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They mad at jay hug not posted up in the gym. I think it’s ok. bc even with chicken legs and a glass shoulder he still mogs in every regard. Athleticism and hot.
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HOLY SHITTTT JHUGH I LOVE CHOCOLATE MILK TOO😭😭😭 I love chocolate milk so much 😭😭
#Wveryone saying shave it you don’t understand He just fucking loves chocolate milk…#Also big tough guy with sweater paws. Chocolate milk mustache and sweater paws lethal combo#And the legs. No comment. U guys saw nemec at the gym yesterday ???😭😭😭
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And lowk i also have an idea for a kaner thing. Itll get -5 notes but its for the arts not the cahrts
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I think I’m having mean!jack/m86 withdrawals
IM SAWRYYYYYYYY its bc of school :( let me see if i can cook smth
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Saw a Patrick Kane edit will be needing ur writing soon 🫨
how r u gonna say that and not share w the class </3 here i’ll go first
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do u recommend reading m86 in posting order chronological order?
you do youuuuu but id personally say posting order, because of little things i allude to in the beginning that get expanded more on and become revelations later on :) like i think Radio nowhere to me is a great summation of the whole overall storys vibes and what to expect and things like their first time and the night before he leaves are hinted at in it so its fun to read those moments in full later on
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Jack thank you i look just like my mommy hughes
#Jack no i still haven’t watched my mommy’s career playing highlights hughes#Further i finally read at the clinic and i think he suffers similarly to connell in i dont view women as ppl syndrome hehehehehhe
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you and jack in your ♡ FRIENDSHIP ♡ era (2024ish-2025ish) when he’s being totally nice and sucking up to you, trying to make good after being so bad and mean and awful his whole life to you. you’re being good with ur resolutions too and putting up boundaries and such and when he snogs you it’s totally by accident and you only let it happen cuz ur just too stunned to react.
and then hes panting apologies against your mouth and in that split second hes catching his breath you shove him off and hes wiping his spit off your lips with his thumb (but doesn’t wipe your spit off of his, nuh uh he’s licking his lips like he could drink it back in) and then ruffling your hair, pulling you back into his chest, grinning wide, the sick freak. "sorry kiddo. i only meant to do this," he murmurs, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "got distracted. my bad."
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school starts next week but i still have to write their reunion sex when jack comes back the first time and hate sex when he hears ur first song go viral and their very first hook up and theirfirst time having real actual boyfriend girlfriend we love each other sex and all the other freaking sexes in between 😰😰😰😰😰😰😰😰😰😰😰😰
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they remind me soooo much of nate and cassie (in the best way)
then ik im doing something right🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
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I Post A Hughes A Day Until The Season Starts - Day 116
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I LOVE LOVE LOVE WHEN YOU WRITE JACK SUPER MEAN!!!!!
ME TOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#Im always scared im gonna go too far and im gonna have haters in my inbox so this just made me smile soooooo super big!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#I love you!!!!!!!!!#m86 asks
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#Rots anakin for those with eyes to see#Long pretty curly hair eye scar :) rabid dog wit worms in his brain
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star shopping
jack hughes x reader
word count 2.0k
content warnings- very mean, vague sh reference, slapping but its all fun you’ll like it trust me!!!!!!!!😸😸😸
can be read as a vignette but check the rest of the series!


july 2019
You’re sobbing dizzily like you were never gonna see him again. Like he’s gonna die, like they’re shipping him off to go meet his end, and really, it’s so dramatic and silly, he just wants to hit you. It’s not cute, your face is all blotchy and red and wet and you can’t see him leering at you with the most vacant stare, completely unaffected by your tears.
“Are we like, not gonna…” he trails off. He was sat at the headboard of his bed, arms crossed because it was sort of cold, and you’d only gotten as far as getting his hoodie off over his head with your trembling shaky hands before you dropped your head and started your crying.
It was the night before he was leaving for Newark. You’d known it would come. It wasn’t sprung on you out of nowhere, he’d been projected to go in the first round for a while now, and you had just prayed Detroit would pick him. You felt like it was reasonable. They had the sixth pick and surely there were five better players than Jack.
But no. He had to go and be god’s gift and have the best hands to ever hold a hockey stick. Then there was the whole victory lap, him getting paraded around the city in a pj, trying to get girls to lift their shirts for him. Salt in the wound. You wanted to hit him.
His cool, easy tone made you see red. You do hit him. Rather you kind of just, lunge at him aggressively with no clear attack. Your vision was cloudy, so your sparring mirrors that of a feral cat. You have no defensive play, so when Jack flips you on your back and pins you down, all you can do is thrash under him, choking on your spit.
He gets his hands on your shoulders, throttling you. “Jesus, fuck. Calm down.”
“Asshole,” you sob. You say other things but they’re unintelligible through your tears.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“I’m not fucking dying,” he seethes. “Are you alright? Like, in the fucking head? I think you’re insane. Genuinely. I think you should see someone. You have mental problems.”
You start kicking again so he sits back on your thighs. He grabs your wrists and holds those, squeezing. You were in a long sleeve and he knew about what you did and if he could guess, you’d probably done it again, maybe recently, since it was summer and you were in a sweater. So when he squeezes he hopes it hurts a little.
“No,” you sputter out. “I don't.”
“I think you have delusions. I promise I’m not joking.”
“Jack–”
“Because– listen,” he leans his face in. “Listen, alright? You’re listening?” He doesn’t wait for you to nod. “I, me, Jack, I’m not your fucking boyfriend.” There’s so much venom and hate and some spit even lands on your cheek and you’re shrinking in on yourself, trying to get smaller, so he gets closer. “I don’t like you. I've never liked you. You’re easy. That’s all you are. So if you’re gonna keep crying about me leaving, if you’re not gonna let me fuck you, then get the fuck out of my room. Get the fuck out of my house.”
You don’t even have anything good to say. Even if you tried. Nothing could hurt him.
“Okay,” you say, flat and calm. Mimicking his own vacant unaffectedness from earlier. As if his little outburst was unwarranted. As if the remnants of your own tantrum weren't evident in your puffy red eyes.
Jack huffs out an exhale. He keeps both your wrists in one hand and moves the other up your sweater, tugging it up over your chest. He doesn’t get it all the way off, doesn’t wanna have to look at what you did.
He knows it’s not because of him, but part of him wonders. And he gets mad at you for doing it and mad at himself for caring and mad at you again for making him wonder in the first place. So he pushes the thought out completely and gropes at your chest, rolling his hips against yours. You moan a little, gasping soft at the friction. Jack leans over you, hissing in your ear. “My fucking parents are here.”
You hardly made a sound at all so you glare at him. “Oh, but it's your house, I thought.”
He slaps you a little, not as hard as he wants but enough to make your eyes go wide, and then he covers your mouth, clamping his palm tight over it.
Maybe he wanted your tears. Maybe he liked that. You wouldn’t give him more if you could help it. Except if he asked, if when he slapped you he told you cry for me then you think maybe, fine, if that’s what it takes, if then you’ll like me a little.
“Can’t even let me be nice to you,” he mumbles, shucking your shorts down your legs before he spreads your thighs, settling himself between. “You’ve gotta- fuck,” he falters a little, losing it when he gets inside, working up a rhythm. “You- you’re annoying as fuck, all this fucking– crying.”
You like it, you wanna say, you love it. He wrenches a muffled little whimper out of you and it’s got his eyes rolling back.
It doesn’t even make you mad. Maybe because he was hitting so deep it made you dumb and boneless and pacified. Makes you forget he’s leaving and all the girls he’s gonna do this to when he’s ten hours by car or two by plane away from you. His grip on your mouth loosens a little and when you whine a little he shoves his fingers in your mouth, gets you quiet that way.
He could be doing this with another girl right now, you think, and decide to be briefly delighted that it’s you he’s fucking right now instead. This could be it, the end forever. Might never happen again. You wrap your legs around his waist and he drops down onto his forearms, bracketing your head, panting now. You hold him closer, try and savor it, locking your ankles at the small of his back.
You stare at his face. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut but you’ll never forget the blue of his. You hope it’s not the end. You’d rather have him mean forever than never again.
You know begging is pointless. He wouldn’t stay for a girl. He doesn’t even like you. Some small child inside you warbles out a desperate little please, please, and you don’t even know what she’s asking for. He called you delusional earlier. He was probably right. Could you be delusional if you acknowledged that you might be?
“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, you can come.”
You gasp when you do and he doesn’t even get mad at the sound, maybe because it helps get him off too. In any case. You shut your eyes and pretend he’s saying yeah, you can come with me to Jersey, drop out of school and you can come with me everywhere, I want you to come with me, stay with me, be with me.
He yawns and drops his head down on your chest. You keep him there even when his heavy head starts to weigh on you. You don’t care. For all you knew you’d never feel it again, and he would always be your favorite burden.
It’s only because he feels bad for roughing you up. Because now when you should be crying, you’re not, and it unnerves him. You’d just been staring up at the ceiling, making shapes out of the flattened popcorn patterns.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a little croaky, trying to snap you out of it. He pats at your cheek, a softer kind of slap. He felt a little bad for doing that earlier, now.
You blink down at him, gaze so empty and tired his gut twists.
Jack grimaces. He rubs at the bone of your hip with his thumb. “You hungry?”
You shrug. It’s better than a ‘no’, and even if it was, he’d force something down your throat anyway. But you meet him halfway, which he’s glad for, because it means he doesn’t have to wrestle you into his car. He could say anything and you'd agree to it, would do anything to make your time with him last longer.
This is how you arrive at a McDonald’s drive thru at two in the morning, when he should really be asleep, because he’s got an early flight. But he was too wired now, with you, who's got too much to say but afraid to talk or say any of it, which he’s both relieved but also guilty for because it’s on him for making you feel that way.
"I want ice cream," you tell him. It's the first time you've spoken in a while, so it startles him. He squeezes your thigh and orders you a cone.
The worker says the machine's down, so Jack starts rolling up the window. You whine at him, tapping his arm. "What're you doing?"
"We can go to a different one, there's like, so many."
"No, just stay, it's fine."
"You want ice cream, though."
"Jackkk," you groan, covering your face, so you couldn't watch him pull out of the line, driving to the next closest one.
"They just shouldn't sell ice cream if they're never gonna have the machine working," he says after a while of dead air. You're curled up in the seat, scared and small, a frightened cat. He squeezes your thigh again. "Dude, relax."
"I'm so annoying," you say miserably.
"You're not annoying. I want ice cream too."
You sigh and pat his hand. He pulls it away quick, like he'd been caught with something he shouldn't have been doing. Only doling out affection if you wouldn't acknowledge it.
Once you get your cones he parks the car and kills the engine. Your back's against the door and your legs are over the center console, feet in his lap as you lick at the ice cream.
"I shouldn't have said some things," Jack says it casual, mid lick, because he never apologizes even when he should and when he does he's not going to make it this big, ceremonious thing. "I just don't wanna like, make you think it's something that it's not. Don't want you like, waiting around for me, or some shit."
"M'not."
He nods, staring at the cream all over your lips a little too heatedly before he wrenches his gaze away and focuses on the steering wheel.
"Like, we had fun. Yeah?"
"Yeah, mhm."
"And I'm gonna like, come back around sometimes. So we can, if you want, whenever I'm..." Jack huffs. "I don't know. Or whatever."
"Yeah."
"Yeah?"
You nod. "I know that you're just saying all this to make me feel better. You don't need to. I know you don't mean it."
"I do mean it," he frowns. His hand moves to your thigh before he pulls it away like it was scalding. He had to stop that. He was an ass for giving you this false hope as it was, he didn't need to lay it on this thick and be this touchy, even if it felt as natural as breathing. "I do mean it."
You roll your eyes a little.
"Fuck you, don't believe me," he laughs. "Just tryna be nice."
"But you're not nice," you say, sort of soft and with a smile too, and that gets him in a way he wasn't expecting.
He pauses before leaning over the middle, seeing if you'll meet him half way. It takes you a second, you stare at him a little unfocused, a little confused before you do, and he's taking your cheek in his hand and pulling you closer to kiss.
Which, arguably, was the meanest thing he'd done all night.
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