" and more "I love parts A, B and C of this story, which tells me valuable information about the kinds of story elements I find compelling, which helps me guide my own writing towards things that involve the parts I like most about A, B and C." You'll always be able to recognize your own influences, but from the audience's external perspective, the you-ness that defines your art is much more obvious than it'll ever be to you.

[literallyjusttoa]

"Sunny!" you cry, "Why did you draw the entire Trojan royal family from oldest to youngest in two days? That seems wildly unhealthy!"

"hurghhhhhhhh" I reply.

Anyways here's the full family portrait

(Only four of these people survive the Trojan war btw :D)