a/n: this is literally just 904 words about making out w a tired, sweaty luke in that striped shirt
The cobalt sheen of his irises zeroed in brazenly to your perched figure, a curled smirk slipping across his lips as his torso leaned against the metal door frame. Horizontal stripes did him nothing but justice, drawing out the under exaggerated area of his shoulders. The muscles in his bicep flexed as his fingers found the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, scratching there as his eyes lifted into a further smile. A sliver of pale skin above his boxers made it’s appearance, an exposure to his slender hips that quickly made your eyes avert and heart rate increase.
A hand fell behind your perched figure, the pinch of your shoulder blades falling against the cinder block wall as your legs swung underneath the table filled with hours old catering. Absently, you twirled his Bulls snapback around your loosely curled fist, tilting your head, “Looking for this?”
Luke’s steady gait matched the slow curl of his fist as he rubbed at his sleep filled eyes. Adrenaline had worn off quick, left in the hallway by the sharp bounces elicited as he shrugged off his guitar behind the curtains to the tune of thousands of screaming fans. You didn’t have much time to be amazed by how breathtakingly hot a tired Luke looked, even blanketed in the cute gestures of a small child. His stature towered over your seated figure. his thumbs spanning to the inside of your thighs as he leaned toward you.
Cerulean eyes grey navy around the edges, his pupils dilated as his neck craned. Silently, he slipped his hat from your grasp to lay it somewhere near a half eaten apple, fingertips curling around your back to tuck you into his waist. You gasped, keratin in your nails scraping the cheap plastic of the fold out table as you were drawn forward. His smirk was tired, fingers dancing across your outer thigh to the underside of your knee, drawing your left leg to hook around his waist.
“The show was amazing, as always,” Your hand wandered to his sweaty tendrils, drawing the darkened blond out piece by piece to sweep past his forehead in a settlement of soft curls. “You were amazing.”
Luke hummed in the back of his throat, eyebrows pinching and forehead pleating each time your fingers made contact with his skin. The hinge in his neck seemed to snap, face burying to the crook of your neck. A single finger hooked to the collar of your shirt, drawing it away to mouth at the exposure of your collarbone. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.”
“You’re so sweaty,” You giggled, crinkling your nose as the wetness of his hair rubbed to the underside of your jaw, “and very tired.”
His lips sponged a purposeful path up your neck, spending a particular amount of time on a fading bruise masked in a specific layer of makeup. “Sweaty, tired, and overwhelmed with how bad I want you, sweetheart.”
The pulse point in your neck thumbed painful as your heart raced, hand instinctively falling against his wrist that cupped your face. “Not here,” Your plead was halfhearted, somewhere between desire and practicality.
His lips won the argument that your brain refused to resolve. Forearms bracketed your face, the beads of sweat glistening against his pale complexion as the feverish massage of his mouth worked away the kinks in your conscious. He was impossibly warm, an shocking outcast to the biting texture to the slope of the hoop in his plump bottom lip. He was intoxicating, tasting of his mint gum he chewed before every gig and the bitter salt burning over his chapped lips.
Yours hands grew so spastic (against his wrists, rubbing against his beard, falling over his broad shoulders, finally tugging so hard at his slightly curled hairs that began to fluff at the ends) that he gently, slid his thumb to the middle of your palm, his smallest digit setting against your wrist to guide your hands across his waist. A smile curved into his kisses as he found the corner of your mouth to the underside of your jaw, coaxing you back onto your elbows. He made slow working of drawing out the tuck of your shirt from your belt, skirting the rough texture of his palms against your bare stomach as the tip of his index finger toyed at the underwire of your bra.
Even there, you held your body weight as your fingers worked at the cotton material of his shirt. The black and white hugged at his waist, a struggle that extracted a single syllable laugh from his parted lips. His mouth left your skin, drawing backwards as his hands covered yours, rolling the hem back across his hips.
Your chest heaved, the sweat beads gathering over your forehead a greater collection than that of Luke’s. The swollen red of his lips mirrored the high blush of your cheeks, the accusing narrow of your eyelids a comical contrast to the amused crinkle of his own. Self-assured not only in his stage presences further confirmed.
“What-” It didn’t come out as a question, more of a breathed syllable to fill the intense gaze he set forth. Yet he didn’t allow it to properly fester, instead drawing his open mouth against yours once more.
He drew your bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled away, index finger setting on your chin to gently tap at your pursed lips. “Not here,” He rasped softly, almost mockingly, “Isn’t that what you said, darling?”
Closure’s a funny thing. In the strictest sense,
its purpose is to bring about a conclusion, a resolution to something ongoing. There’s
a feeling of finality associated with it – the sense of wiping a slate clean,
or, at the very least, the closing of a door, most likely forever.
People claim that closure is necessary for
humans to be able to move forward with their lives, and this is true – an open,
festering wound will always draw your attention to it; preventing you from being
able to think about anything else. You cannot be healthy if you are constantly
focusing on what ails you. The wound needs to be cleaned and stitched up. It
may never heal completely, and it may always serve as a reminder that once
there was a wound, but closure gives you permission to move past it, to allow
yourself to move forward.
The first five episodes of this season have
been a study in the art of closure. The wounds that have
festered for seasons and through hiatuses have been given their due
restoration, one by one. It began with something physical – Oliver’s decision to
remove the dragon tattoo forcibly etched onto his skin by Slade Wilson. Oliver’s
scars and tattoos are, as much as anything, a physical representation of his
wounds, and for a long time he was unable to move past what they represented,
what horrors they reminded him of. When he chooses to remove a tattoo that he
no longer “needs”, the implication is that he is finally allowing himself to let
go of the guilt associated with it, and to move forward with his life. At the
end of ‘Haunted’ we see John Constantine literally magic a tattoo onto Oliver’s
skin, and this tattoo serves not as a symbol of guilt, but a potential source
Closure is emotional as well as physical. When Oliver left Starling City at the end of last season, he left behind a lot of loose ends. Several of his relationships were in various stages of disrepair. The only relationship he had that was truly “intact” was with Felicity, and that relationship has been a consistently strong undercurrent this year, as Oliver returns to a city new in more than just name, and as he navigates his way through to finding resolution and a common ground with the people in his life.
The thing about closure is that it can be a double-edged sword. Yes, it allows you to move on from things that serve no positive purpose in your life – emotions like anger and grief. But it also forces you to re-examine and let go of the things that anchor or shackle you to one spot. Closure can often mean compromise – letting go of a position that you may strongly believe in, but which is not allowing you to move forward with your life. That’s how I felt when trying to understand the Laurel-Oliver interactions in this episode. There’s so much that I could say regarding my feelings towards Laurel in this episode – and I will – but there’s also an attitude that, if this episode is in effect providing closure to the whole idea of L/O, and if we can finally move past the drama and the judgement and focus on the relationships that matter to Oliver, then, well…I’ll take it. I’ll compromise with the things that drew my ire in an effort to move on and let myself heal.
(N.B. Sections of this review will be harsh on a character that you may like. Feel free to stop here if that is something you wish to avoid.)