#gonna start trying to get through my inbox

[mellohiizz]

Mutiny duo yuri my beloved…

i agree anon

they hate each other (i think)

[hyaciiintho]

🌸｡*ﾟ+. THIS IS A TEST POST !! This is not an actual inbox call, I just wanted to test and see how the graphic would look posted to tumblr ;; ;; Might use this when doing inbox calls and then a copy/paste text body.

With that being said-- how do people feel about a "permanent" inbox call post? Just for my own reassurance so I don't feel like I'm bothering people but don't wanna like... constantly make a new inbox call post. Basically just a list of people commenting below a post, one that maybe specifies whether people prefer random IC interactions or want asks leaning more to IC questions/ooc headcanons stuff?

I know it's silly because if we're mutuals, we shouldn't be afraid to reach out to each other, BUT !! I also know some people do not like random asks, so... it would just be for the sake of... "You have permission to send random things whenever you feel like it" but of course it's not like I'm expecting you to answer things immediately after I send them either.

But yeah, just a thought! If it seems too silly I'll just keep making individual posts each time ♡ c':

[ddejavvu]

do you think hiccup would be down for period sex? like when he sees his partner in so much pain and discomfort all he wants to do is make them feel good

The Red Death - Hiccup Haddock x Reader

contents/warnings: smut, minors dni. afab!fem!reader, period sex, blood, fingering as foreplay, don't like don't read.

a/n: yes i giggled when i decided on the title. what's it to you. this wasn't meant to be anything more than like 500 words maybe? but i just ended one of the worst periods of my entire life so this connected with something deep and primal inside of me. do you know how many times i've jacked it while on my period to be able to bring you this. everyone thank me for my hard work and arduous research.

wc: 2.2k / navigation / inbox / summer of series

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you this is gonna be gross. And messy," You peer nervously up at Hiccup, feeling greedy despite having been placated through each step of the process thus far.

"And I don't know how many times I have to tell you that I don't care." Hiccup levels you with a stern smirk, "We have three sheets laid out. Three. If we can wash- well, you know, the normal mess out of one, we can wash this out of three."

"We can burn them for all I care," You throw a hand over your face, hiding behind it like it shields you entirely, "I'm talking about us. You will be messy. Your- I mean it's gonna get all over you! Your hands and your thighs and... It's just going to be a big bloody mess."

"Have you forgotten that you're talking to an amputee? I only have one leg." Hiccup narrows his eyes at you, "This won't be the first time I see a big bloody mess but it'll at least be miles better than the last time I saw one."

"I don't know about that," You hum resignedly, and Hiccup straightens the pillow beneath your hips one final time before crawling onto the bed and straddling your hips.

"I do. Just relax. Keep your eyes closed, if you want." He offers, his hands braced on your belly that's churning, but with anxiety or with cramping you can't discern, "Let's just try it once, and if it goes south we don't ever have to even talk about it again."

You're more worried that he'll have a change of heart midway through, disgusted by the crimson staining every inch of his skin, and decide he never wants to talk with you about anything ever again, but you're sure voicing that concern would only make things worse, so you clamp your jaw shut and keep your hand firmly planted over your eyes.

You can feel him peel away your underwear, your panty liner surely a gruesome sight. That's another thing you hadn't considered- you should have disposed of it beforehand! - but if he cares, he doesn't mention it. He starts with his hands on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the crease between thigh and groin. Then he moves for the lips of your sex, gently parting them and getting a glimpse of your red-soaked cunt.

You're sure you're a mess inside and out, but his movements don't contain hesitation. They're gentle, like he always is, but sure in the same way. It's comforting, reassuring to know that he hasn't abandoned ship yet.

"I'm probably wet enough just from the blood." You admit, still blinded by your palm, embarrassed to even speak the thought aloud, "You don't have to prep me."

"I want to." He hums, his voice soft as his finger runs lightly down your slit, inducing a shiver that shoots straight to your core, "I'm not doing this to get my rocks off, this is for you."

He'd made that clear from the get-go, but something funny still happens in your stomach when he says it. He's always been caring, thoughtful, intentional, but you rarely get to appreciate it during your lust-crazed quickies the way you do now, laid bare and vulnerable for the man slowly staining his fingers red for you.

You're sure by now he's messy, but part of you still wants to believe that somehow, the well has run dry, and he's seeing you at your best down there. But he never backs off, only gently putting pressure against your slit to breach your lips and grant him access to the wet, hot sex beneath.

Your hips involuntarily squirm against the pillow beneath them as he presses one finger in, carefully guiding it in slow, stroking motions that get deeper the more he repeats them. They're shallow at first, barely diving a quarter of the way into your full depth. But as you settle on the pillow again he pushes deeper, until he's reached the spongy spot deep within you that's already feeling strange. It's an awkward feeling, being touched so deeply, pleasurable when paired with other sensations but not enough on its own to induce any toe-curling pleasure. As such, all you do is gasp, and he draws his finger out to ease a second one in.

"It is like lube," He notes, and you feel the tacky substance sticking to your skin- you can't imagine his own - "But is it really slick enough, or does it chafe?"

"It's-" You squirm at the question, cheeks burning hotter than the fire downstairs, "I don't know! That's gross."

"I'm knuckle-deep in blood." Hiccup smarts, and you uncover your eyes daringly, just to glare at him, "Do you really think you need to be embarrassed right now?"

"It's not lube." You huff, "It's not as smooth. It's not- gritty, but it's just not the same consistency. It's good enough, though. I don't think I need anything else."

"I don't want to rely on it," He hushes you, and you succumb to the pleasure of feeling two of his fingers inside of you. Your knees would buckle if you were standing, but you merely tense your thighs instead, briefly trapping his hand in place. He watches, his teeth momentarily digging into his lower lip. When you relax, he slowly draws his hand out, thrusting back in at a steady rhythm.

"Does it hurt?" He asks, and you shake your head as the pain resides in your gut.

"No. It's more in my stomach. But a- y'know, an orgasm," You speak with burning cheeks, "-that helps. All of the muscles expand and contract and it pushes things through. And sometimes the cramping goes away."

"Stretch out," He orders, smoothing his clean, warm hand over your belly, "Don't clench your muscles."

"I'm trying," You whine, feeling pleasure building slowly but surely as his fingers rake through your cunt. He's brushing your clit with his thumb, maybe accidentally with how gentle it is, but each feather-light touch makes your stomach swoop, traded for the pain writhing just below your gut.

You're growing content with him fingering you despite the mess it'll make, but when your pleasure starts climbing higher and higher, you draw your hips back, stopping him from pushing his fingers back inside of your hole again.

"Wait, wait! I'm ready," You pant, your cunt now stinging with desire, "If you still want to-"

"I still want to." Hiccup rushes to unbuckle his belt, which is another thing you should have considered before this affair, because he's holding his red-stained hand uselessly at his side, and his other one fumbles with the buckle. You end up sitting up to help him, and he watches with one crimson hand suspended in midair as you masterfully undo his belt buckle.

"Watching you do that is really- I love you." He blurts, and as evidence, you see his pants, stretchy and light for dragon riding, but sturdy for the life of a viking, shift just slightly.

At least he's as prepared as you are.

You help him shimmy out of his leggings and it's less sexy than it could be, but you're being eaten alive by your nerves so you're not judging a thing he does. There's nothing to be ashamed of here, not the dark, bloody mess that's become of his hand or the way his dick throbs in the open air like it's seen you.

He grows steadily harder to the point that you're not worried about any rushed foreplay, and you see him officially stain the bedsheets beneath you as he grips onto one of them regardless of the red adorning his fingers. It's far enough away from your head that you're not put off by it, but you're sure you'll be mortified when scrubbing the sheets later.

"Do you need a minute?" He asks, now inches away from your face as he hovers over you. His warm hand is no longer your personal heating pad but it's perfect where it is, cupping your jaw and holding your face steady where it rests near his own.

"No, I'm ready. Please-? I'm," You squirm briefly, your pussy begging for stimuli, "I'm really ready."

"Me too," He admits, a breathy groan as he lines himself up. The merest contact his tip makes with the hot, wet mess your cunt has become has his head dipping down, a strangled cry escaping his throat. It's nothing more than a whisper, but it reignites the slowly dwindling flame of bliss below your stomach that replaces any lingering discomfort from your cramps.

His face is pressed into your shoulder and he barely gets himself together enough to raise it, kissing up the underside of your chin and over your jawbone. He latches onto your lips and practically sucks, kissing you with tongue and teeth and desperation. He's always been good kisser, but it doesn't come from skill or technique, it comes from the need. He licks at your lips like he'll die if you don't let him in, and it gets you hot and heavy every time.

You two are a mangled mess of moans and groans and whimpers as he begins thrusting at a slow, steady pace. With every stroke of his hips your cunt sucks him in, bathing him in blood that's surely staining his pubes and subsequently transferring onto his groin. You're used to cleaning yourself up, but you wonder if he was prepared for the right level of mess.

You'd been trying not to look, still somewhat embroiled in your own anxieties, but Hiccup glances down at your coupling when he plants his head solidly between your breasts, and at the sight of your blood spread across his pelvis like a brand, he trembles with the effort of holding his orgasm off.

"Oh my gods," He grunts, fists clenching in the sheets as he tries not to cum, "It's so- it's everywhere."

"I told you!" You whine, legs clamping shut without thought, but he spares his clean hand to wrestle them apart again.

"It's so hot." He breathes, panting against your mouth between frantic, messy kisses, "It's- it's like... you can see it, you can see where I've touched you, you can see everything, it's- you're getting it all over me and I'm gonna cum, Y/N, I mean I'm really gonna cum-!"

He seems to realize that this is a losing battle. In his desperation he'd picked up speed between your thighs, and the intensity of his thrusts coupled with the hand that still rests between your legs, now fondling your clit, pinching and rubbing and pressing, means that you spiral towards your own climax just seconds behind his. The warm, gushing sensation of his seed pouring into you surely helps, and you're thrown over the edge with a sensation even more intense than your cramps.

It's mind-numbing, something you get lost in as you writhe against the bedsheets, your angled hips suck him in with the way you spread your thighs as far as possible, and he humps through his orgasm with an urgency that makes your own ten times better. You finish, not quite as one, but because of the other, and he plants his nose flush to your own as he takes large, raking breaths after being able to think again.

His lips press to your skin, nowhere targeted but tender all the same. It's not haphazard but it is lazy, something that showcases how exhausted he really is after having all of the blood in his body rush south.

You lean into them, savoring their sweetness as your mind wanders back to you.

"I'm sorry I got blood all over you," You mumble, glancing at the red sheets beside your head.

"Shut up." Hiccup groans, kissing you pointedly this time, right on the mouth, "I just came in, like, a minute."

"It was longer than a minute." You assure him, "Maybe- a minute-fifteen?"

"Alright," He nips at your nose, cracking a grin, "My point exactly. That was hot."

"That was helpful," You add, "I'm not cramping anymore."

"How often do you get them?" He asks, his nose brushing your own as he takes his weight off of you. He's thoroughly stained, thighs painted crimson from the way they'd collided with yours, hand now dried and caked in the first of the day's mess.

"Every few hours, I guess? The waves come and go." You wriggle in place, making yourself comfortable over the sheets again, "We should clean up before this dries."

"I'll get a washcloth!" Hiccup volunteers, placing his clean hand atop your stomach to hold you in place, "And- uh, just let me know when your cramps come back. I'm- we could do this again. If you wanted to. Because I- I definitely want to. If you want to."

"I want to," You admit, dropping your head back to the pillow as he rushes for the washbasin, "I'll tell Gothi I don't need any pain remedies this month. We can do this all week."

[ekybrini]

slipping through my fingers| JACK HUGHES

— ⟡ summary | in which y/n and Jake childhood best friends who've always had something there for each other. But once jack gets drafted everything changed for both of them.

— ⟡ warnings | none (that I know of)

— ⟡ word count | 17.8k (GUYS IM SORRY)

— ⟡ gabs note | hiii!!! im so excited to finally start writing again! I apologizer if this seems rushed. also this is EXTREMELY INACCURATE!!! please don't think this is literal, I don't know how some of these things work. also i apologize if this is cringe bc I CANNOT write romance for the life of me. I'm currently on spring break so I'll be trying to take advantage of being able to write a few things! if anyone wants to request or suggest anything don't hesitate to go into my inbox . i'll try to get to it and write it as soon as I can :) after spring break I may be a little inactive as i'm trying to lock in, in some of my classes before the semesters is over (ap econ and living earth are actually kicking my ass)

⟡ slipping through your fingers | jack hughes (jacks pov)

Part two

You've known Jack since you were kids. Backyard games of street hockey, summer nights spent on the lake, and watching him skate around with his brothers. you were always there. best friends through and through. 

The first time you met Jack, you were about 10 years old. You had just moved into the neighborhood and the first thing you noticed was the street hockey that was happening right outside of your house. The kids from the neighborhood were scattered in every direction, sticks raised, yelling at each other. The one who caught your attention right away was the kid with the wild hair, darting around the group with such speed that it was almost impossible to keep up. He made it look effortless. He, of course, was jack. 

You were lonely at first, standing awkwardly by the curb or watching the game through your bedroom window . Jack, always the curious one, had spotted you one day as you were sitting on the curb and skated over with a big grin.

"You gonna watch all day, or do you wanna join us?" he’d asked, not missing a beat, despite being out of breath. his eyes were full of that contagious energy.

You'd hesitated, feeling unsure. “I don’t know. I’m not really good at this... I’ve never really played before.”

"Come on! I’ll teach you," Jack insisted. "It’s easy, you just gotta push the puck this way, and then..." He demonstrated, sending the puck flying past you. "See? Just like that!"

It wasn’t perfect, but you tried. And Jack, always encouraging, cheered you on even as you missed the puck completely a few times. "Don’t worry. You’ll get it. It’s all about having fun."

From that moment on, you and Jack were inseparable. Summer after summer, it was the same routine. Jack, with his scruffy hair and infectious smile, would be the one to drag you out onto the street, even if you were just coming off a bad day at school or feeling a little down.

One of your favorite memories came when you were both about 12 years old. It was a hot, sticky summer afternoon. Jack, as usual, had the game already set up, calling the shots while the other neighborhood kids were pretending to be superstars in a game that felt far more like a chaotic free for all than a real match.

"You in or what?" Jack shouted, holding out a stick. “This game’s going nowhere without you.”

You rolled your eyes, already seeing the sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back. "You know, I was just thinking about going inside and having a popsicle."

"Are you really gonna let me down like this?" Jack raised an eyebrow, grinning from ear to ear. “you promised you'd play after school." 

"Fine," you said with a laugh, grabbing the stick. "But this time, I’m definitely winning."

You didn't win, at least not that day, but you had so much fun trying. Jack was so fast, his little tricks and turns keeping you on your toes, but every time he made a move, you were there to give it your best shot. You kept pushing him, running after the puck until the sun dipped below the horizon, and both of you were covered in dirt and sweat, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

That night, you sat side by side on the dock by the lake, feet dangling in the cool water as you two ate ice cream bars. The night was quiet except for the distant croak of frogs. 

“You were so close to getting me,” Jack said between breaths, a playful edge to his voice. He tilted his head back to look at the sky. “You’ll get me next time. Just wait.”

You chuckled, watching him with a teasing smile. "Yeah, sure, Jack. Maybe when I’m 18 and you’ve forgotten how to skate."

Jack laughed loudly, nudging you with his elbow. “Not a chance. I’ll always be better. But hey, I can teach you some moves if you want.”

“Oh, I bet you would,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Teach me how to win, too?”

"Obviously," he said with a grin, though there was a genuine warmth in his eyes. “I’ll make you into a skating legend if that's what you want.”

You didn't know it then, but those summers spent with Jack would become some of the best memories of your life. Even when the seasons changed and the street hockey games moved indoors. Jack’s determination never left. You spent every Saturday watching him at the rink, your nose pressed against the cold glass as he glided across the ice, his stick flashing, eyes full of focus. He was good. Too good, in fact. And with every game, the crowd cheered louder with his dreams growing bigger.

⟡

By the time you and Jack hit your early teens, things start to feel different. It’s not obvious at first just a lingering glance here, a nervous laugh there. Jack’s still Jack competitive, loud, always pulling you into whatever chaos he’s creating. But sometimes, when his hand brushes against yours, or when he looks at you a second too long after you’ve made a joke, it feels like something is shifting beneath the surface. You notice it, even if you don’t understand it yet.

The way he seems to notice you more, how he’s always trying to catch your eye in a group conversation, how his voice drops just a little when he says your name. It’s subtle, and you try to ignore it. He’s your best friend, right? Nothing has changed between you two. You’re still the same, pulling pranks on each other, laughing at dumb things, challenging each other to stupid games on long summer afternoons.

But the moments keep building like when he reaches across the table to grab something and his fingers graze the back of your hand, leaving a warmth that lingers far longer than it should. Or when you catch him staring at you when you’re talking, and his expression shifts just a fraction of something unreadable there for a brief second before he masks it with a grin.

And then there are those times when the air feels too quiet. Like when you’re lying next to each other on the grass, watching the stars, and the silence stretches between you two in a way it never has before. It’s not comfortable anymore, this space. It’s heavy.

You’re 14 when you notice it for real. You’re both sitting on the dock, summer sun dipping low behind the trees, casting everything in a golden haze. Jack’s freshly showered from practice, hair still damp, the scent of soap and fresh air clinging to him. You’re half listening to him ramble on about a play he’s been trying to perfect, his words weaving in and out of the soft, distant hum of the lake’s waves against the dock.

But something in the air is different. It feels thicker. The kind of tension you get when you can’t tell whether the storm is coming, or if it’s already here and you’re just waiting for it to break. You can feel the weight of the evening sun on your skin, but your heart feels heavy, like it’s pounding against your ribs, a rhythm you’re trying to ignore.

“You’re not even listening,” he accuses, nudging you with his knee, and you startle, realizing you haven’t heard a word he’s said for the last few minutes.

“I’m listening,” you argue, even though you weren’t.

Jack raises an eyebrow, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “No, you’re not. You’ve been all quiet. What's up with you?”

You scoff, trying to brush it off. “Me? You’re the one who’s weird,” you tease, attempting to lighten the mood, but your words feel hollow, even to you.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he studies you, his expression more serious than usual. His gaze shifts from your face to your hands, and then back to your eyes like he’s trying to figure something out that you aren’t even aware of.

“Yeah, maybe.” He shrugs, leaning back on his elbows, staring out across the lake with a far-off look in his eyes. “Or maybe it’s just us.”

The words hang in the air heavy with meaning you don’t fully understand. You freeze trying to process what he’s said. It isn’t just the words, it's the way he said them. The tone in his voice is softer than usual almost uncertain. There’s something fragile in his eyes, like he’s letting a piece of himself slip past you hoping you’ll catch it, but not quite trusting you to. You don’t know how to respond.

You try to shake off the discomfort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jack glances at you, his lips quivering at the edges, but there’s a heaviness in his gaze now. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Just growing up.” He pauses, his voice quieter now almost too soft for the space between you two. He looks at you then, really looks at you his eyes searching for something in yours like he’s asking a question that doesn’t have an easy answer. Something you’re not ready to answer not sure you even can.

You want to say something to reach out and close that space but you can’t find the words. Everything that’s been building between you two feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something unspoken. And the closer Jack gets to this new world he’s creating for himself this future that’s already starting to pull him away from you the more it feels like you’re both standing on the precipice of it.

You don’t have an answer, so you reach over and grab his hand. It’s instinctual, a reflex more than anything else. His fingers slide easily between yours, like they’ve always belonged there. It’s familiar, comforting even. But there’s something different in the way he holds your hand this time. He doesn’t let go immediately like he always does. He holds on for just a moment longer, and in that brief pause, the weight of it hits you.

His gaze drops to your joined hands, and you see a flicker in his eyes something unreadable, maybe even a little vulnerable before he looks back up at you. The quiet between you two stretches longer than it should, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the summer air, or because of the uncertainty that’s silently wrapping itself around both of you.

“I think we’ll figure it out,” you say softly, trying to anchor this moment, even though the ground beneath you feels like it’s shifting.

Jack’s smile is small, unsure. It’s not his usual confident grin, but it’s there. Barely, but it’s there. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Not yet. 

You don’t know what “figuring it out” means, or if you even can figure it out. All you know is that in this moment, with the sun setting behind the trees and the sound of water lapping against the dock beneath you, everything feels poised on the edge of something you don’t understand.

But you’re scared that the moment you try to reach for it, Jack might pull away.

⟡

It’s late, the fire has burned down to a few glowing embers, and the crickets are the only sound beside the occasional splash of water against the dock. You��re sitting with Jack, your legs hanging over the side, toes brushing the cool surface of the lake. The night is quiet, almost too quiet, and for the first time in a long time, there’s a distance between you that wasn’t there before.

Jack’s usually carefree, his humor quick, his energy contagious. But tonight, he’s different. He’s quieter, eyes lost somewhere beyond the horizon. You’ve known him long enough to know when something’s off.

"Jack, you okay?" you ask, not pushing, just asking.

"Do you ever feel like things are changing?" His voice is low, almost hesitant, and you turn to look at him, your heart skipping a beat.

You nod slowly, sensing that this conversation is heading somewhere you’ve both been avoiding for too long. "Yeah, I’ve been feeling it." You pause, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, you really see him. His face, the way his eyes linger on you, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something more. It’s all so familiar, and yet, everything feels new. "It’s been hard to ignore."

Jack exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath. He leans back, letting his head rest against the wood of the dock, looking up at the stars above. "I’ve been trying to figure it out. For a while now. What’s going on between us."

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest. Your voice is barely a whisper when you respond. "What do you mean?"

Jack doesn’t look at you right away, but you see his jaw tense, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. Finally, he glances over at you, his gaze intense. "I think I’ve been avoiding it. The way things have felt. I’ve always known you meant a lot to me. But it’s more than that now. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it."

Your heart races. This isn’t just a fleeting moment, this is him, telling you exactly what you’ve been feeling. Your stomach flips as the words finally hit you.

"I’ve been feeling it too," you admit, your voice steady but your pulse thundering in your ears. "It’s different now, Jack. And I can’t pretend it’s not."

There’s a long silence between you two as the words settle in the space around you. You both know it’s out there now the truth that neither of you could avoid forever. The air feels thick, charged with everything you’ve been holding back.

Jack’s gaze softens as he turns fully toward you. He reaches out, his hand brushing against yours. "I’ve tried not to think about it, but it’s impossible," he admits, his thumb tracing along the back of your hand. "I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of you as just my best friend. And now I don’t know how to go back."

You feel your breath catch in your throat. This is it. The thing you’ve both been dancing around for so long, the thing neither of you knew how to say. But now, here it is, raw and real.

"I don’t want to go back," you say, your voice soft but certain. "I’ve felt the same way, Jack. For a while now."

"You know, I keep thinking back to when we were kids," he says quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. "Back when things were simpler. We used to hang out, play hockey, talk about everything and nothing. I always thought that was enough."

You smile, remembering those simpler times. "It was enough. It still is."

Jack laughs under his breath, but there’s something different in it. "Yeah. But now... I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about how things feel between us lately. And I don’t know how to handle it."

Your heart picks up a little pace, and you look at him, feeling a shift in the air between you two. It’s subtle, but it's there. His eyes are locked on you now, and the usual teasing glint is gone.

"I think I’ve known for a while," you admit, voice barely above a whisper. "That things have changed. That maybe… we’ve changed."

Jack’s gaze softens, and for a second, everything feels like it’s falling into place, like the puzzle pieces are finally lining up. "I’ve been thinking about it too," he says, his voice low. "And I don’t know if I’m ready for this to be weird between us. I don’t want it to be weird."

Your stomach flips at the vulnerability in his voice. "I don’t think it has to be. It doesn’t have to be weird, Jack."

He looks at you for a long moment, and you can tell he’s weighing his next words carefully. He reaches over, brushing a strand of hair from your face, and that simple touch feels like the universe’s nudge, reminding you that things have always been easy with him. There’s no pretending with Jack. There’s never been any pretending.

"I guess we’ve always been able to figure things out," Jack says, his voice steady now. "And maybe this is just… one of those times."

You nod, your chest tight as you try to put into words what you’ve been feeling for so long. But nothing really needs to be said. This moment, this quiet understanding between you two, is enough.

Jack leans in just a little, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, but not enough to cross the final line. His gaze flickers between your eyes, lingering on your lips before returning to your eyes again, as if he’s waiting for something. The space between you both seems impossibly small, charged with everything that’s unsaid.

You can’t deny it anymore the way your heart races in your chest, the way your breath feels shallow, as if you’ve been holding it in all this time. This moment, this change between you, feels like it could either break everything or put it all back together.

His hand hovers just inches from yours, like he’s unsure whether to close the distance, like he’s waiting for you to decide. The air is thick with the weight of it. You’ve both danced around this for so long, carefully, quietly, but now it feels like everything is teetering on the edge. One move, one step, and it’ll change everything.

“You’re not nervous, are you?” Jack’s voice is almost a whisper, his usual teasing gone. There’s something softer in the way he says it, like he’s genuinely asking, genuinely uncertain for the first time.

You laugh quietly, but it doesn’t feel like the teasing kind of laugh you’re used to. It’s shaky, full of nerves. “No... Just a little confused, I guess. Not sure if this is all too much.”

Jack shifts closer, and his hand brushes against yours, the lightest touch that sends a jolt through you. It’s a simple gesture, but it speaks volumes. He doesn’t look away now, and neither do you. His breath is slow, steady, and in the stillness, you hear his heart beating in time with yours.

“I’m not sure either,” he admits, his voice low. “But I think I’ve known for a while… I don’t think we can keep pretending things are the same. I can’t. And I’m not sure what will happen next, but I know I don’t want to screw it up.”

You swallow, your own uncertainty mirrored in his eyes. Everything that’s been left unsaid finally hangs in the air between you two, heavy and undeniable. The fear of what could change, of what could be lost, and the quiet hope that maybe just maybe it could work.

"Jack…” You start to say something, anything, but the words stick in your throat. You want to say that you’ve been feeling it too, that you’re terrified of losing this, of messing it all up. But the weight of it all is too much. So instead, you just shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the uncertainty in your chest. “I don’t know what happens next either.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer, everything inside you pulling toward him, wanting to close the space between you both. And with that final breath, that quiet understanding, you realize it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t have to be figured out right now.

You lean in the rest of the way, tilting your head slightly, and then Jack’s lips meet yours.

It’s nothing like you expected. It’s soft, hesitant at first, like you both are testing the waters. But it’s real. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. It’s not about the future or the fear of change it’s just about right now, and the way everything feels when it’s just the two of you.

When you pull away, there’s a breathless pause, but it’s not awkward. It’s not forced. It’s just you, and him, and everything that’s been building between you finally making sense.

Jack’s forehead rests gently against yours. His eyes are still closed, and there’s a quiet smile playing on his lips. “I think I could get used to this,” he says, voice low, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You let out a soft laugh, the tension between you both easing, and for the first time, it feels like you don’t need to say anything more. You both know. It’s not perfect, it’s not figured out yet but it’s real, and maybe that’s enough for now.

⟡

It’s almost midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen, the glow too harsh in the dark room. It’s a text from Jack. “are you up?” 

You rub your eyes and sit up the sleepiness fading as you type back. “yeah, what’s up? Are you okay?its midnight.” The dots appear and disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already knowing where this is going. “ want me to come over?” This time, the dots stay. “You don’t have too, just want to talk to you.”

You slip out of bed, grabbing a sweatshirt and slipping on your shoes without even thinking about it. Your house is quiet as you head out the back door and cut across the yard. Jack’s house is familiar, the kind of place you could walk to blindfolded. The back door is unlocked like it always is.

You find him on the couch, the TV on low, playing some old hockey highlights. His head is tipped back against the cushion but his eyes are open dark circles shadowing his face. He looks up when he hears you, his expression softening in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jack says, sitting up.

“You knew I would,” you reply, kicking off your shoes and sitting down beside him. Your knee bumps against his. He’s in sweats and an old usa hockey hoodie, and his hair’s still damp from a shower. He looks tired.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a long time. His eyes stay on the screen, but you can tell he’s not really watching. The hum of the commentary blends into the background. You wait, not pushing you’ve always known how to give him space when he needs it.

“I can’t sleep,” he says finally, voice low. His knee bounces restlessly. “I keep thinking about the combine.”

You lean back against the couch, watching the screen as a highlight reel of some playoff game flickers by. “What about it?”

Jack sighs. “Everything. The tests. The interviews. The scouts. If I screw up, it’s going to be everywhere.” His hand runs through his hair, leaving it messy. “I mean, I’ve trained for this my whole life, right? But now that it’s actually here I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to screw up,” you say softly.

Jack lets out a hollow laugh. “Yeah? What if I do?”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You won’t. But even if you did it wouldn’t change anything. Not with me.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you, guarded but searching. He’s quiet for a beat. Then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, “It’d change everything else.”

You shift toward him, turning so your knee presses more firmly against his. “Jack, you’ve worked your ass off for this. One bad day at the combine isn’t going to erase years of training and games and scouts already knowing you’re good enough.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, his eyes falling to his hands. His thumb rubs absently along the inside of his palm. “Yeah, but what if I’m not enough?”

You don’t hesitate. You reach over, lacing your fingers through his. His hand is warm, his skin rough from years of hockey sticks and gloves. He tenses for half a second, then relaxes into the touch.

“You’re enough,” you say, quiet but steady. “You’ve always been enough, Jack. Even if you didn’t have hockey.”

Jack’s eyes lift to meet yours, wide and a little raw. His thumb grazes the side of your hand, slow and deliberate.

“You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Jack’s mouth curves into the smallest smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. His gaze drops back to the screen, though his hand stays in yours, his thumb running over your knuckles.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t uncomfortable it’s the kind of quiet that feels like home. Jack’s breathing evens out, his knee resting against yours. The highlights on the screen blur together.

“Stay?” Jack asks after a long moment. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

Jack shifts, leaning back against the couch. You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His hand stays tangled with yours, his thumb brushing back and forth along your knuckles in a steady rhythm. Slowly, the tension in his body eases.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs. His head tips toward yours, his breath warm against your hair.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you say, eyes drifting shut. “Just remember this. When it gets hard, when the pressure’s too much, remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Jack’s hand tightens around yours, his breath catching for half a second. Then he relaxes.

“I’ll remember,” he promises, voice low and sure.

You smile, your heart steady now as you let the sound of his breathing and the flicker of the TV lull you toward sleep. You know there’s still a long road ahead, the combine, the draft, Jack’s rookie year  but for now, this is enough.

It’s late afternoon when you find Jack on the ice, alone.

The rink is almost empty and quite the kind of quiet that makes the sound of skates cutting into the ice seem louder. Jack’s in a plain grey hoodie, a puck sliding back and forth between his stick blade as he moves through the neutral zone. His head is down, shoulders tense, and even from the stands, you can tell he’s overthinking it. His movements are sharp, almost mechanical like he’s trying too hard to be perfect.

You sit down on the bleachers, the cold from the rink seeping through your jeans. Jack’s been like this all week quiet, short answers, disappearing for extra hours at the rink. You didn’t have to ask why. The NHL Combine is in two weeks. The pressure’s been building, and Jack’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

A sharp slap of the puck against the glass pulls you from your thoughts. Jack’s skating toward the blue line, his stick dragging behind him as he breathes heavily, a little unsteady. He circles back toward center ice, but his stride falters slightly just enough for you to notice.

“You’re overthinking it,” you call out, standing.

Jack glances up, his expression closed off but his eyes soften when he sees you. He coasts toward the boards, resting his forearms against the top. His breath comes out in sharp clouds of condensation.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says but there’s no bite to his words.

You shrug. “Figured you’d need moral support.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze drops to the ice. “Not really playing like someone who deserves it.”

You step closer, your hands resting on the edge of the boards. “Jack, you’re allowed to have a bad practice.”

Jack shakes his head. “Not now. Not this close.” His hands flex around his stick. “I can’t screw this up.”

“You won’t.”

Jack’s eyes flick toward you. There’s something guarded in his expression the same look he gets when he’s trying not to show how much it’s getting to him. His eyes are dark under the shadows of his helmet.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

You swallow, searching for the right words. “Yeah, I do.”

Jack exhales sharply, his gaze drifting to the ice. He’s quiet for a long time before he speaks again, his voice low. “What if I’m not good enough?”

Your chest tightens at the vulnerability in his voice. He’s always been confident, cocky, even but this is different. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

You rest your hand over his where it grips the top of the boards. His fingers twitch beneath yours, but he doesn’t pull away. “Jack” Your voice softens. “You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. One bad practice isn’t going to change the fact that you belong there.”

Jack’s mouth pulls into a thin line. His eyes stay locked on the ice.

“You know that, right?” you press.

Jack’s jaw tenses. He exhales through his nose and finally meets your eyes. “Yeah. I know.” But his voice is tight, like he’s still trying to convince himself.

You squeeze his hand lightly. “Come on. Take the helmet off. Let’s reset.”

Jack hesitates for a second before unbuckling his chin strap. His hair falls into messy waves as he pulls the helmet off, and you smile despite yourself.

“There’s the Jack I know,” you say softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner, the smallest hint of a smile breaking through the tension in his face. He sets the helmet down on the boards and rests his forehead against the glass, his eyes closed for a long moment. His breath fogs up the glass in front of him.

“Why are you so calm about this?” Jack murmurs.

You smile, even though he can’t see it. “Because I know you. And I know you’re going to be fine.”

Jack’s eyes open. He tilts his head toward you, his cheek pressed against the glass. His gaze lingers on you longer than it probably should. His expression softens, his mouth curving into something more familiar less guarded.

“You always know what to say,” Jack says quietly.

You shrug. “It’s part of the job description.”

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans back from the glass, turning toward you. “And what job is that?”

“girlfriend” you say lightly, even though the words feel heavier than they should.

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before he catches himself. shaking his head slightly. “You’ve been overpaid.”

You laugh. “I don’t know. Pretty sure I’ve earned it.”

Jack’s hand slides from the boards, brushing against yours as he steps back onto the ice. The contact is brief a split second  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.

He skates backward, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay?”

You smile. “Always.”

Jack nods, his jaw unclenching slightly. His shoulders relax as he turns and skates toward the far side of the ice. He moves differently now, smoother, looser. It’s not perfect, but it’s him.

⟡

Jack’s in Buffalo for the Combine. He’d been gone for almost a week now, thrown into a blur of interviews, medical tests, and physical evaluations. You’d been following the coverage clips of him flashing across social media, a quick shot of him stepping into the arena or walking down a hallway with other top prospects. He looked calm on the surface, but you knew better.  The absence of him is starting to feel like a hollow ache beneath your ribs. You’ve talked to him every day, quick texts in the morning, rushed calls at night  but it’s not the same as having him there next to you. He’s exhausted you can tell even through the phone but he’s not the type to admit when it’s too much.

You’re half asleep when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. It takes you a second to realize what’s happening, the glow from the screen sharp against the dark. You blink, rubbing your eyes as you reach for it for the sixth time this week knowing it was a text from Jack “are you awake?”

You sit up, sleep slipping away as you type back. “yeah. What's wrong? it’s late.” The typing bubbles appear, then disappear. Then nothing. You frown, already feeling the tightness in your chest. “want me to call?” A pause. “I just need to hear your voice.” Jack replied. 

You hit the call button without even looking at his message. Jack answers on the second ring. “Hey,” you say softly. “Hey,” Jack’s voice is rough, low. He sounds tired.

“Did you just finish?”

“Yeah.” He exhales sharply. “Got back to my room like five minutes ago.”

“What happened?”

Jack lets out a humorless laugh. “Where do I start?” His voice is tight, and you picture the way he probably looks right now sprawled out on the hotel bed, arm draped over his eyes. “The bike test was brutal. My legs were shaking so bad I thought I was going to fall off.”

You wince. “That bad?”

“They crank up the resistance until you physically can’t pedal anymore,” Jack says. “I could barely stand afterward.” Your chest tightens. “Jack” he cuts you off. “And the VO2 max test?” Jack groans. “I thought I was gonna puke. I was seeing spots by the end.” You frown. “Did anyone else struggle that much?”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be better than that.” His voice sharpens. “I can’t afford to screw this up.”

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “You weren’t there,” Jack says, his tone edged with something close to frustration. But then his breath catches, and his voice softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt gently. “What else happened?” Jack sighs. “Wingate test. They make you sprint all out on the bike for 30 seconds. My legs were already toast, so I tanked it.”

“Jack” you say once again, getting cut off “And the long jump?” He laughs under his breath, but there’s no humor in it. “I swear I’ve never jumped that short in my life.”

“Did Quinn do better?” you ask carefully. “Of course he did,” Jack mutters. “The scouts loved him.” Your heart aches at the sharpness in his tone. You know how much Jack admires Quinn, but that admiration is tangled up with the constant pressure to keep up.

“And then,” Jack’s voice lowers, frustration leaking through, “they threw me into interviews while I could barely breathe. One scout asked if I thought I deserved to go first overall.” Your mouth tightens. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Another one asked if I think I’m better than Quinn.” You sit up straighter. “What the hell?” Jack mutters “I didn’t even know what to say,” His voice is low and tight. “I think I screwed it up.”

“You didn’t,” you say firmly. Jack doesn’t respond right away. You hear the rustling of sheets, the muffled sound of the TV in the background probably an old hockey game. “I don’t know,” Jack murmurs. “I need to be better.”

“Jack.” Your voice softens. “You’ve done enough. You’ve been working for this since you were a kid. You’re too hard on yourself” Jack’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it “What if it’s not enough?” Your chest tightens. This is the fear he doesn’t let other people see.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Close your eyes.” Jack’s quiet for a second. “What?” 

“Just trust me.” 

A long breath. “Okay.”

“You’re on the ice,” you say. “Just you. The rink’s empty.” Jack’s breath steadies. “You’ve got the puck,” you continue. “Skating down center ice. No pressure, no scouts, no cameras. Just you.”Jack hums quietly, like he can almost see it.“You make the shot,” you say. “Bar down. Clean.” Jack exhales. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And you don’t even need to look, because you already know it’s in.”There’s a long stretch of quiet on the other end of the line. Then, so soft you almost miss it “I wish you were here.”

“I know,” you whisper, throat tightening. “Me too.” Jack sighs, and you hear the rustling of sheets as he shifts. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’re not going to find out,” you say, trying to sound light, but it comes out more fragile than you mean it to. Jack’s quiet for a long time. You think he might have fallen asleep until you hear him murmur, “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” You press the phone closer to your ear, even though it won’t bring him any closer. “You’ve got this,” you whisper. “You’re going to be fine.”

Jack breathes out, low and even. “Stay on the phone with me?”

“Yeah,” you say, curling into your pillow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jack’s quiet for a while after that, but you don’t hang up. You stay there, listening to the sound of his breathing as it evens out, until the line finally goes quiet and you know he’s asleep. You don’t hang up. Not yet.

⟡

Jack’s been quiet all morning. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be found, replaced by a tight line of tension in his jaw. He’s been bouncing his knee relentlessly, his leg jittering under the table during breakfast at the hotel. He barely touched his food, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate until Quinn took it away and told him to stop torturing it. Now, he’s sitting next to you on the edge of the bed, his head tipped back against the wall, his fingers tapping absently against his knee. The hotel room is bright from the mid-morning sun filtering through the sheer curtains, but it feels too quiet  too still  like the entire day is holding its breath.

Jack’s name has been everywhere since the Combine. Every hockey account, every sports network, every mock draft all saying the same thing. First overall. Franchise player. Generational talent. He should be used to it by now, but it feels different this time. Closer. Like the weight of it all is pressing down on his chest. And you feel it too, even from miles away. You saw it during the Combine  the way he tensed when people mentioned the draft, how he downplayed his scores and his interviews even when you knew he’d crushed them. Jack’s always been good at brushing things off, but this feels different. Bigger. Like it’s not just about hockey anymore. It’s about living up to something.

The draft isn’t until later tonight, but the weight of it is already pressing down. Jack’s been working toward this moment his whole life, the moment his name is called, the moment his future in the NHL becomes real and now that it’s finally here, it’s like he can’t figure out how to breathe through it.

You shift closer until your knee bumps his. “You’re thinking too hard.”

Jack’s eyes slide toward you, dark under the shadows of his lashes. He huffs out a breath. “How am I supposed to not think about it?” His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges.

You reach for his hand, your fingers slipping between his. He’s warm always is, but his hand is stiff, tense. “I don’t know. Maybe stop overthinking it.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing along your knuckles. His gaze drifts toward the window, but you can tell he’s not really seeing it. His mind is already at Rogers Arena, already running through every possible outcome. He’s been carrying the weight of this for months the expectations, the pressure, the comparisons to Quinn, to his dad and you know it’s only gotten heavier.

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he does, his eyes are wide, a little raw around the edges. You offer him a small smile. “You’ve got this.”

Jack’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And what if I don’t?”

“You will.” You don’t hesitate, don’t even think about it. You just know. Jack’s been skating since before he could walk. He’s trained for this put in the work, put in the hours. He’s ready. Even if he can’t see it right now.

Jack’s gaze stays on you, his brow furrowing slightly. His hand tightens around yours. “I’m scared,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shift closer until your shoulder presses against his. “That’s normal.”

Jack’s eyes darken. “What if I’m not good enough?”

“You are.”

Jack swallows hard, his jaw working. He looks away, his throat bobbing as he tries to steady his breathing. You can feel the tension radiating off of him, the way his chest rises and falls too quickly. His thumb rubs absently against the back of your hand.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” you say softly. “Even if you don’t go first. Even if it doesn’t go the way you expect  you’ll still have hockey. You’ll still have me.”

Jack’s breath stutters. He turns his head slightly, his cheek brushing against your hair. “You mean that?”

You lift your head and meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”

Jack’s hand slides from your hand to your knee, his fingers curling around it like he’s grounding himself there. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the room shifts. The nerves are still there, the pressure, the uncertainty but some of the tension in his face softens. His eyes flick toward your mouth, then back to your eyes. He exhales slowly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you say, just as softly.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Promise?”

You smile, your hand lifting to his jaw. “Promise.”

Jack lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes for a moment, his hand tightening on your knee. The quiet settles around you both, not the heavy kind, not the tense kind  just quiet.

“Jack?” Quinn’s voice breaks the silence, followed by a knock at the door. “We’ve gotta go soon.”

Jack sighs. He lifts his head, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer before he pulls away. “Yeah, okay.”

Jack stands, adjusting his shirt and brushing his hands down his pants. His gaze flicks toward you, hesitant. “You’re coming with us, right?”

You stand too, straightening his collar. “Obviously.”

Jack’s mouth curves into something close to a real smile, small but genuine. He takes your hand again, linking your fingers as he leads you toward the door.

The car ride to Rogers Arena is quiet. Jack sits next to you in the backseat, his knee bouncing, his fingers tapping against his thigh. He’s wearing a fitted suit, his hair styled but still a little messy at the top. You can tell he’s trying not to overthink it, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

Quinn and Luke sit in the back of the car, phone in their hand, scrolling through Twitter. The whole car feels charged, the anticipation building the closer you get to the arena. When you pull up, Jack hesitates for half a second before stepping out. His hand brushes against yours as you follow him out of the car.

Inside, the energy is palpable. The arena is packed with media, fans, scouts, the low hum of conversations mixing with the occasional burst of camera flashes. Jack tugs at the cuff of his jacket, his mouth pulling into a thin line. His eyes flick toward you.

You slip your hand into his, squeezing gently. “Deep breath,” you say.

Jack’s jaw relaxes slightly. He squeezes your hand back. His eyes linger on you for a beat before he nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Quinn steps up behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got this”

Jack’s mouth twitches. He looks toward the draft stage, toward the rows of seats, the cameras, the scouts and then back at you. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly.

You smile. “Always.”

Jack breathes out. And this time, when he looks toward the stage, the tension in his jaw fades just a little.

Jack’s heart is hammering. It’s too loud in here the buzz of conversation, the hum of the arena speakers, the occasional burst of laughter from a family. His suit jacket feels too tight across his shoulders, his tie choking him a little more with each second that passes. His name has been circling the draft floor for months, repeated on every broadcast and in every article first overall, franchise player, generational talent  but none of it feels real right now. It feels heavy. Like the weight of the entire league is resting on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He shifts in his seat, his hand resting against his thigh, and feels your fingers slip between his. His head turns toward you automatically. You’re sitting beside him, close enough that your knee is pressed against his. Your hand is steady, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping you until you adjust your hand slightly, your grip soft but certain.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, low enough that only he can hear. Jack breathes out shakily. “Am I?” You smile soft, sure. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack’s gaze drops to the floor, his thumb smoothing over the inside of your wrist. He can feel the pulse there, steady beneath his touch. His heart’s not steady. It’s racing. He doesn’t know if it’ll settle until this is over until he hears his name.

Quinn is watching him. He’s sitting straight in his chair, hands resting on his thighs, but his eyes are soft when they meet Jack’s. “You’ve got this,” Quinn says quietly. Jack’s mouth twitches. He starts to nod, but then Luke leans across from Quinn. 

“Yeah,” Luke adds, his grin lopsided, a little nervous but bright. “And if you don’t, you can always blame it on Quinn.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. 

Jack huffs a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze shifts toward the stage, where the Devils’ management team is already gathering. The nerves coil tighter in his chest. His hand tightens around yours.

“You’re with me, right?” Jack asks quietly. 

You don’t even hesitate. “Always.”

Jack’s eyes soften, some of the tension fading from his expression. He breathes out and shifts closer, his knee pressing into yours beneath the table. He doesn’t have time to say anything else before the commissioner steps up to the microphone.

Jack’s stomach drops. The noise in the arena swells as the camera swings toward the Devils’ table. The commissioner is still talking, but Jack barely hears it over the blood rushing in his ears. His legs feel locked beneath the table. His chest is tight.

“And with the first overall pick, the New Jersey Devils are proud to select from the US National Team Development Program… Jack Hughes.”

Your hand squeezes his.

Jack exhales. He stands on shaky legs as Quinn claps him on the back, Luke grinning wide as he jumps up to hug him. “Dude!” Luke laughs, his arms tight around Jack’s waist. Quinn pulls them both in, his head knocking against Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s laugh comes out a little breathless.

“Go get your jersey,” Quinn says, his voice thick with pride.

Jack’s hand is still locked with yours as he turns toward you. His expression is soft, his eyes dark and bright all at once. “You’re coming with me after this, right?”

You smile. “Try and stop me.”

Jack hesitates for half a second, then leans in. He kisses you quickly  just a press of his lips against your cheek  but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once more before he finally lets go and steps away.

Jack walks toward the stage, his heart still pounding but his legs moving steady beneath him. He can feel Quinn and Luke’s eyes on him, your smile burned into the back of his mind. He shakes hands with the commissioner, pulls on the Devils jersey, and lifts the hat onto his head. Cameras flash. The noise swells. His chest is tight again  but this time, it’s not nerves. It’s something else. Something warmer.

He looks back toward the floor, toward the row of seats where Quinn, Luke, and you are sitting. You’re still watching him. Your hand rests against your heart. Quinn’s arms are crossed, smiling like he knew this would happen all along. Luke is grinning wide, already pointing toward the Devils logo on Jack’s chest.

Jack breathes out. And this time, he smiles.

After the photos and the handshakes, Jack ushered toward the media pit. Questions are thrown at him from every angle about expectations, about his future with the Devils, about being a franchise player. He answers them as best as he can, his gaze flicking toward the crowd every so often, searching for you. When it’s over, the team staff directs him toward the tunnel, and he barely makes it a few steps before he hears someone yell his name.

“Jack!”

He turns just in time to see you barreling toward him, arms outstretched. Jack’s barely able to brace himself before you crash into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms come up automatically, locking around your waist. You’re laughing and crying at the same time, your face buried in his shoulder. Jack breathes out, his chin resting on top of your head.

“You did it,” you whisper.

Jack’s arms tighten around you. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You could’ve,” you mumble, pulling back enough to look at him. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

Jack’s gaze drops to your mouth. His hands settle at your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly over the hem of your sweater. His chest is still pounding, but this feels steadier somehow. Grounding.

“Hey,” Quinn’s voice cuts in. Jack glances up to see Quinn and Luke standing nearby, Luke practically vibrating with excitement. Quinn’s got that proud but pretending to be casual look on his face.

Luke steps forward first, grinning. “Dude! First overall!” He throws his arms around Jack’s waist, nearly knocking him over. Jack laughs, ruffling Luke’s hair.

“Couldn’t have done it without you either,” Jack says.

Luke pulls back, his smile wide. Quinn rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn’t fade. “Congrats, Jack.” He steps in, pulling Jack into a one armed hug and clapping him on the back. “Knew you had it in you.”

Jack’s throat feels tight. He pulls back and looks between Quinn, Luke, and you. His family. His people. His hand finds yours again, his fingers threading through yours like it’s instinct. Your gaze softens, and Jack feels his heartbeat finally settle.

“Come on,” Quinn says, nodding toward the tunnel. “Let’s go celebrate.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Let’s go.”

⟡

It’s been a whirlwind since the draft. Jack signed his contract with the Devils two weeks ago, and now he’s leaving to New Jersey for rookie camp. Jack’s flight to New Jersey is early. Too early. You’re still wrapped in blankets on the couch when he stands in the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His Devils hat is pulled low over his eyes, casting a shadow across his face. His mouth pulls into a thin line as he looks at you, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

“I should get going,” Jack says quietly.

You push yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you cross the room toward him. “Are you sure you have everything?”

Jack nods, but his gaze stays on the floor. His hand tightens around the strap of his bag. “Yeah.”

You hesitate for half a second before stepping closer. Your arms wrap around his waist, and Jack exhales sharply as he melts into you. His chin rests on top of your head, and his heartbeat thrums against your cheek.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur.

Jack’s hand slides up your back. “It’s not like we’ve never done long distance before.”

“Yeah, but” You trail off, the words sticking in your throat. It feels different this time. You pull back, your hands lingering on the hem of his hoodie. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a big NHL star.”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jack’s eyes soften. He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “I do.”

You smile, even though your chest feels tight. Jack kisses you softly with a lingering brush of lips  and then pulls back too soon. His hand stays on your waist for an extra second before he steps away, his expression shifting into something steadier, more composed.

“Call me when you land?” you ask.

Jack’s mouth tugs at the corner. “Always.”

You walk him to the door, watching as he disappears down the driveway and into the early morning light. Your chest feels hollow by the time his car pulls away. The silence that follows is heavier than you expect.

You try to keep busy over the next week  spending time with friends, picking up extra shifts but it’s hard to ignore how quiet it feels without Jack around. He calls every night, though, and you fall into a familiar rhythm. Jack fills you in on the details of rookie camp, the fitness tests, the long practices, and the media. He tells you about the other guys, how Nico seems nice, how Bratt’s already chirping at him like they’ve known each other for years. He tells you how much faster the game feels, how much stronger the guys are. You can hear it in his voice, the strain beneath his usual confidence.

“Hard day?” you ask one night, curled up in bed with your phone pressed to your ear.

Jack sighs. “Yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I just don't know. I feel like I’m playing catch up. Like everyone’s two steps ahead.”

“You’ve barely been there for a few days, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack says. “But it’s not supposed to feel this hard.”

“You put too much pressure on yourself.” Jack huffs a soft laugh, but there’s no real humor in it. “It’s kinda hard not to.” You’re quiet for a beat. Then, “You’re not gonna figure it out overnight.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Jack doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, quietly, “I hope you’re right.” You close your eyes. “I always am.” Jack’s breath crackles over the line. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to ask.”

Jack’s quiet for another moment. “I love you and I miss you .”

Your heart clenches. “I miss and love you too.”

Jack sighs softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

You keep the phone pressed to your ear until the line goes quiet.

Jack calls you after his full day of rookie camp, his voice low and tired through the phone. He sounds exhausted, more than you expected. You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, your knees pulled to your chest, the phone pressed to your ear. 

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice scratchy. “Hey,” you say softly. “How was it?” Jack exhales a sharp breath. “Brutal.”  

“What happened?”  

“Fitness testing.” Jack huffs a soft, humorless laugh. “Like the Combine but worse.”  You sit up a little straighter. “Worse?”  

“Longer. Harder.” Jack’s voice dips lower. “I thought I was ready for it, but I don’t know.” He sounds frustrated, and that’s what gets you. Jack rarely admits when something’s hard. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” you say quietly.  “I don’t know,” Jack says again. “It’s not just the testing. The practices everyone’s so fast. So strong. I’m trying to keep up, but it feels like I’m a step behind.”  

You can almost picture him  sprawled across his bed, running a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s stressed. Your chest tightens. “You’ve been there for what five days?”  

“ a week.”  

“A week” you repeat. “Jack, you need to give yourself some time.”  

“I don’t have time,” Jack says. His voice sharpens, the frustration cracking through. “This is the NHL. Everyone’s watching.” 

You know that’s true you’ve seen the articles, the highlight reels on social media. It’s a lot for anyone especially for Jack, who’s always carried the weight of expectation like it’s part of his DNA.  

“Hey,” you say softly. “You don’t have to figure everything out right away. This isn’t going to be easy it’s not supposed to be. But you wouldn’t be there if you couldn’t handle it.”  

Jack’s quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper: “I don’t know if I can.” You close your eyes, your heart tightening. “Jack.” 

“I’m serious,” Jack says. His voice cracks a little at the edges. “What if I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am?”  

“You are,” you say immediately. “Jack, you’ve been working toward this your whole life. You belong there.”  

“Do I?” 

“Yes,” you say. “And if you can’t believe that yet let me believe it for you.”  Jack doesn’t answer right away. His breath crackles over the line. “What would I do without you?”  You smile faintly, even though your chest aches. “You’d figure it out.”  

“Maybe,” Jack says. “But I’m glad I don’t have to.”  

Jack starts texting you more after that. Sometimes it’s a quick message in the morning on the ice or a random photo of his new locker with his nameplate above it. Sometimes it’s a rant about drills, or a chirp about one of the guys. Jesper seems to be his favorite target. 

Bratt tripped me in practice today. little rat  

What'd you do? you text back.  

chirped him about his hair  

You can’t help but smile. But there are harder messages too.  

Bag skate this morning. Thought I was going to pass out.  

Coach isn’t happy with me.  

Everyone’s so much stronger. 

You know Jack doesn’t say these things to anyone else. With the media, with his teammates he’s steady. Confident. But with you he lets the cracks show. And when he calls you late at night, his voice low and rough, you know that’s when he’s feeling it the most.  

One night, it’s past midnight when your phone buzzes on your nightstand. You’re half asleep, barely registering the sound until it buzzes again. You squint at the screen. Jack.  

“Hey,” you answer, your voice thick with sleep.  “Did I wake you?” Jack asks. “No,” you lie. “What’s wrong?”  

Jack sighs, and you can hear the tension in it. “Nothing.”  You wait. Jack’s quiet for so long you think maybe he’s about to hang up. Then he says, “I just needed to hear your voice.”  

You sit up, rubbing at your eyes. “Rough day?”  

Jack’s breath catches. “Yeah.” 

“What happened?”  

Jack’s quiet for another long moment. “Coach ripped into me.”  

You frown. “Why?”  

“Made a bad play during the scrimmage,” Jack says. “Got caught flat footed on the backcheck. Then I missed the net on a breakaway.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you.”  

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Jack says. His voice drops lower, almost shaky. “I’m trying. It’s just everything’s so much faster than I expected. I feel like I’m drowning.”  

“You’re not,” you say quietly. “You’re adjusting.”  

Jack’s breath hitches. “What if I don’t?”  

“You will.”  

Jack doesn’t answer for a long time. You hear rustling on the other end of the line, like he’s lying down. “I miss you,” he says finally.  

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”  

Jack’s voice gets softer. “Will you stay on the phone with me? Just for a little while?”  

You slide down beneath the covers, resting your head against the pillow. “Of course.”  

Jack breathes out. “Thanks.”  

You don’t say anything after that. Jack’s breathing evens out eventually, and you think he’s starting to fall asleep when you hear him murmur, barely audible “Love you.”  

You don’t know if he’s even awake enough to remember saying it. But your heart thuds painfully against your ribs.  

“I love you too,” you whisper.

⟡

Jack’s first game in the NHL is at home, and the crowd is louder than he expected. He steps onto the ice at Prudential Center, the Devils logo bright under the lights. The noise is deafening, the kind of sound that hits you square in the chest  and for a second it’s hard to breathe. His legs feel shaky as he skates through warmups, the ice cutting beneath his skates with every push. The energy is electric, but it’s not enough to drown out the knot in his chest. He knows everyone’s watching him, the first overall pick, the franchise’s future. He tries not to think about it but it’s impossible to ignore the weight of it.

You’re watching from Michigan. The game’s on TV in your room, your laptop balanced on your knees. Jack looks smaller on the screen somehow swallowed up by the bright lights and the size of the arena. He’s wearing number 86, and it still feels surreal seeing it on an NHL jersey. He’s buzzing with nerves  you can tell by the way he’s gripping his stick too tightly during warmups. He’s always done that when he’s nervous.

Jack texts you after warmups while the Zamboni is still clearing the ice. “Starting on the second line. My hands are shaking.”

You smile, already typing back. “You’ve got this. Just play your game.”

Jack’s response comes quickly. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You won’t.” You pause before adding, “But maybe don’t sit next to Nico if you do.”

A minute passes before the dots appear again. “Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Jack doesn’t respond, but the small, shaky smile he gives the camera when it passes by his bench tells you he saw it.

The game itself is rough. Jack looks fast, quick on his feet, but the Devils’ offense struggles to keep up. He gets knocked down hard in the first period, bouncing off the boards and coming up wincing. He pushes through it, but you can tell he’s frustrated the way he shakes his head after a shift, the way he skates to the bench with his head down. The Devils lose 4-1, and Jack finishes with a minus-two rating. His line gets hemmed in the defensive zone more than once, and even though it’s just one game, the postgame interviews are already talking about whether he can handle the league’s size and speed.

He calls you after the game, his voice flat. “That sucked.”

“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” you say softly.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” Jack mutters. He sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I was minus-two. Do you know how bad that is?”

“Jack”

“Everyone’s already talking about it,” he cuts you off. His voice tightens, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I can’t screw this up” He trails off, his breath shaky.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you say firmly. “It’s one game.”

“It’s not just one game.” Jack exhales through his nose, and you can hear the tension in it. “This is what I’ve been working toward my whole life. And what if I’m not good enough?”

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead to your hand. “Jack. You are good enough. You belong here.”

Jack’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he says eventually. But he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

The first few weeks are more of the same. Jack gets pushed around a lot, the physicality wearing on him. He’s getting hit hard, knocked off the puck more than he’s used to. He’s fast, but the guys he’s playing against are bigger, more experienced. He’s trying, you can see it but it’s not coming together the way he wants it to.

Your phone buzzes constantly after games. Jack’s name lights up the screen with texts “Minus-three. Fucking embarrassing.” “I can’t score.” “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

You try to reassure him, but the losses are piling up. The Devils are 0-4-2 to start the season, and Jack’s still scoreless. The media’s already running with it  headlines about whether he was overhyped, if he’s too small for the league. Jack tries to brush it off, but you know it’s getting to him.

It’s late one night when he calls you, his voice quiet. “I don’t know how to fix this.” You sit up in bed, clutching the phone to your ear. “You will.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. “I just” He sighs. “I miss you.”

Your chest tightens. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s breath hitches. “I hate it here,” he says quietly.

Your eyes burn. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’re not doing this without me,” you whisper.

Jack’s quiet for a long time. His breathing is steady in your ear. Eventually, he says, “I just want to come home.”

You close your eyes, swallowing down the ache in your chest. “I know,” you say softly. “But you can’t.”

Jack doesn’t answer, but you know he’s still there. After a while, his breathing evens out, and you realize he’s fallen asleep on the line. You stay there for a while, the phone pressed to your ear, listening to his quiet breathing.

Jack finally scores his first goal two weeks into the season, a breakaway against Vancouver. Quinn’s on the ice when it happens, and you see the way Quinn hugs him against the glass after the puck crosses the line. Jack looks lighter for a moment, his smile big and bright, but it fades quickly after the game ends. The Devils still lost 5-2.

He calls you that night, and he sounds more tired than happy. “It doesn’t matter if we keep losing,” Jack mutters.

“Yes, it does,” you say. “Jack, you scored. That’s huge.”

Jack sighs. “Yeah.” He’s quiet for a second before adding, “Quinn said you screamed when it went in.”

You laugh. “Maybe.”

Jack’s breath softens. “I miss you.”

Your heart squeezes. “I miss you too.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time before he says, “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this.”

You don’t know how to answer that. So you don’t.

⟡

Jack’s rookie season should’ve been exciting. It should’ve been everything he’s worked for. Instead, it’s November, and the Devils are on a six-game losing streak. Jack’s gone nine games without a goal, and the media’s not holding back. Every headline is brutal. Every post game interview is worse. He’s not smiling as much anymore. He’s quiet when you call, sometimes too tired to even talk. And when you visit, it feels like he’s somewhere else entirely.

The last time you saw him in person was two weeks ago. You’d flown from Michigan to see him play in Newark the first time you’d been able to since the season started. Jack had barely looked at you when you met him outside the locker room. His face was tight, his eyes tired. He’d hugged you, but it was quick. Impersonal. And when you sat with his family during the game, you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he carried himself on the ice like the weight of it all was pressing down too hard. He’d been the last one off the ice after the loss, his head down, his mouth pulled tight.

He called you that night late, when you were already back at the hotel and apologized. “I just I’m sorry I couldn’t see you more,” Jack had said, his voice low. He’d sounded exhausted. “I’m just tired.”

Now, it’s almost midnight again, and you’re staring at your phone, waiting for him to call. He hasn’t. You’ve texted twice with no answer. You know he’s probably at home by now, maybe asleep. Or maybe not. He’s started turning his phone off after games. Less noise, he’d said. Less pressure. But you don’t know if it’s helping.

It’s hard to know what to say when you do talk to him. When he tells you he’s doing fine, even though you can hear it in his voice that he isn’t. When he tells you, “I’ll figure it out,” even though you can see him unraveling.

The next morning, you call him before class. He answers on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You okay?”

Jack sighs. You can hear the sound of him rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot.”

Jack’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah.”

You sit down on the edge of your bed, clutching the phone a little tighter. “Jack”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“You’re not,” you say gently. “You don’t have to-”

“I said I’m fine,” Jack cuts in. His tone is sharper than you’ve ever heard it.

You go quiet. Jack exhales. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just don't know.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly.

Jack doesn’t say anything for a while. You can hear his breathing over the line, steady but heavy. Finally, he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to fix it alone.”

Jack doesn’t answer. And after a while, the line goes quiet.

The next time you talk to Jack, it’s after another loss. This time to Toronto. Another night of him leaving the rink without a point. Another night of reporters asking him what’s wrong, why he isn’t producing.

“I’m trying,” Jack says, his voice tight. “I’m trying and it’s not, it's not working.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But it’s not your fault. It’s a team-”

“I don’t care if it’s a team thing,” Jack snaps. “I’m the first pick. I’m supposed to be the one fixing it.”

“Jack-”

“I have to be better.” His voice cracks. “I just I don’t know how.”

Your heart aches. You want to reach through the phone and pull him into you. Hold him until the tension melts away. But you can’t. You’re too far away. And Jack’s already starting to pull back.

“You’re not alone im with you,” you say quietly.

Jack doesn’t answer.

You hear him breathe out. Then the call ends.

The worst part is that you don’t know how to help him. Jack’s not letting you in the way he used to. And you can feel it the distance growing between you, like something fraying at the edges. You want to fix it. You want to be enough to hold him together.But Jack’s starting to slip through your fingers.

⟡

After a while, you notice that not only jack started to drift from you, but also your relationship with him. It starts with the little things.

The missed calls. The delayed replies. The way Jack’s voice sounds a little too thin over the phone, his laugh not quite reaching the places it usually does. He’s tired you can hear it even when he tries to hide it.

At first, you don’t think much of it. Jack’s schedule is brutal, and it’s not like he’s never missed a call before. But then it starts happening more often. You’ll text him after a game Proud of you, call me when you can? and it’ll sit there for hours. Sometimes until the next day. Or he’ll call you late, hours after he said he would, with a rushed apology and a tired “I’m sorry, babe. I just passed out after practice.”

You get it. You do.  He’s in the middle of his rookie season, grinding through the hardest stretch of hockey he’s ever played, and he’s under more pressure than he’ll ever admit. But that doesn’t make it sting any less when you see his name light up your phone after midnight and realize you’ve already given up hope of hearing from him that night. 

Or when you do pick up, and it’s not the Jack you’re used to hearing.

“Hey,” you say softly, curling up under the covers. “You okay?”

Jack’s voice is thin over the line. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He always says that. Just tired. Even when it sounds like more than that.

“You played well tonight,” you offer. “Had that sick pass in the second.”

Jack’s breath crackles faintly through the speaker. “Didn’t matter. We still lost.”

“It’s not on you.”

Jack hums. You can picture the way he’s probably lying there  head buried in the pillow, hand resting over his face, the line of his jaw tight. He’s always been hard on himself. But lately, it's gotten worse.

The games aren’t going well. The media’s been tearing into him —first overall pick and only four goals? The disappointment in the headlines is almost palpable. You’ve stopped reading the articles, but you know Jack hasn’t. He doesn’t talk about it, but you can tell from the way he’s quieter now. The way his texts have dwindled from paragraphs to one word answers. 

The last time you FaceTimed, Jack barely looked at you. He was lying in bed, hair damp from his post-game shower, and you could see the crease between his brows even when he wasn’t talking. You tried to make him smile made a dumb joke about how you’d start training to become the Devils' new enforcer but all you got was a faint chuckle and, “Sorry, I’m just-”

“Tired,” you’d finished for him, and Jack had sighed, rubbing his hand over his face.

It’s been like this for a while now. He’s slipping  or maybe you’re the one slipping away. You don’t know how to fix it when Jack’s over 600 miles away, and every conversation feels like trying to grasp sand in your hands the harder you try to hold on, the faster it slips through your fingers.  

You’re curled up in bed now, phone pressed to your ear as Jack’s voice filters through the speaker. 

“It was bad,” Jack says. His voice is quiet. Defeated. “I just I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sit up a little, pushing back the tight feeling in your chest. “Jack, it’s not you. The whole team’s struggling right now.”

“Yeah, but” He cuts himself off. You can hear the frustrated exhale on the other end. “I should be better. I was the first overall pick  I’m supposed to make a difference.”

“You are making a difference,” you say gently. “It’s your rookie year. No one expects you to carry the team.”

Jack’s silent for a beat too long. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Jack?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice sounds distant. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Do you, though?”

His breath hitches. “I just I don’t know. Feels like I’m trying, but nothing’s working. And people are starting to talk, you know? About how maybe I wasn’t ready, maybe I’m not”

“Jack,” you cut in. “Stop.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You’re not a mistake,” you say, because you know that’s what he’s thinking. “You deserve to be there. You worked your ass off for this.”

“I guess.”

“Not ‘I guess,’” you press. “Jack, you”

“I know,” he snaps, and the sharpness of it cuts through the space between you. You freeze, swallowing the knot in your throat. Jack exhales shakily. His voice softens. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

You force a small smile even though he can’t see it. “You’re allowed to be tired.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, but it doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Another stretch of silence presses down between you. You wait for Jack to fill it, but he doesn’t.

“You want me to stay on the phone with you?” you ask quietly.

Jack’s quiet for a second. “No its okay”

“I’ll stay” 

“Okay.”

So you stay. Jack doesn’t say much after that. You can hear the rustle of his comforter as he shifts around, settling into bed. His breathing starts to even out. You stay awake longer than you probably should, listening to the soft sound of him breathing on the other end of the line, wondering how much longer you’ll be able to reach him like this.

Because lately, even when he’s right there, yet he feels so far away.

⟡

It’s been months of missed calls, delayed texts, and half-hearted conversations. Jack’s always tired. Or busy. Or distracted. And when you do talk, it’s like he’s only halfway there like some part of him is already pulling away. You’ve tried not to read into it, tried to convince yourself it’s just the pressure of his rookie season, that things will settle once he finds his rhythm. But deep down, you know better. It’s not just hockey. It’s him. It’s you. It’s the quiet space growing between you, the way it stretches wider with every unanswered text and every empty conversation.

So you book a flight to New Jersey because you need to know if this is still something you can save or if you lost him completely

DAY ONE  

The cab ride from the airport to Jack’s apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The city outside the window passes in a blur of gray and headlights, but you don’t really see it. Your phone sits heavy in your lap, the screen dark except for the faint reflection of the passing streetlights. You tap your thumb against the side of it like you're expecting a message that you know isn’t coming. Jack texted you earlier to confirm he’d be home when you arrived, but that was three hours ago. No follow-up. No “Can’t wait to see you.” No little heart emoji like he used to send.  

It’s not that he’s ignoring you  at least, not outright. He’s busy, you’ve told yourself a hundred times over the last few weeks. Rookie season is demanding. New city, new team, new pressure. He’s adjusting. You should understand that. And you do. You swear you do. But understanding it doesn’t make the silence feel any less heavy.  

When the cab pulls up in front of Jack’s building, you hesitate for a second before stepping out. You’re not sure why  it’s not like you’ve never been here before but the weight sitting low in your stomach makes it hard to breathe. The driver sets your bag on the curb, and you force yourself to pick it up, shoulders tensing under the weight of it as you walk toward the entrance.  

Jack opens the door when you knock. He’s in a plain Devils hoodie and sweatpants, his hair damp like he just showered. He smiles, but it’s thin, barely reaching his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, like he's already tired.  

You smile, forcing brightness into your voice. “Hey.”  

Jack leans down to kiss you, but it’s brief. Quick. Like he’s already pulling away before it starts. His hand finds the small of your back and guides you into the apartment, but it drops as soon as the door closes behind you.  

The apartment looks the same cleaner than you expected, probably because Ellen came to visit last week but it feels off. Like someone came through and rearranged all the furniture just enough to make you notice. Jack’s shoes are in a neat row by the door. There’s a half empty coffee mug sitting on the counter. His phone is face down on the couch.  

Jack sits down on the couch, leaving a noticeable gap beside him. You sit too, trying to close it, but he doesn’t shift toward you.  

“So,” you start, your voice too bright, too forced, “how was practice today?”  

“Fine.”  

Your stomach twists. “Just fine?”  

Jack shrugs, eyes fixed on the muted TV. “Yeah.”  

You watch him for a second, the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hand rests against his knee. Normally, he'd have his arm around you by now. Normally, you’d be tangled together and he’d be rambling about plays and drills and how Nico wouldn’t stop chirping him today.  

But he’s quiet. Detached.  

And you’re hyper aware of the space between you.  

Jack reaches for the remote and starts flipping through channels. His brows furrowed in concentration, but he’s not really watching anything. It’s like his body is here, but the rest of him is somewhere else.  

“Hungry?” he asks after a minute.  

“Yeah, I could eat.”  

“Cool.” He stands. “I’ll order something.”  

And that’s it. He disappears into the kitchen without asking what you want. A minute later, you hear the soft murmur of his voice on the phone.   

You sit there, your heart beating loud in your ears, and wonder why it feels like you’ve already lost him.  

Jack comes back a few minutes later and drops onto the couch, his knee brushing against yours for half a second before he shifts away.  

“Food should be here in, like, twenty minutes,” he says.  

You nod. “okay”  

More silence. The TV hums in the background, the flicker of light reflecting off Jack’s face. You glance at him, hoping he’ll look over at you, but his gaze stays fixed on the screen. His hand is resting between his knees, his fingers pulling at a loose thread in the fabric of his sweatpants.  

You clear your throat. “Did you, um talk to Quinn today he was asking me about you?”  

Jack’s mouth tightens. “Yeah.”  

“And?”  

“He’s good.”  

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. The seconds stretch out between you, long and tense and uncomfortable.  

“Jack.” You lean toward him, lowering your voice. “What’s going on?” Jack’s jaw twitches. “Nothing.”  

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.”  

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just been a long week.”  

You search his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint crease in his forehead and you know he’s not lying. But you also know he’s not telling you the whole truth.   

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice soft.  

Jack’s gaze flickers toward you, and for a second, you see it  the familiar warmth, the quiet vulnerability you’ve always known how to reach. His eyes soften, and he looks like he might actually say something.  

But then the buzzer for the front door sounds, and the moment evaporates.  

Jack stands quickly. “That’s the food.”  

You watch him cross the room, feeling the distance stretch wider with every step.  

He comes back with a brown takeout bag, setting it on the coffee table before sitting down. He opens the bag and pulls out containers of food  sushi, not your favorite  and hands you a pair of chopsticks without looking at you. 

You stare down at the food. “Did you know what I wanted?”  

Jack hesitates. “I just ordered something quick.”  

Your chest tightens. Jack always knows what you want. He knows you like avocado rolls, not spicy tuna. He knows you like extra soy sauce on the side and that you don’t like wasabi. But tonight, it’s like he didn’t even think about it.  

You pick at the sushi, appetite gone. Jack eats quietly, his eyes back on the TV. The sound of the game commentator fills the air, too loud, pressing into your skull.  

After a few minutes, Jack stands and starts cleaning up. He takes your barely touched container and tosses it in the trash without a word.  

“I’m gonna shower,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.  

“Oh. Okay.”  

Jack hesitates in the doorway. His eyes flick toward you, and for a second, you think he might come back, sit down, pull you into his arms, tell you he’s just tired and that everything is fine.  

But he doesn’t. He disappears down the hall, and a minute later, you hear the sound of the shower running.  

You sit there, hands clasped in your lap, listening to the water hit the tile. Your heart feels too big and too small at the same time, pressing against the walls of your chest.   

Jack’s phone buzzes on the table, and you glance at it. A text from Nico lights up the screen:  

Good skate today. 

 You stare at the message for a long time. 

The shower runs in the background, and you sit alone on the couch, feeling the emptiness stretch out around you.

DAY TWO

Jack sleeps with his back to you.  

It’s not the first time, but it feels different tonight. Final. His side of the bed feels miles away, the sheets cool and untouched where his body should be. You lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his breathing. It’s shallow, restless. Every few minutes, he shifts, the mattress dipping under his weight.  

You think about reaching for him, curling up into his side like you always do. Your hand twitches under the blanket, fingers itching to brush over his back, to anchor yourself to the steady rhythm of his breathing. But something stops you. Fear, maybe or just the quiet certainty that if you reach for him, he’ll pull away.  

So you stay still, the space between you cold and unforgiving.  

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night to find him half hanging off the edge of the bed, his face turned toward the wall. His arm is curled beneath his head, his breathing uneven. You watch the rise and fall of his back, the way his shoulders tense even in sleep. He’s not resting, not really.   

You swallow hard and sit up slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. For a second, you think about touching him, coaxing him back toward you. But you don’t. You can’t.   

In the morning, Jack wakes up first. You know this because you hear him moving around the apartment while you lie there, eyes closed, hoping he’ll come back to bed. He doesn’t.  

Instead, you hear the distant sound of water running in the bathroom, the clink of glass in the kitchen. The low hum of the TV. You press your face into the pillow and try to breathe through the tightness in your chest.  

When you finally get up, Jack’s sitting at the kitchen counter with a protein shake. He’s already dressed in workout gear Devils issued shorts and a long-sleeve shirt that fits snug around his arms. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He glances up when you enter the room.  

“Morning,” you say, your voice coming out softer than you meant.  

“Hey.”  

You sit across from him, pulling your knees up and wrapping your arms around them. Jack’s gaze flickers toward you briefly, then drops back down to his protein shake. He spins the cup slowly in his hands, condensation trailing down the side.  

You try to find his eyes. “Sleep okay?”  

Jack nods, distracted. He taps his thumb against the edge of the cup. “Yeah.”  

“You sure?”  

“Mmhmm.” His gaze darts toward the window.  

You glance at the clock on the microwave. “What time’s practice?”  

“Ten.”  

“You want to grab coffee after?”  

Jack hesitates. His shoulders tighten. “I don’t know. We’ve got media stuff later.”  

“Oh.”  

You feel stupid for asking.  

Jack stands and rinses out his cup in the sink. His back is to you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. He’s holding it all in  the pressure, the frustration, the weight of everything this year has asked of him. Normally, he’d tell you about it. He’d talk through it, let you hold it with him for a little while.  

But now it feels like he’s trying to keep the distance intact.  

“You okay?” you ask quietly.  

“Yeah.”  

“Jack.”  

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. When he speaks, his voice is tight. “It’s just a lot right now.”  

You nod, even though he’s not looking at you.  

Jack’s hand curls over the edge of the counter. His knuckles turn white for half a second before he exhales and grabs his keys from the hook by the door.  

“I’ll see you later, okay?” His tone is light  too light. Like he’s trying to make this feel normal.  

You sit up straighter. “We could go out tonight. Dinner or something.”  

Jack pauses with his hand on the handle. His eyes flick toward you, guarded. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”  

Then he’s gone.  

The door clicks shut behind him, and the quiet of the apartment closes in around you.  

You sit there for a long time, staring at the spot where he stood. The sunlight spills in through the thin curtains, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor. You think about the way he used to kiss you in the mornings, sleepy and warm, his hand curled over the back of your neck. You think about the way he used to tug you into his chest after a restless night, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your hair.  

And then you think about last night about the empty side of the bed and the quiet wall of his back facing you.  

Your phone buzzes on the table. You grab it quickly, your heart leaping in your chest. But it’s not Jack. It’s a text from quinn  

"Hope you’re having a good time! How’s Jack?" 

You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back:  

"Good. Everything’s good." 

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue.   

You sit there for a while longer, the phone still in your hand, before pushing yourself to your feet. You grab the half-empty protein shake Jack left on the counter and dump it down the sink. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence.  

It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels later. Your eyes drift toward the bedroom  the sheets still rumpled from sleep and you wonder if you should crawl back into bed and wait for him to come home.  

But you know better.  

Instead, you curl up on the couch and pull the blanket over your legs. Jack’s sweatshirt is draped over the arm of the couch, and you pull it onto your lap, bunching the sleeves in your hands. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer, more familiar.  

you press your face into the fabric and close your eyes, trying to remember the last time he held you like he meant it.  

You think about how he used to look at you and really look at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.  

But that was months ago. Now, when Jack looks at you, it’s like he’s looking through you. Or worse like he’s already decided what happens next.  

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Jack.  

“Practice ran long. Gonna be late.” 

You type out a quick response  "Okay."  but don’t hit send right away.  

Instead, you sit there with the message glowing on the screen, wondering when it started feeling like this. Like you’re holding onto something that’s already slipping away.

DAY THREE

It was worse the next day. The air felt thicker, like it was weighing down every conversation. Jack seemed distracted, his gaze always drifting toward his phone or the TV. When you asked if he wanted to grab lunch, he hesitated for a second before saying, "Yeah, sure," like he was doing you a favor.

At lunch, he kept glancing around, not meeting your eyes. You watched him scroll through his phone between bites of his sandwich. You tapped your nails against the table.

"Jack."

"Hmm?" His eyes didn’t lift from his phone.

"Can you put that down?"

He sighed but set the phone face down. "Okay."

You wanted to ask if he even wanted you here. You wanted to ask why he wasn’t looking at you like he used to, why you felt like a ghost in his apartment. But you swallowed it all down and smiled when Jack forced another conversation about hockey that you could barely focus on.

That night, he sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling on his phone again while you sat behind him. You reached out, resting a hand on his back. He tensed.

"Are you okay?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said quickly.

"You don’t seem like it."

"I’m fine, okay?" His tone was sharp. He stood up and walked toward the bathroom without looking back.

You stared at the empty space he left behind.

DAY FOUR

You woke up before Jack.  

He was lying on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair sticking up in every direction. You watched him for a moment, chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful like this like the Jack you used to know. The Jack who used to roll over and pull you into his arms the second he woke up.  

You shifted closer, brushing your hand over his back. His skin was warm under your fingertips. He stirred, groaning softly into the pillow.  

"Morning," you whispered.  

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at you sleepily, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Morning."  

You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his bare shoulder. He didn’t react. Just sat up and ran a hand through his hair.  

"What time is it?"  

"Almost nine."  

Jack nodded, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "I should get going soon."  

"Going where?I thought you had today off"  

Jack stood, stretching. "I do, I'm just going to go workout with some of the guys."  

"Oh." You sat up, the sheets pooling around your waist. "Can I come?"  

Jack paused, looking at you over his shoulder. "I mean it’s just going to be boring."  

"I don’t care."  

Jack hesitated. "I think we’re just gonna grab lunch after. Probably end up hanging out at Nico’s."  

You bit the inside of your cheek. "So you don’t want me there?"  

Jack’s gaze darted to the floor. "It’s not that."  

"Then what is it?"  

Jack sighed. "I don’t know. Just feels like a guys' thing, you know?"  

You swallowed. "Right."  

Jack’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it, checking the screen. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.  

"Who is it?" you asked.  

“Nico," Jack said, texting back quickly. He tossed his phone onto the bed, already moving toward the bathroom.  

You sat there for a moment, heart sinking.  

"I’ll be back later," Jack called over his shoulder.  

"Cool," you murmured. But Jack had already closed the door behind him.  

You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower running.  

When Jack got back that afternoon, you were curled up on the couch, knees pulled to your chest. He walked in, tossed his keys onto the counter, and sat down across from you. He scrolled through his phone without saying anything.  

You watched him for a moment.  

"How was it?" you asked.  

"Hmm?"  

"Your workout."  

Jack shrugged. "Good."  

"Anything else?"  

Jack didn’t look up. "Nope."  

Your jaw tightened.  

You shifted closer, resting a hand on his arm. "Jack."  

He tensed. "What?"  

You hated how sharp his voice sounded. Like you were annoying him.  

"Do you want to do something tonight?" you asked quietly.  

Jack sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t know. I’m kind of tired."  

"Oh."  

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you. "What?"  

"Nothing," you said quickly, even though it wasn’t nothing.  

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He picked it up without hesitation. You sat there, heart sinking as he smiled at the screen. He didn’t even notice the way your hand fell away from his arm.  

And that’s when it hit you.  

You weren’t the person he wanted to talk to anymore.  

You weren’t the person who made him smile like that anymore.  

You took a breath, swallowing hard. "Jack."  

"Hmm?"  

You sat up straighter, heart hammering painfully against your ribs. "Do you even want me here?"  

Jack’s head jerked toward you, brows furrowing. "What kind of question is that?"  

"You’re barely looking at me." Your voice cracked. "You don’t talk to me. When you do, it feels like you’re trying to get through it so you can go back to your phone. Just say it if you don’t want me here."  

Jack’s jaw tightened. "Jesus, you’re making this a bigger deal than it is."  

"A bigger deal?" you echoed. Your voice sharpened. "Jack, I flew to new jersey to see you. I’m trying so hard to hold this together, but you’re not even meeting me halfway. If you don’t want this anymore, just"  

"I didn’t ask you to come."  

You froze.  

Jack’s eyes widened, but the words were already out there.  

Your heart hammered in your chest. "What?"  

"I didn’t ask you to come," he repeated, softer this time. His gaze fell to the floor. "You decided to."  

You blinked hard, your throat tightening painfully. "Wow."  

Jack ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "I didn’t mean it like that"  

"You did."  

Jack’s mouth opened, but no words came out.  

You stood up, shaking. "I can't, I can't do this anymore."  

Jack’s head snapped toward you. "What does that mean?"  

"It means I’m done." Your voice broke, but you kept going. "I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this. If you’re not going to try, then why am I even here?"  

Jack’s eyes darkened. "So that’s it? You’re giving up?"  

You laughed bitterly. "You gave up first."  

Jack’s mouth twisted. "Right. So now it’s my fault?"  

"You know what?" you said, your breath shaking. "Yeah. It is."  

Jack stood up, his eyes hard now. "Fine. If you want to go, then go."  

"That’s it?" You took a step toward him, tears blurring your vision. "You’re not even going to try to stop me?"  

Jack’s eyes flashed. "What do you want me to say? That I miss you? That I love you? You already know that, but it’s not enough, is it?"  

"It’s not enough if you’re not going to show it!" you shot back. "You say you love me, but you act like I’m just here. Like I don’t matter."  

Jack’s expression darkened. "Yeah? Well, maybe you don’t."  

You sucked in a sharp breath.  

Jack’s face paled instantly. "I—"  

"No." You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "You said it. And you know what? Maybe you’re right."  

"Don’t twist this"  

"I’m not twisting anything! I’m done!" Your voice cracked, but you held your ground. "I’m not going to sit here and beg for you to care about me. I deserve better than that."  

Jack’s jaw flexed.  

Your breath hitched. You waited for him to take it back to tell you to stay. But Jack just stood there, eyes stormy, hands clenched into fists at his sides.  

You nodded slowly. "Okay."  

You grabbed your bag from the floor. Jack didn’t say anything as you walked toward the door. Your hand trembled as you opened it.  

You hesitated. Just for a second.  

"Bye, Jack," you whispered.  

Jack didn’t reply.  

You closed the door behind you.  

The flight home feels like a blur. You don’t cry at least not yet  but the numbness sets in as soon as the plane takes off. Jack didn’t text you before you boarded. He didn’t call. He didn’t say anything after the door shut behind you.   

You stare out the window, watching the clouds blur beneath you, but your chest feels hollow. Four years. Gone in a single weekend. Your friendship since you were 10 of growing up together, of loving each other through every awkward phase and milestone  shattered in one conversation.  

You scroll through your phone without really seeing it. His contact sits at the top of your recent messages, the last one marked as read. I’m sorry. He hasn’t sent anything since.   

And honestly, you don’t expect him to.  

Your phone vibrates, and for half a second your heart leaps. But it’s just your mom, checking in. You let the message sit unopened and slide your phone facedown on the tray table.  

When you get home, everything feels wrong. Your room looks the same, but it’s too quiet. No FaceTime calls from Jack lighting up your phone. No goodnight texts. No “Miss you” or “Wish you were here.” The absence is deafening.   

You lie in bed that night, scrolling through old pictures, ones from Vancouver, from Michigan, from all those summers at the lake house. Jack’s smile frozen in time. Your hand in his. Quinn and Luke in the background, laughing at something Jack had said.   

Your chest tightens.  

You think about how easy it used to be how you could sit in silence for hours and still feel connected. How you could tell what Jack was thinking just from a look. How his hand would instinctively find yours without either of you thinking about it.   

But somewhere along the way, you both stopped reaching for each other. Mostly him. 

Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Quinn.  

“You okay?” 

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don’t know how to answer that.

“Yeah. Just tired.”  

Quinn’s reply comes quickly. “Jack didn’t mean it.”   

Your breath catches. A hollow feeling sinks deeper into your chest.   

You don’t answer.  

Because the worst part is maybe he did.

[wileys-russo]

Ft. Clumsy Alessia on one knee - cliff top - reader: “babe did you just trip again?? Oh my god you’re proposing!!”

part of the maternal instincts universe just say yes II a.russo

you and alessia were engaged. you couldn't quite believe it as for the tenth time just in that hour you'd found yourself gazing down at your ring finger in admiration.

twisting your hand left and right you watched as the clean cut diamond caught the sun, glinting and shimmering as your lips curled into the same dopey smile of disbelief that had been plastered in your face the last two days since.

but in order to understand just how it happened, you'd need to track back through a series of rather unplanned and unfortunate events, and it had all started on a tuesday evening...

you had parent teacher interviews (which really you'd always protested was a waste of time for primary school classes, but the department of education clearly disagreed) which left alessia in charge for the night shift.

now normally that would be fine, bar bella perhaps testing the waters a little more to see just how much she could get away with. though your girlfriend had caught onto this quite quickly and now with both time and confidence under her belt had no issues assuming the stricter parental role as needed.

but tonight it seemed bella and her tummy monster had decided to take it easy on the striker, not kicking up a fuss when alessia refused to buy pizza for dinner since there was things to use up in the fridge, only splashing her half as much as usual in the bath and putting on her least favourite pair of pyjamas since the latter was in the wash.

so naturally alessia felt her guard start to slip, sitting bella down in front of the tv for her designated nightly episode of bluey and busying herself scanning two marketing contracts luca had been harassing her about which had been sat in her email inbox for well over a week now.

sat at the dining room table with her back turned on the suspiciously well behaved five year old, alessia failed to notice the couch was empty, bella wandering off to try and locate her phone which she knew charged in the bedroom, missing you and wanting to say goodnight.

but unaware the phone in question was tucked away in alessias pocket, bella frowned at the bare side table, now on the hunt and pulling open the drawer of the nightstand, pushing up on the tips of her toes to look inside.

sticking a hand up she clumsily fumbled about, pushing and poking and prodding but huffing when ultimately there was still no phone to be found. but then her finger brushed something soft, eyebrows creasing as she stood up as tall as she could until her small hand was able to grasp it.

tugging it out of the nightstand, a small crushed velvet box sat in the palm of your daughters hand, and from the moment she popped it open, everything that was to come in the week ahead was set into motion.

"you bought mummy a ring!" alessia almost fell off her chair as a little voice chirped up suddenly from beside her, eyes widening as large as saucers at the diamond ring thrust in her face as bella climbed up on the chair beside her, wild grin on her face.

"where did you get this? were you snooping? what did we say about snooping isabella?" alessia's tone was sharp as she slammed her laptop shut, lurching forward to snatch the ring and snap the box closed, shoving it into her pocket and head rapidly darting side to side to check you hadn't seen as if you weren't currently on the other side of town.

"no! i wanted your phone, so i could call mummy and say goodnight. does mummy know about the ring? does this mean you're gonna get married? can i be the flower girl? can i wear a pretty dress? can the dress be pink? or maybe red! will leah be there? will uncle-" overwhelmed by the rapid fire investigation taking place alessia was quick to press her hand over the five year olds mouth.

"we need to have a little talk, bella." alessia warned sternly, slowly lowering her hand as bellas once delighted grin lowered into a scowl, crossing her arms and slumping down in the chair, as was her usual go to whenever she knew she'd gotten herself into trouble.

"come on, its past your bedtime." alessia spoke a little softer now, standing and offering her hand for bella to take, chuckling as the girl who was more than capable of walking lifted her arms expectantly.

"oh alright then." alessia gave in with a sigh of amusement, lifting bella up and into her own arms, walking the pair of them down the hall to her room and lowering her into bed, making sure she was all tucked in and comfortable with the small army of stuffed animals bella insisted all needed a place in bed with her.

"now this-" alessia grabbed the ring from her pocket and popped the box open again. "-is a conversation i did not plan to have this way, snoopy." alessia smiled poking at bella's nose who scrunched her face up in response.

"but the situation has clearly changed. so, tiny, would you be okay if i ask your mummy to marry me?" alessia asked, a small handful of nerves bubbling to the surface with the question, surprise clearly written all over your daughters face.

"me?" bella asked in response, pointing to herself as your girlfriend smiled and nodded. "yeah, you. your opinion is pretty important to me you know." alessia affirmed, hand smoothing down the few rogue tufts of hair which stuck up at the back of bella's head where she'd had one of your hoodies on before dinner.

"i want you to marry mummy! i do! then we can be a real family!" bella perked up, alessia almost falling off the bed as bella launched across it, arms flung around her neck and clinging on tightly to the bear hug your girlfriend eagerly wrapped her in.

"we already are a family. me, you, your mum, your dad, your dads girlfriend olivia. thats why we all go out to dinner every second friday, right?" alessia reminded gently, hand rubbing up and down soothingly against bellas back.

"yeah! for chinese." bella nodded happily, the routine one that both you and your ex had implemented once both in quite serious relationships, and much from isabellas own requests.

"but. you cannot tell mummy about the ring or that i want to propose to her, okay?" alessias tone once again adopted a strict undertone, carefully prying bella off and pulling back the covers so she could climb underneath them again.

"but why? she'll be happy! mummy loves you mama." bella wondered innocently with a frown, tucking one of her teddys under her chin as she wiggled around until she was comfortable.

"because its a surprise, so its our little secret. okay? not a word to mummy, nothing, nada, zip!" alessia motioned zipping her lips closed making the five year old giggle and nod in agreement.

"zip!"

and for a few days, that seemed to be working well. until dinner at alessias mothers place, where suddenly everything came crashing down.

you were of course being your usual stubborn self, refusing to let anyone swat you out of the kitchen to help clean up after dinner and flicking your girlfriend with the dish towel when she didn't hold this same level of use.

"babe!" alessia gasped as the crack echoed around the living room, your finger pointing back into the kitchen. "your mum and dad cooked, your brother cleared the table, you can dry a dish or two russo." you warned sternly, the blonde sending a filthy side eye to luca who oohed, earning himself a smack on the arm from his own wife.

but with the pair of you preoccupied in the kitchen, and bella showing alessias parents her latest dance routine in the front room, it would seem the striker should have perhaps been a little more specific with the nature of her earlier warnings.

"lessi! can you come here for a second please darling?" the blonde glanced over your head from where her mum was calling for her, not long having finished helping you wash and dry when bella had come zooming on through, smacking your leg and demanding you were now 'it' for the game of tag she'd started.

"yeah mum what-" but the words died in her mouth the minute she saw the all too familiar red box in the womans hand, mirrored by the looks of pride and joy in both her parents eyes.

"oh god!" alessia groaned, dragging her hands down her face and hurrying to all but slam her parents bedroom door shut as the congratulations and hugs started which she quickly wiggled her way out of.

"isabella!" alessia muttered under her breath, forcing a weak smile as her parents chattered away happily and she plucked the ring from her mothers palm, tucking it safely away in her pocket and making a mental note to find a better hiding spot.

"why didn't you tell us you were proposing!" right as her dad clapped her on the back the door opened, alessias head doing a near 360 on her shoulders and exhaling shakily in relief seeing it was only bella and luca, rapidly motioning for the door to be closed again.

"you're proposing??" luca asked with wide eyes, squatting down to allow bella to slide off his back where he'd been carting her around, alessia sighing deeply and pressing her fingertips into her temple.

"i'm gonna be the flower girl!" bella announced happily, bouncing about as the room exploded into chatter once again and the blonde wished the ground could swallow her up.

"isabella i told you not to tell anyone!" alessia warned the grinning five year old who darted back to hide behind lucas leg. "no! mama you told me not to tell mummy." isabella retorted matter of factly, though not with quite enough confidence to move away from using luca as a human shield.

"well i told you not to touch the ring!" alessia groaned again. "i didn't! i touched the box." bella answered back smartly, retreating even further behind luca as alessias eyes narrowed.

"so when are you doing it? now?" her brother questioned eagerly, bella sneaking off when alessias gaze flickered away from her for just a second, the door opening and closing before the blonde could grab her.

"bella don't you-now? of course i'm not doing it now!" alessia scoffed, her head starting to hurt as she advanced toward the door, eager to wrangle you and bella up and get away from here into a much more controlled environment where the threat of the secret being revealed was at least lessened.

"but why not? sieze the moment darling, it doesn't have to be a big gesture!" her mum encouraged, alessia waving her off with a shake of her head, throwing open the door and all but stomping down the hall, her anxiety peaked that bella would continue on her little train of telling and you'd be the next stop.

only when she came to a halt at the back door, time seemed to slow and the hardened lines etched in her forehead softened, watching you and bella kick a ball around in the backyard, sudden nostalgia washing over her of when alessia had been bellas age.

full of life, excitement, with scraped knees and mud stained clothes, determined to best her two older brothers who would constantly shoot her down when she tried to join them, instead practicing on her own until the sun was so low in the sky she couldn't see more than a metre in front of her and she was forced to come inside.

you spotted your girlfriend hovering and watching, giving her a wave and pretending to dive for the ball, bella easily slotting it past you and racing around doing her 'air russo' arms as alessias lips curled into a smile.

though perhaps instead of watching in front of her, she should have been a little more concerned with what lay beneath her, as within no more than two steps forward the striker seemed to forget the layout of her own backyard, tumbling down the three steps that connected the deck to the grass.

of course more than used to your girlfriends clumsiness you didn't think much of it, covering a laugh up with a cough as you jogged on over to her with an amused shake of your head.

but as alessia slowly pulled herself up, she realised there was a looming weight that was now missing from her left pocket, and again head gaze shot downward.

scrambling to recover the small red box sat in plain sight on the grass before her, she was lucky as your attention was temporarily captured as bella called out for you to watch her do a cartwheel.

"very good!" you clapped happily at the five year olds half cartweel, turning around again as bella attempted to try and juggle the ball as she'd watched alessia do countless times, instead booting it halfway across the backyard with an annoyed huff.

"babe did you trip again?" you returned your gaze down to alessia, but your laughter caught in your throat as you did so, the blonde staring up at you like a deer in headlights with a tiny red box in her hand.

you knew you shouldn't say it, but the words came tumbling out of your mouth like a flood before you could stop them.

"oh my god you're proposing." you choked out, alessias mouth opening and closing like a fish. "no im-" but seeing the way your face automatically fell at just those two words, the regret and embarrassment now filling your features, coupled with the multiple sets of eyes she could feel staring at the pair of you from back inside the house.

she made a decision.

"yes. yes i am!" she quickly clarified as you now watched on with shock, alessia shaking her head a few times and exhaling shakily. "um-look i had a whole plan and a speech and it was much more elaborate and romantic and thoughtful than well...this." alessia started nervously, adjusting herself to be on one knee.

"but then bella found the ring early and let it slip to my parents and she brought it here to show them, without me knowing, and then the more people knew the more i worried it would get back to you before i was ready and when i tell you i had a plan i had a plan! i promise. it was-" alessia spoke a million miles an hour as you struggled to keep up, clearing your throat suddenly.

"less, my love, you're rambling." you smiled, still able to find some amusement in this situation as the blonde nodded profusely, pausing for a moment and taking a deep breath.

"this wasn't how i planned it, like at all. but i love you more than anything, i love isabella with my everything, and i want to cement a loving and stable future with both of you. so, will you marry me?" alessia finally popped the question, and you knew your answer, but you just couldn't seem to get the words out.

feeling a hand slip into yours you looked down, finding your daughter stood beside you with a cheshire like grin.

"mummy, just say yes."

and thats exactly what you did.

[porcalinecunt]

Omg I love ur works!!! Please post more stuff with Oliver and kaiser

𝐉𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐘!

🪽ᯓᡣ𐭩 oliver & kaiser catching you masterbating in their jerseys! <3

⋆˚࿔ FEATURING . . 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ OLIVER AIKU & MICHEAL KAISER X GN! READER

° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . cw — afab!reader. fingering. doggy style. rough sex. hair pulling. creampie. cockdrunk! reader. a fuckton of ego stroking.

[・:。author’s note ! 「 ✉️ 」・𓂃 ࣪˖ ] oh boy, so this one was rotting in my inbox..but im finally back despite seasonal depression kicking my ass! (send help) i hope this was worth the wait charkvc </3 enjoy!

𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐈𝐊𝐔 !

ᥫ᭡. — ugh, this man..

ᥫ᭡. — his ego is already inflated to the max by the time his match ends in victory, so seeing you fingering your needy cunt in his jersey? you shouldn’t have been shocked when he pounced onto you.

ᥫ᭡. — this man didn’t even let you speak. no “hey babe!” or “i missed you!”, NAH. his tongue was halfway down your throat and his hands were fumbling the band of your shorts. no way he was gonna let his slutty partner have all the fun when the both of you knew damn well he’d do you so much better then your stupid fingers. in fact, why not his fingers?

° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . where were you again? ah right, lying on your side as your boyfriend finger fucks you until veins carved into his forearm. his neglected yet ragingly hard cock poking against your thigh as he was too busy watching your face twist and contort in pleasure.

“aah—not too rough oliver..” you sighed while he clearly ignored what you said, rather latching his mouth onto any patch of unmarked skin.

“nah baby, can’t get off in my jersey and expect me to do nothing..” oliver chuckled, and was unfortunately right. the sight of you masterbating shamlessly in his oversized and sweaty jersey stroked his already massive ego, his pretty little partner fingering their cunt as his match played on live television was practically an invitation to him.

“c’mon..cum all over my fingers, you love me don’t you baby?” his tone switched into a faux sweetness that he doesn’t try to hide in, yet you couldn’t help but start kicking your feet and whine like a bitch in heat. you could beg through weak little humps and you’re shaking thighs as he pumps his fingers faster. a shit eating grin formed on his face.

“you’re so cute—fuck, i missed you so much babe.”

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑 !

ᥫ᭡. — him seeing you get yourself off in a jersey is the same as stroking his dick in blind worship, if only you didn’t spoil it by acting so stupid when he caught you.

ᥫ᭡. — no amount of babbling will ever save you from this horny bastard as he immediately went to work on your pretty self. flipping you onto your stomach as he shimmies whatever bottoms you had on while you attempted to wriggle out of his grip. kaiser doesn’t take any more of your attempts, oh no no no! instead, opting to grab a fistfull of your hair and wring your neck like he’s tugging on a dog leash.

ᥫ᭡. — kaiser would stare down at the huge ‘10’ on your back as he fucks you doggy style while you can’t even moan thanks to how hard he was tugging. a testament on why you should never even try to touch yourself when you’re boyfie isn’t home to take care of you! <3

kaiser is so much meaner, more greedy. so much so, you couldn’t even greet him when he busted through the bedroom door and caught you red handed. pathetically humping a pillow in his jersey while imagining his cock nestled in you.

you certainly got your wish. on all fours while kaiser fucks himself into your poor pussy as he used your hair as a leash. his knuckles are near white with his iron grip on your scalp, his eyes glued onto your bruised ass from how hard his hips slam against them.

“fuck—‘m gonna cum already..right inside you, sounds good love?” kaiser groaned with his smile practically heard as your head was forced high up while you babbled incoherent nonsense.

“m’ gonna take that as a yes.”

you mewled almost in defeat as his dick began to twitch, grunts and groans filled the room while you remained silent with your jaw agape from his harsh thrusts. the smell of sex and his jersey melts your senses until you were completely cock drunk and falling apart on your boyfriend’s girth. you didn’t even notice he was already cumming inside you until he flipped you onto your back, wet dick in hand and on your clit.

© porcalinecunt 🪽ᯓᡣ𐭩ྀི do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

+18 mdni! bucky refuses to say reader's name, and reader tries to get him to say it. unfortunately bucky switches the dynamics between him and reader, and reader ends up unsuccessful.. for now.

cw: sub!->dom!bucky, dom!->sub!m!reader, oral sex, handjobs (multiple), overstimulation

word count: >2.3k

a/n: maybe there'll be a part 2 ... you never know .. 😝 if you guys have suggestions, please do not hesitate to flood my inbox!!!!!!

-------------------------------------------------------

you’ve recently saved bucky from a few sticky situations, and he slowly warmed up to you more. you’ve asked him to call you by your name multiple times, but he would rather die than say your name, and it confused you.

“you.. can say my name, you know that right?” the both of you just got home from another mission, you talked to him but he avoided your gaze and put his boots away in response. “or do you want a more forceful way? it’s like you need me to fuck it out of you or something.” you said absentmindedly, not knowing the effect you had on him.

“i don’t need you to lay it out for me, alright? like you do with everything else.” he shifted, eyes darting around the room before landing back on you with a glare. he sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair as he leaned against the doorway. “let’s just.. forget you said that, okay?” his voice was a husky whisper, as he cleared his throat to regain control over the situation.

“i heard your breath hitch, by the way. hope you know that.” you turned away, walking to sit on the couch as you turned on the tv to watch the news, as usual. your casual remark sent a shiver down his spine, his heart hammered in his chest as he remained silent, unwilling to give you the satisfaction of an admission. he felt a familiar heat growing in his lower stomach, his cock starting to stir in his jeans, but he played it cool as he tried to will it away. you could hear every single hitch of his breath, but you stated quiet.

“fuck.” bucky gritted out, his voice strained as he felt his resolve crumble. “just.. just turn around.”

“that’s a start, well done. didn’t expect you to actually admit it.” you shrugged, not wanting to turn around just yet. you wanted to break his nonchalant facade, to make him ask for what he wanted. he couldn’t meet your gaze anymore, his eyes stung as he fought to regain his composure.

“what’s it to you?” he murmured, in an attempt to deflect the situation. “just.. do whatever you want.” the words spilled out before he could properly consider them. at this point, whatever he was doing was pointless, you’ve already seen through his act.

“yeah? and you’d let me?” you walked over to bucky and reached for his waist, wrapping your arm around his and bringing him to the couch. his entire body tensed as your arm wrapped around him. “wanna consider calling me by my name now, handsome?” he turned his head away and avoided the question. “guess i’ll really have to fuck it out of you.” you pulled him into your lap, making him gasp slightly. his hardened cock pressed against you, making you smirk teasingly.

“jeez..” he hissed, trying to squirm free but you just made him so weak. “you can’t just.. fuck me into submission like some puppet on a string.” his words came out breathless, almost pleading, despite him trying desperately to maintain a tough front. “it’s not that simple.” even as he protested, his hips shifted instinctively against you.

“we’ll see about that.” you let go of his hips, making him turn back to you immediately.

“what are you waiting for? weren’t you gonna ‘teach me a lesson’?” he asked softly, the tone of his voice betraying his current persona. the release of your grip threw him off balance, his eyes remained lowered, avoiding your gaze at all costs. “just.. do it already.”

“hm.” you grabbed his neck, leaning him forward, and tucking his head into the crook of your neck. the motion sent a shiver down his spine as embarrassment filled his system, his cheeks burnt with a flush that spread all the way down his neck.

“f-fuck..” bucky stammered, his voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt. he squirmed slightly, not used to being so physically close to someone. you smiled, pulling his head back to kiss him gently. his eyes flew open in shock, before fluttering shut again as he visibly relaxed. he clutched at your shoulders, his mechanical arm whirring at the motion. when you finally broke the kiss, he gasped, his voice hoarse with desire as he gazed at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

“room, now.” he tried to get up from your lap, stumbling as his legs were weak from your relentless teasing. when the both of you finally got to your shared bedroom, he laid back on his elbows as he gazed up at you. you pressed your knee to his crotch, making him hiss out, his hands gripping at the sheets. “want my cock on your tongue, buck? maybe you’ll finally learn to say my name after this?”

“mmph.. yeah.. want it.” his words were barely a whisper as his mind glazed over with arousal. “please.. i’ll give you anything you want..”

“anything? even saying my name?” bucky avoided your gaze once more. perhaps he thought that he wasn’t worthy enough to have your name roll off his tongue. you whipped your cock out, tapping the tip on his lips, and his eyes almost rolled back at the feeling of it. “oh, you’re dumb already? i haven’t even done anything to you yet.”

“n-nothing to do with my smarts.. believe me.” he breathed out in a needy whisper, his tongue flicking out to lap at the glistening tip, savouring the salty taste of your pre-cum. “this handsome cock can dumb me up any day..” and with that, he wrapped his lips around your tip, sucking gently as he began to bob his head. he slowly took more and more of your cock in his mouth.

“holy fuck.. that mouth of yours.. you’re fucking filthy. had a lot of experience in sucking cock, haven’t you?” you grabbed his hair and slowly fucked into his mouth. you ended up fucking his mouth rougher though, making him drool all over as he hummed dumbly. saliva dripped freely from the corners of his lips, pooling on his chin before dripping onto, and staining his black t-shirt.

“mmph..” he mumbled, his voice muffled around your cock as his eyes rolled back. after a few more thrusts, you came in his mouth. your knees buckled as you slowly fucked his mouth to ride out your high, only stopping when you were on the verge of overstimulation. even though he swallowed as best as he could, some of your cum had already trickled down his chin. “tasted so good..” his words were slurred.

“mm.. fuck.” you pulled away, just to see bucky absolutely wrecked. his hair was a mess while tears and drool covered his face. you moved to sit back against the bed frame. just as you sat down, he took your cock in his hands to jerk you off, catching you off guard. “b-buck, stop that.” you tried to grab his wrist, but he sat himself on your stomach, weighing you down. “n-no, fuck..”

“hey, no backing out now..” he spoke, his hands wrapping around your still-soft cock, as he started to stroke you in a slow rhythm. “after all, i really.. really wanna see your face once more, when you cum.”

“w-wait.. can’t. slow down..” you grabbed at his wrist, helplessly kicking your feet against the mattress.

“oh.. i think you’re enjoying this though, don’t pretend like you aren’t.” he smirked down at you, making your breath hitch. you were sure he wasn’t this hot before. “but don’t worry, i’ll make sure to put that pride of yours back in its rightful place.. once you’re done giving me exactly what i want.” he murmured, before he leaned in and dragged his tongue against your neck. “relax, let me help you with this, hm?”

“i.. mm..” you gave up the moment his tongue was on your neck, how did he know it was your weak spot? you let your head drop to the mattress as you had no choice but to take what he was going to give you.

“much better.” bucky chuckled, tracing your cock in a way that made it twitch. “let’s finish what you started, shall we?” he leaned in, teasingly planting a kiss on the tip, before he dragged his tongue down your cock. .

“oh- oh, buck..” your thighs tensed in an effort to process the pleasure, as you reached for his hands. too bad he was sitting with his back facing you, and he was sitting on your stomach too, it was impossible to stop him now

“shh.. just relax. when i’m done with you, you’ll be pleased with everything that i’ll give you.” with a shit-eating grin, he focused on the underside of your cock, tracing swirles of pre-cum around the veins. normally, you’d have the strength to manhandle him, to throw him off of you, but with his hands on your cock, it was hard to even think, let alone have the strength to rip this man off you.

“w-wait.. stop please.. too much, b-buck.” you gripped bucky’s hips tightly, trying to push him off of you. you were wrecked, and it was all his fault.

“but it’s nowhere near enough just yet..” he muttered against your skin, he unbuttoned your shirt, letting his fingers trace around your nipples. “no.. no. i’m just getting started.” with that, he changed his pace, moving in long and slightly slower strokes now.

“oh fuck, fucking hell, buck.. uuh..” you let out a shaky whimper as you came again, and guess what? bucky turned around just to see your face when you came, your body going limp underneath him as your cock softened. “o-okay.. that’s.. need a break.”

“aw, is that all the fight you’ve got in you?” he had turned back around, and he nipped on the skin on your shoulder playfully.

“you.. fuck, ugh..” you let out a sigh, not used to cumming multiple times at once.

“shh it’s alright, i’ve got you.” he rubbed your cheek lovingly. “but next time, i expect you to put up more of a fight. resist at least a little, hm?”

“wait no.. i want more.. just.. i was supposed to be on top..” you were cut off with a nip to your earlobe.

“ah, but that’s where you’re wrong.” bucky teased, tracing a finger down your torso. “but i kinda do want to see what you’re like.” he let you flip your positions, now that you were strong enough to manhandle him.

“that’s more like it.”

[menagerofmischief]

hi!! i have a big order i hope it’s not too much trouble :’)

could i get a charcuterie board (but maybe married instead of dating) with a cold appetizer? for the mains, i’d like lobster, gyros, sausage rolls, and sarma. and for drinks: white wine, fanta, coca cola, coke zero and a strawberry lemonade all served by sir lewis hamilton, please and thank you!!

my favourite track on the calendar is zandvoort because of the banked curves 😋

charcuterie board dating/married cold appetizer rough sex lobster "I love watching my cum leak out from your pussy" gyros "Gonna fill you up" sausage rolls "I'll make it fit" sarma "Gonna put a baby in you" white wine sir kink fanta size kink coca cola somnophillia coke zero free use strawberry lemonade breeding kink + sweet tea morning sex

lewis hamilton x wife!reader

cw: somno, waking up with sex, no plot just porn, seriously straight to smut no intro, oral sex f!receiving, PiV, unprotected sex, cumming inside, bit of breeding, aftercare implied not included

wc: 0.9k

a/n: back to diner orders because I have over a 100 in my inbox and they're fun. this is short, and probably shit, but I hope you enjoy.

You woke up with a gasp, mouth falling open as a moan slid past your lips, body jerking upwards as pleasure coiled in your belly.

“Fuck, ah, Lewis!” You moaned, fingers tightening around the edges of the blanket as you lifted it up, your eyes meeting his. Your husband looks up at you, his strong hands pushing apart your thighs, lips wrapped around your clit

You go to speak when he nips at your clit and then sucks immediately afterwards, like he’s trying to soothe you, and your head falls further back into the pillow, a gasp of pleasure slipping past your lips. 

You push your tongue out, running it over you lips as Lewis continues to eat you with more excitement that he’s ever shown any food. Finally you find your voice to speak. “Holy shit!” You breathe out, pushing the blanket completely aside and bringing one hand down to rest on his hair, careful of the braids. “Good morning, baby.”

He hummed in reply, sending vibrations straight into your core. “Good morning,” he said, pulling back a bit, a string of saliva still connecting him to your clit. He flashed you a smile before dipping his head back down and pushing his tongue inside of you, his thumb coming up to rub your clit. 

It’s not long after that your legs are shaking, still held down by his hands, and you can feel your gut tighten with every stroke of his thumb and tongue. “I’m gonna cum!” You whine, fingers grasping onto the bed sheets.

“If you wanna cum then go ahead and beg for it,” he orders, thrusting two fingers into you and stroking against your g-spot as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks.

He doesn’t really have to say anything more, you already know what he wants. And like rehearsed speech, pleas start falling from your lips as you beg for your approaching orgasm. “Oh sir!” You whine, your voice high pitched. “Please let me cum, sir. I wanna cum for you, please.”

“Cum,” he uttered, his voice muffled by his face being buried in your folds. That was all it took for your orgasm to crash over you, tipping you over the edge.

Lewis pulls back, giving you a few moments to calm down before he’s pulling down his sleep shorts and briefs and crawling over you. He leans down to kiss you, lips pressing against your in a gentle show of affection and you can taste your arousal on him.

His cock slides through your folds, the tip nudging against your overworked clit, which has you whining as you grab onto his biceps. “Too big, Lew.” You whine, feeling his hardness pressing against you.

He chuckles his eyes meeting yours as he guides the tip of his leaking cock to your entrance, the mushroom head barely slipping in. “Don’t worry baby,” he cooed, his lips brushing against your forehead in a calming manner. “I’ll make it fit, yeah. I always make it fit.”

Lewis pushed himself inside inch by inch until his hips were flush with yours. After all this time, taking him fully was still a stretch. One you would welcome with open arms every time.

He started thrusting slowly, groaning leaving his mouth. “Fuck you feel so good, baby, so tight. Squeezing my dick so well.”

You nodded back at him, too overwhelmed with pleasure to properly speak and he started speeding up his actions. His thrusts holding a bit more power behind them now as he fucked you into the mattress, shaking the bed with each thrust and driving the headboard into the wall.

It wasn’t long until you felt your orgasm approaching, wrapping your legs around his waist and throwing your head back in pleasure. “Fuck, Lew, gonna cum. Cum with me please.” You begged, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“You gonna cum, baby?” He teased, the rhythm of his hips not slowing down. “Go on, be a good girl and cum for me. Then I’m gonna fill you up.”

You moaned at his words, clenching around him as your second orgasm crashed over you, eyes rolling back in pleasure as you clawed at his back. Still, he kept thrusting.

“Yeah, you want that. Don’t worry, sweet girl, you’ll get my cum.” He groaned, his hips faltering as his dick twitched inside of you before you felt his cum spilling along your walls. “Gonna put a baby in you, you want that? Want to be all round and swollen with my child. You’d look so good, the prettiest mama.”

He pulled his now softening dick out of the warmth of your pussy, his cum spilling immediately now that his dick was no longer acting like a makeshift plug. He groaned at the sight, his fingers sliding down to collect the spilled cum and push it back into you, making you whine at the overstimulation he was providing. 

He hummed, bringing his coated fingers up to your lips. You wasted no time to lean forward and take his fingers into your mouth, licking them clean. “I love to watch my cum leak out from your pussy.” He told you, his words making you shiver in delight.

Lewis leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, his hands stroking the skin of your arms. “Let me pamper you a little, baby.” He asked, and you found yourself nodding back at him. It was a very good morning, indeed.

[peachhcs]

we need more macklin fics and fluff bc that one was actually so cute. i need more asap 🩷

sorority formal

still debating if i should make a macklin au to add to my samy + will verse (HAHA my own fanfic verse??) but here’s some more fluff between the lovely rookie and his gf from santa clara university :) — also cleaning out my inbox so that’s why i’ve posted four times in a row LOL

also if this is bad i’m so sorry. i lowkey awkwardly switch between 2nd person and 3rd person pov sometimes so apologies for that. otherwise, i’m really starting to like writing about mack 😌 (slight allusion to sex but there’s no sex actually described just kissing)

masterlist

macklin had never been to a college sorority formal before, nor did he really understand what it was or what to expect, but he agreed to be your date nonetheless. plus, the look on your face was hard to say no to when you asked him two weeks ago.

the brunette was in his room trying to find the right suit to wear while will sat in the corner on his phone. he knew a little bit from when he was at boston, but he never found any interest in going to those frat and sorority parties, so the rookie was a bit in the dark when it came to this stuff.

will wasn’t much help either.

“i dunno man. i’ve never been to a sorority formal before. i assume it’s the same as any other formal? i’ve been to samy’s soccer banquet,” will shrugged, watching his friend try on his third suit.

“y/n said to just wear something neutral. her dress is pink i think,” macklin explained as he examined the dark navy suit in the mirror.

“i think that looks fine. navy and pink go well?” will nodded.

“i’m kind of nervous. is that bad? i don’t really know what to expect,” obviously, he didn’t want to make y/n look like a fool at her own sorority, so the boy’s nerves were at an all time high at the moment. what if he did something stupid?

“samy texted me back and she said it’s like prom but for college. there will be food and drinks and then you dance if you want. some sororities will do speeches or superlatives,” will read off the text his girlfriend just sent him.

“oh, okay. that’s not too bad then. i’ll be fine,” macklin assured himself and decided on the navy blue suit.

“yeah, it will be chill. you basically get to spend a whole night with your girlfriend,” will grinned and the brunette couldn’t help but smile at the thought. he hadn’t seen you in a few days because of your crazy busy schedules, so having this night to yourselves would be nice.

“yeah, you’re right. it will be chill and we’ll have fun,”macklin was basically saying positive affirmations to himself at this point which made will chuckle. he stood up to help his friend with his suit.

“don’t even sweat it, dude. she’s gonna love you,” the blonde assured and if will thought so, then macklin was gonna believe it.

once he was finished getting dressed, he grabbed his phone to let you know he was on his way over to your dorm. the boy rushed through the house, double checking his pockets that he had phone (check), keys (check), wallet (check), and a small bouquet he decided picking up for you because he knew you liked flowers.

“knock ‘em dead!” will called from the porch as macklin got into his car.

the brunette drove the short drive to the university. being new to driving in the states still and the nerves about tonight made his hands a bit shaky as he turned onto the drive that led to your dorm. he didn’t need to sweat this. it was you. y/n. his girlfriend. there was no reason for him to be nervous about some sorority formal.

he parked in the lot and climbed out, doing a third check that he had all of his belongings. you were waiting in the lobby for him after getting his text about being on his way. the hockey player stopped in his tracks though when he laid eyes on you.

your strapless, silky dress stopped around your ankles where he could see your pretty white heels. your hair was down like it usual was and macklin was pretty sure his pupils turned to hearts.

“hi,” you grinned when he got closer.

“hi..wow..you look..” the boy lost his words making you laugh.

“you look pretty..wow,” you complimented his navy suit.

“s-so do you. wow..i..i’m in awe,” he admitted earning a bright blush on your cheeks.

“you’re sweet. are these for me?” you noticed the bouquet wobbling in his hands. the brunette quickly flushed and handed them over to you.

“yes, sorry. they are.”

you admired the pretty pink and red petals, “thank you. these are pretty. wanna come up for a second so i can put them in water?” it wasn’t really a question because macklin was going to follow you regardless.

the two of you stepped into the elevator. mack’s nerves were now because of how beautiful you looked beside him and he didn’t know how to express it other than telling you and the building desire to kiss you. he followed you down to your dorm. your roommate grinned at him.

“hey mack,” maya waved.

“hey maya,” he waved back.

“look, he brought me flowers,” you showed maya the pretty bouquet.

“wow, brownie points for the hockey player,” she teased a bit which made him flush. he watched you find a vase and fill it with water from your bathroom. you came back out and placed the flowers into the vase.

“like them?” you asked for his opinion.

“i like them,” he nodded.

“i’ll put them by my desk for now. thank you, again,” you pecked his cheek.

“of course,” the boy was glad you liked them and he was glad he decided on getting them the other day because the smile on your face was so worth it after spending an hour at the store trying to pick them out.

“okay, we’re gonna head out now. we’ll be back later,” you called to maya who threw up a thumbs up.

“have fun! don’t get too drunk.”

you went back down the elevator and then out of the building where you latched your arm with mack’s. he rubbed your hand and leaned in to kiss your forehead.

“it’s not far from here,” you explained as you led the way.

“i’ve never been to one of these before,” the boy admitted a bit nervously.

“don’t worry, it’s so chill. you’ll get to meet some of my sorority sisters, we’ll eat, dance, drink some, and then we can leave whenever,” you explained and it eased some of mack’s nerves a bit more hearing you explain it. as much as he appreciated samy’s brief explanation, he also liked hearing it come from your lips too.

the two of you came up on one of the college bars in the area. it was already blasting music that could be heard from outside. macklin followed you inside where you were immediately greeted with security to check your ids. you both got little x’s on your hands meaning neither of you were 21. mack’s gaze flicked around the space that was dimly lit and pumping base through his bones.

“omg, y/n, hey!” a girl greeted you.

“hi jen, you look gorgeous!” you admired your friend’s dress.

“no you do! is this your boyfriend?” she turned her attention to mack.

“yes, this is macklin,” you gripped his arm again and the boy managed a tiny smile.

“nice to meet you. i’m jen, the sorority president. come on in. we have food in the back and drinks at the bar so get whatever,” jen explained.

you quickly led macklin to the back because you were starving. the boy watched you take a plate so he copied whatever you did. you laughed at his behavior.

“don’t be so nervous, mack.”

“sorry. just getting used to it all,” he said. he’d never been into a bar before because he wasn’t old enough first of all and if he was caught underage drinking he’d definitely get a mean punishment from his coach.

“it’s okay. it’s overwhelming, but i’m right here remember,” you assured and some of the worries eased hearing you say that. macklin offered a grateful smile as he followed your lead with the food and then followed you to a seat.

you sat with some other girls and their dates which got all of you quickly talking. the more you talked, the more comfortable macklin became and flushed when a few people recognized him as a hockey player. being next to you made him feel a lot more comfortable too. seeing you look so calm and content helped him do the same and by the time you were done eating, he was having a full conversation with some of the guys without you involved.

“let’s get pictures!” one girl exclaimed when she came around with her camera.

you pulled mack up. he eagerly wrapped his arm around your waist, the two of you smiling wide as the flash went off—almost blinding you guys because it was so bright and the room was so dark.

“aw, you guys look adorable,” the girl spun the camera around so you could see the preview. macklin quickly kissed your cheek.

“i love it, thanks,” you said.

you guys ventured back towards the center of the dance floor to start dancing along with the others. macklin was big on getting to dance, so he took full advantage, urging you to join his energy. you giggled at the way he bounced on his feet and pulled out his best dance moves for you.

when everyone started coming onto the floor, it got warm fast so the brunette lost his suit jacket leaving him in just his dress shirt that was almost halfway unbuttoned by now. his arms were around your waist, the two of you swaying to the beat and being in your own world together.

any anxiety the rookie felt earlier had completely disappeared being in the center of the dance floor with you. all that mattered to him was you in his arms as he spun you around.

“did i tell you how gorgeous you look?” the boy leaned in closer as he spoke over the music.

“you did, yes,” you grinned.

“well i’ll tell you again. you look gorgeous. prettiest girl here,” his words earned a bright blush on your cheeks.

“you’re too sweet, mack.”

“i’m serious, y/n/n. you’re beautiful,” he leaned in closer, still wanting that kiss he hadn’t gotten yet. you saw his request and closed the gap.

the two of you shared a sweet kiss, not caring that there were others around you or watching. your lips felt like heaven against the hockey player’s. he never wanted to let you go, but forced himself to to get some air back into his lungs.

“i could kiss you forever,” he mumbled.

“me too,” and you reconnected your lips for another quick kiss. mack’s hands wandered a bit lower towards your hips and then swiping over your ass. a giggle left your lips at his behavior.

“we should save this for the dorm,” you smiled while directing him away for now. a little pout appeared, but he understood and let you go.

the music picked up again and it had him spinning you around once more. because all of his focus was on hockey growing up, the brunette’s never had an experience of going to an end of the year dance or prom or anything, so he was glad he was getting to make this up with you right now.

as the night winded down, you and macklin decided to leave. he threw his suit jacket over your shoulders for the quick five minute walk back to your dorm. you appreciated his gesture, tugging it closer to your body to hide yourself from the semi-cold evening temperatures.

“thanks for coming tonight,” you smiled as you rode the elevator.

“of course. i had a lot of fun. thanks for bringing me,” mack returned your smile.

“i’m glad you did. better get ready for next semester,” you teased a bit and mack’s heart swelled just a little bit at the idea of coming back to your formal because that meant you wanted him enough to stick around for the next one.

he knew what you two had meant a lot to both of you, but sometimes he got in his head just a little bit wondering if he was good enough for you or not enough because he was some big shot hockey player and he knew what everyone thought about hockey players. he worried he wasn’t the one for you even though you were 100% the one for him. he knew it from the day he met you, so hearing you say that made him burst with joy.

maya wasn’t in the dorm, probably taking the hint that you guys wanted the room to yourselves. macklin was glad because he wanted to continue that kissing you guys were doing earlier.

he watched you hang up his suit jacket like you did every time he brought his suits with him and kick your shoes off. he followed suit and then didn’t waste another second bringing your lips to his again.

that urge he’s had all night only got stronger the more he kissed you. you reciprocated all of his actions and unspoken wants, pulling your hand through his pretty brunette locks and running your hand down his chest.

“i love you,” the boy mumbled between kisses.

“i love you,” you breathed.

he found your gaze for a second, wondering if this was right. wondering if you were sure about him. his thoughts were answered though when you grabbed ahold of his face to kiss him again and lead him to your bed.

needless to say, all of his anxieties were eased by the end of the night and the love he had for you had never been bigger.

[fandom-random-help]

I'm Not Pretty

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

You posted a new picture to your Instagram. Nothing crazy, just a sweet little photo of the dress you bought at a boutique earlier that day. What you didn't know was that your ex's new girlfriend was stalking your page. Sitting around with her friends practically tearing you apart because you were the girl your ex couldn't quite get over. Especially when one of his friends would slip up and ask about you instead of her. Is it safe to say she was bitter? Yes.

The night started out simple enough. You were sitting on the couch next to your new, loving boyfriend Simon. You were scrolling on your phone while he watched a Manchester United game on the TV. Your phone dinged with a notification that someone liked a post on your Insta. You looked to see who it was and you looked puzzled at the profile. Why the hell did your ex's new girl like a picture you posted back in 2016? You just brushed it off as petty internet stalking. Wasn't affecting you, so why bother?

Then came the DM's. Not just from this girl, but from her suspected friends as well. Awful, vile messages flooded your inbox...and you read every single one. You never even met this girl or her circle, but they had a lot to say about you. One message stuck out though, it was from her that read:

"Good luck finding a man that'll put up with your ugly ass. You peaked in high school grow tf up. I would rather be caught dead than be seen in the outfits you post. You have no fashion sense and you're not pretty in the slightest."

You paused, sighed, and turned your phone off. Meanwhile Simon was watching you the whole time. How your body tensed the second he heard the notification go off. He seen how your face contorted from confusion to being straight up offended. But he also seen your eyes gloss over like you were on the brink of tears. He didn't say a word when you got up and left your phone on the couch, but he did grab it and turned it back on. He went through it trying to find what had you upset, and then he saw the messages. His chest tightened reading every. Last. One. He grumblss as he gets up and goes to the bedroom. He stops in the doorway and sees you cyrled up on the bed in tears.

You never liked it when Simon sees you cry, but he was ao quiet you barely noticed he was there. That was until you felt the bed sink underneath his weight as he sat beside you rubbing your back.

"Don't let'em get to you love. They not worth your tears." Simon was never good with words, but he always got to the point.

"B-but they were....s-so..m-mean." You said through your sobs.

"None of that babe. You're always pretty to me, gorgeous even. You always know how to catch my eye even in the most boring situations. I love you darlin', and nothing is gonna change that." He said as he laid down next to you. The rest of the night was spent in each other's arms until Simon asked. "Do you really think you peaked in high school?" You giggled at his question before replying with a simple, "Yeah right."

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Hello! May I request a steamy # 8 With Carmy? (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Sweet Dreams.

8. "I had a dream about you."

Synopsis - You can't look Carmy in the eye this morning. He's determined to figure out why.

Pairing - Roommate!Carmen Berzatto x Female Reader

Warnings - smut. cursing. carmen is a menace.

Age Rating - 18+

Word Count - 1k

Author's Note - the people love carmy!! and I totally understand why. another roommate fic, because everyone adores them - me included!! this takes place in the same universe as Finders, Keepers and Pity Party, but you can decide whether this happens before or after those. your choice!! <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Series Masterlist. Masterlist. Inbox.

"The fuck is your problem?"

Carmy has you cornered, backed up against the kitchen counter. You've been avoiding him all morning, and he's finally had enough.

"I... there's... what?" you squeak, taken aback.

He's usually so gentle with you, so careful. You'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying the sudden dominance he's displaying.

"I said," he begins, leaning down so he's nose to nose with you, "what is your problem? The fuck is going on with you?"

When you exhale shakily, he takes a more gentle approach.

"Honey... Did I do something wrong? Have I upset you? You haven't been able to look at me all morning. You're freaking me out."

"No, no!" you rush out. "You haven't done anything wrong. It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I'm gonna worry, until you explain yourself."

You know he means well, that his concern is coming from a place of love. The problem is, the truth is mortifying. Ridiculously embarrassing. You and Carmy have a good thing going, as roommates, and you don't want to ruin that.

"It's nothing, Carm."

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that."

You flick your eyes up to meet his piercing blue ones, and you hesitate. You've never been in the habit of lying to each other. In fact, you're not sure you're physically capable of it. Those big ocean eyes can see right through you.

"Fine. But you have to promise not to laugh."

"I promise."

You take a breath, and confess as quickly as you can.

"Ihadadreamaboutyou."

The corners of his lips quirk, tilting his head in confusion.

"Say that again. Didn't quite catch it."

You roll your eyes, and commit. You might aswell, at this point.

"I had a dream about you."

He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, deliberating what to say.

"What kind of dream?"

Fuck. You were hoping he wouldn't want you to elaborate.

"A good one."

"A good one, huh? Must have been, if you can't even look me in the eye this morning."

You roll your eyes and shove him in the chest lightly.

"I knew you'd be a dick if I told you. Hence why I didn't."

"No, you didn't tell me because you're embarrassed."

He steps closer to you, backing you up against the counter again. He leans in so he's forehead to forehead with you, lips brushing yours everytime he speaks.

"Where does your filthy little mind go when you fall asleep, hmm? Was I at least good, in this dream of yours? Live up to your expectations?"

"You were fine," you mumble.

"Fine? Honey, I'm the best chef in this city. I don't do fine."

"You woke me up with all the noise you were making in the kitchen before I could get to the good part."

"Oh, I left you hanging? Shit, baby. Well we can't have that."

In one fluid motion, Carmy picks you up and sits you on the counter, moving to stand between your legs. You wrap them around his hips instinctively, arms flying up around his neck.

"You gonna let me finish what I started?"

You stare into his eyes for a moment, trying to find any semblance of humour or amusement. All you find is adoration, compassion, and lust.

"You think you can?" you whisper teasingly, knowing exactly which buttons to push.

"Honey, when are you going to learn that I am the best at everything I do?"

Carmy closes the gap between you, smashing his lips to yours. It's all teeth and tongue and nipping and biting, no tenderness to be found. He slips his hand under your sleep shirt, running a finger up the middle of your underwear.

"Fuck," he groans. "Real good dream, huh?"

You nod and buck your hips into his touch, desperate to feel him.

"Right now, I'm gonna take the edge off, okay? And then, I'm gonna spread you out, and make you tell me every single little thing that happened in your dream, so you can experience it properly."

You nod frantically in response, hands clawing at his clothed shoulders. Carmy pulls your underwear down your legs and pushes them apart, wasting no time. He runs two fingers up and down, revelling in the wet warmth.

"Please," you whisper. "Please, Carmy."

He connects his lips to yours as he slides his fingers into you, muffling your sounds against his mouth. As much as you hate to admit it, he's right. He knows what he's doing, and he's good at it.

You've been so worked up all morning that it doesn't take Carmy long to figure out what you like. In no time, he's thrusting and curling his fingers, pressing his thumb onto your clit and making you whine. He's got his other arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you pressed close to him.

"You're close, honey. Can feel you. Come on, this is what you wanted, isn't it? I've got you."

You press your lips to his, letting him slip his tongue into your mouth right as you fall over the edge. Carmy trails kisses down your neck, under your ear, onto your temple, holding you tightly as you find your release. Your toes curl, back arching off the counter as you drop your head onto his chest to catch your breath.

After a couple of minutes, you pull away to look at him, smiling when you find him grinning at you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "I don't tell you enough."

"So are you," you whisper, careful not to break the moment. "You're beautiful, Carm."

He ducks down and kisses you again, sweeter this time.

"Now," he mutters against your lips. "Start from the beginning, in this dream of yours."

[hyaciiintho]

🌸｡*ﾟ+. Sorry to everyone I owe things to. It’s been extremely hard trying to get myself to start working on any replies and remaining starters. Been losing focus and zoning out more frequently these work shifts, so it’s been difficult to do much of anything ;; ;; I’m hoping soon I can kick myself back into gear, but right now my brain is just not having a good time.

Sending good vibes to everyone and well wishes. Hopefully the creative drive keeps strong with y’all ♡

[angelickks]

Pretty When You Cry ✮ LION KAMINSKI

request. I was wondering of you could do lion and reader being like opposite attracts where we already know how lion is but reader is more of this fem, Lana del Rey song if that song was a person, and maybe lion is the one having these doubts so it could start off as angst (as angst as you want it) where maybe he's convinced she's someone he has to work for, someone he hasn't quite earned since he's used to fighting for what he's got maybe even trying to convince her she deserves better than what he can give her. Hurt/comfort angel talks. OH i was FEENING for this one. got a bit carried away but no harm, no foul babes. i hope i did this justice. my inbox and my legs are OPEN for lion kaminski (gif not mine)

#NAV.ᐟ jack o'connell mlist

“YOU WON BIG, LITTLE BROTHER!” Stan shouted from across the cluttered apartment, the sound of hangers clattering hitting the floor right behind him. “So we’re fuckin’ celebrating like big winners. Gonna rub elbows with some high-class snobs, baby! You’re gonna wear that new button-up I just bought you—yeah, the one with the real buttons, not the snap shit you love—and we’re hittin’ this pimped-out bar tonight whether you like it or not!”

Lion winced slightly at the noise, rolling his sore shoulder as he sat hunched at the edge of the mattress. His back ached like hell. His ribs were still tight from the last fight, too tight to inhale all the way without something cracking. His hands, calloused and scraped raw, trembled faintly as he threaded one through his damp hair, trying to flatten it down.

He hated crowds. He hated bars.

Hated the throb of bass beneath the floor, the way the music chewed through his eardrums. The press of strangers too close, smelling like alcohol and ambition. And he especially hated walking into places where he was expected to pretend. Pretend he didn’t feel every nerve ending buzzing with the ache of a dozen hits. Pretend he wasn’t one wrong look away from falling back into something darker.

He didn’t even want to look at himself in the mirror tonight.

The bruise on his cheekbone had bloomed from violet to a raw, bloody wine red. There was a gash, still healing, right at his temple—barely closed, still crusted dark. Definitely not snob suitable, as Stan put it with a smirk and zero regard for tact.

“You really think anyone in a suit gives a shit how my face looks?” Lion muttered lowly, reaching for the crisp shirt that had been tossed onto the bed beside him. It was black, collared, the kind of thing that made his scars look sharper, somehow. Like someone had tried to clean him up and only made the roughness stand out more.

Stan, now in a half-tucked shirt and the kind of slacks that creased at the thighs, popped back into the bedroom doorway, grinning like the devil on payday. “You’re damn right I do. We gotta look like money tonight, brother. You earned this. I mean—hell—how many people get a purse like that thrown at their feet and walk away standing, huh?”

Lion only shrugged, wincing at the pull of bruised muscle. “Standing’s a generous word.”

Stan tossed him a pair of cufflinks, silver and sharp-edged. “Don’t care if you limp in there, long as you’re beside me. Come on. One night. No fists. No cold showers. No patching yourself up with whiskey and dental floss.”

Lion gave him a look, quiet and unimpressed. “We’ll see.”

Still, he stood. Pulled the button-up on with slow, deliberate movements, jaw clenched every time fabric skimmed a sore spot. He didn’t say it out loud, but maybe Stan was right.

Maybe he had earned something.

Even if all Lion could manage tonight was a drink he wouldn’t finish and the corner of a crowded room—at least it was different.

At least, for once, he could try to look like he belonged in the light.

Even if he was still bleeding under the collar.

Stan walked into the bar like he owned the deed, the land it was built on, and maybe the lives of half the people inside. Shoulders back, grin cocked like a loaded weapon, he moved with that particular breed of swagger that said I’ve got nothing to prove, but I’ll prove it anyway.

Lion trailed behind him, quiet and stiff, like a shadow that hadn’t decided if it wanted to be seen.

He was in his nicest pair of jeans—dark, fitted, clean—and the black button-up Stan had thrown at him earlier like a gift wrapped in obligation. The collar itched against the healing scab near his jaw, and the sleeves were just a bit too long, the gold chain Stan slid around his neck with no care for Lion's grumbling glinting like he didn’t belong to himself anymore. He kept his hands close to his sides, unsure of what to do with them, his eyes low and darting, heart drumming in a way that had nothing to do with excitement.

He felt the glances before he saw them. The too-long stares, the once-overs from men in pressed suits and women in sleek dresses. Brows arched, lips pursed in silent questions he’d heard a hundred times before. Who let the bruised guy in? Is he with him? Are they lost?

Lion resisted the urge to tug at his collar, to make himself smaller, quieter—something more invisible than the discomfort already blooming up his spine. Then came the familiar yank—Stan’s calloused hand wrapping around his wrist like a leash, a lifeline, a reminder: we’re doing this.

“C’mon,” Stan barked over his shoulder, already weaving through velvet ropes and gold-backed booths with the kind of ease that only came from sheer delusion or absolute confidence. “Don’t go turtle on me now.”

Lion’s jaw clenched.

“This place is…” He muttered under his breath, ducking between two glittering couples laughing over martinis. “Christ, Stan. This place is fuckin’ reaching.”

Stan only snorted in response, dragging him faster, deeper into the swirl of money and meaningless conversation. The music was low and expensive-sounding, some moody remix of a Sinatra track bleeding from speakers hidden in the marble walls. The air smelled like citrus, cologne, and artificial cool like no one here had ever sweat or bled or limped into a room like they were trying not to fall apart.

Lion hated it.

He hated the lighting, dim but strategic. He hated the polished glasses that looked like they’d shatter if he held them too tight. He hated the way people smiled without meaning it. Most of all, he hated how out of place he felt in a room full of people pretending they didn’t notice him.

He gritted his teeth and followed anyway. Stan was already halfway to the bar, talking fast to some bored-looking bartender in suspenders, and Lion didn’t want to be alone.

Not in a place like this. Not in skin that didn’t fit quite right. Not tonight.

"Two beers, sir and keep em' comin', me and my little bro are celebrating tonight!"

Lion was halfway through his first beer, nursing it like a man on probation. One elbow braced on the bar, shoulders hunched in as if trying to fold himself in half, he hadn’t said more than three words since he walked in. And that was over an hour ago.

The beer was expensive. Tasted like it was brewed by someone who’d never had a hard day in their life. But it was cold and something to hold, so he held it.

Stan, on the other hand, was on his third round of trying. Currently planted at the opposite end of the bar, half-leaning against a marble counter that looked more suited to a country club than anything Lion was used to, Stan was laying on the charm. Loud, smiling too wide, trying to chat up a girl in a backless dress who was already asking, out loud—why someone like him was even in a place like this.

Lion tuned it out.

His eyes kept drifting, like they always did, low and quiet across the rim of his bottle, scanning the bar like he was waiting for someone to catch him looking so he could immediately look away. This wasn’t his world. Not the glittering glasses, not the laughter that sounded more like performance than pleasure. Everyone here seemed polished and polished again, with manicured lives and clean, deliberate pain.

Lion’s world was scraped knees and back alley bruises. Fistfights in underground rings. Cheap whiskey and bruised ribs. He was thinking about calling it a night when you walked in. No one else noticed you the way he did.

But he did.

You didn’t arrive on a man’s arm. You didn’t stumble like the girls who'd had too much too early. You didn’t beg for attention—you commanded it without asking. All perfume and soft sighs, with a dress that whispered when you walked and lips the color of a sin he didn’t have the right to name.

You slid into the bar two seats down from him like you’d been here a hundred times. The bartender recognized you instantly, already setting something elegant and pale on the napkin in front of you before you even opened your mouth.

Lion watched. Quiet. Unmoving.

You tilted your head and smiled in thanks, then laughed at something the bartender said—soft and low, like an old French record being played too slow, like sound traveling through smoke. It scraped something inside him raw and sweet.

He blinked, and for the first time that night, he forgot about the tight collar on his neck. Forgot the ache in his ribs. Forgot that he didn’t belong in a place where people drank cocktails with flower petals floating in them.

You were silk slipped into a world that had long since traded softness for spectacle. Glamour that didn’t shout. The kind of slow, devastating elegance that felt like it belonged to another era—red lips, jasmine perfume that he was catching the soft swells of even with the distance between you both, and heartbreak trailing behind in your wake like smoke.

You weren’t the kind of woman men saved. You were the kind they tried to, and bled for. The kind they didn’t realize had already ruined them, just by being looked at too long. A woman out of reach. Out of rhythm with the neon blur of the city. And completely unbothered by it. And then—then—you looked at him.

Not around him. Not through him. Not like he was something unfortunate the night had coughed up on the marble floors. You just looked.

Steady. Curious. Soft in a way that didn’t make sense.

Lion blinked once. Swallowed. His fingers flexed slightly around the neck of his beer, heart thudding in a chest still stitched up from the last time he let someone that close.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. And then—you smiled. Not coy. Not cruel.

Like you already knew something about him. Something unspoken and aching, buried too deep for language.

And for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Lion Kaminski didn’t feel like something to hide. Didn’t feel like a scar in a room full of skin. Didn’t feel like disappearing. Instead, he turned slowly back to the sweating beer in front of him, and it felt different—like drinking was no longer about forgetting, but waiting.

The bar buzzed around you both, gold-rimmed glasses clinking, silverware kissed by candlelight, jazz bleeding from invisible speakers like memory. Conversation flowed like money—too easy, too fast.

But your gaze didn’t flicker. Not once.

Two seats down sat the man who didn’t belong. Who looked like he’d been dragged into his clothes by someone trying to make him forget what his hands were capable of. Shoulders rigid beneath too nice fabric. Knuckles scraped from something he hadn’t talked about, and probably never would. Hair slicked back like an after thought, like he’d tried to tidy up a life that refused to be cleaned.

All that silence. All that weight. And you, a certain softness wrapped in danger, were already leaning closer. Not loud. Not obvious. Just slow, deliberate.

Your chair whispered across the floor as you slid one seat closer.

Not next to him. Just close enough.

He didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch in his brow, the brief flicker of his eyes in your direction. A pause. You crossed your legs. Let your perfume drift closer — jasmine and vanilla. Rested your elbow on the bar, fingers toying with the edge of your napkin.

You didn’t rush. Just breathed him in just a seat away—his stillness, his tension, the way he looked like he was trying to disappear and punch something at the same time. And when you spoke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t bright. It was like letting someone in through a door only you knew was there.

"You look like you hate it here."

It floated in the space between you, softer than the music, meant only for him. A quiet kindness wrapped in silk and smoke. Lion’s head turned, slow and cautious—like he wasn’t sure he’d imagined it. Your eyes met again, you didn’t look away.

He didn’t know what he expected your voice to sound like, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t cutting. It wasn’t amused. It was gentle.

“I do,” he muttered, barely above a breath, like anything louder might crack the moment in half. Your smile pulled lazy at the corners of your mouth, soft and knowing. "Then why stay?"

He blinked and for a second, Lion had no answer.

Because Stan had dragged him here. Because he hadn’t wanted to be alone. Because the ache in his chest hadn’t worn off yet from the last fight. Because he’d already learned how to sit with pain in public. But none of that made it to his mouth.

Instead, without thinking, his eyes drifted over your lips, the curve of your smile, the way your fingers traced your glass like you were drawing circles around him. He cleared his throat, "Guess I was waiting for somethin’ better to happen." You tilted your head like you already knew what he meant. Like you’d been the better thing he didn’t know he was waiting for.

Then, a beat slower, “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Lion shrugged. Half a smirk. Half shame.

“Not to people I don’t trust.”

“And do you?” Your voice dipped just a little. Velvet. Playful, but real. “Trust me?”

His soft, guarded, and gentle gaze lingered too long on your eyes. The kind of eyes that had made bad men swear they could be good.

“…Don’t know yet,” he admitted. You leaned in slightly—not enough to close the distance, just enough to make the air between you hum.

“That’s alright.” You tapped your finger lightly against your glass. “I don’t mind waiting.” It hit him like a bruise blooming under the skin. That quiet, kind flirtation. No games. No expectations. Like you meant it. Like you weren’t here to pull something out of him but to offer something instead.

Lion looked at you, long and slow.

Not the way most men looked at women in places like this—like they were measuring what they could get away with. No, he looked like he was memorizing something he didn’t think he’d be allowed to keep. Your words played in his head again, soft and unbothered: "I don't mind waiting."

No one had ever waited on him unless they were waiting for him to fail.

His hand curled around the neck of his bottle again. Tighter this time. Like if he held on too loosely, the moment might drift away like the rest of them. You didn’t push. Didn’t speak again. Just sipped, smiled, leaned your chin into your hand like it was easy to sit beside someone like him. Like you were content with silence that didn’t ask to be filled.

He wasn’t used to that. Wasn’t used to softness that didn’t come with strings or the sharp edge of mockery hiding underneath.

He hesitated. Then, like someone saying a prayer through a cracked door,

“…What’s your name?”

He didn’t look at you when he asked it. Not at first. Just kept his eyes forward, watching the way the bar lights caught in the bottom of his glass like distant firelight. You turned your head slightly.

“You want my real one?” you asked, a hint of that playful warmth curling into your voice again. “Or the kind I give to men who forget to call?”

That earned the barest smile from him. Small. Tired. Real.

“…The real one,” he said after a moment. “If you feel like givin’ it.”

You said it simply. No performance. No tease. Just yours.

Lion turned to you fully this time. And the name, your name, hung in the air between you like a secret. Something precious. Something he didn’t think he deserved to know, but now that he had it, couldn’t stop rolling over in his mind. It didn’t feel like a casual exchange. It felt like a key.

He nodded once, slow, like it settled somewhere deep in him.

“…I’m Lion.” He said it again, softer this time. Like maybe you were the first person he ever wanted to really give it to. “...just what my brother calls me. It’s not on the birth certificate, but y'know..."

Your eyes sparked with something between amusement and curiosity, nodding in understanding. His nickname was just as real as his actual one.

“That’s a lot to live up to.”

His jaw shifted, half a wince behind his smirk. “Yeah. Tell me about it.” The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Wasn’t awkward.

Just a quiet space where something delicate had been exchanged. Name for name. Look for look. A fragile kind of trust that neither of you had to name yet. Lion tapped a knuckle against the bar once. Glanced sidelong at you again.

“…You wanna move one closer?”

He meant the seat. But he didn’t really. And you smiled like you knew that too.

The night unraveled gently, like thread between fingers. Lion hadn’t planned on staying past one beer, hadn’t expected to be sitting still at all—let alone in the low hum of a bar too clean for his calloused hands, too polished for the scuffed soles of his boots.

But there he was. Stone cold sober, buzzing with something far more dangerous than alcohol. You.

You were curled into the seat beside him, legs crossed at the knee, your wine-red slip dress brushing against his jeans like it had no idea how out of place it was next to denim and dirt. The silk shimmered in the dim light every time you shifted, glistening like a secret you wore with ease, your perfume drifting into his lungs like smoke and sanctuary all at once. You spoke in a voice that didn’t belong in this bar. Hell, didn’t belong in his world at all. It was low, velvety-soft. Every syllable laced with patience, with mystery, with the kind of slow grace Lion had only ever seen in women on old movie posters—women you didn’t touch unless they asked you to. And still, you sat beside him.

He didn’t say much. Just listened. Let himself drown in the sound of you telling some half-funny, half-haunting story he barely registered because he was too focused on the way you leaned forward when you got excited, the glint of gloss on your lips, the warmth of your laugh when you glanced at him like you already knew how this was going to end.

He barely noticed your phone light up on the bar.

But you did. Glanced at it mid-sentence. A small flicker of surprise in your eyes. Then the ghost of a smile—bittersweet, half-resigned—as you finished the story anyway.

1:47.

“Shit,” you breathed under your breath, barely a whisper. Regret tangled with the syllables. Lion’s eyes met yours. There was a twist low in his gut, that old ache that came creeping in when something started to feel too good. Too safe. Too soft. This was the part where the night slipped away. This was the part where you got up, and the fantasy vanished, and he’d go home and tell himself it never would’ve lasted anyway.

But you didn’t leave—not yet.

You turned to him instead. Slower this time. Studying him like he was something worth remembering. Like he hadn’t already convinced himself he wasn’t. And then—then you smiled.

That knowing, velvet smile. All mischief and melancholy, wrapped in red.

“Give me your hand.”

Lion blinked. Didn’t move at first. Because asking a man like him to give you his hand wasn’t just a gesture. It was a risk. But you waited.

So, he did.

Uncurling fingers like he was surrendering. Letting you take something no one else had thought to ask for. You held it gently, turning his palm upward, and he swore your touch burned hotter than anything in this goddamn place.

“Pen?” you asked the bartender, and of course the guy gave you one without blinking. Lion took notice of how people gave you things, the longing and lustful gazes men shot your way. Of course they did. The sight and reactions made him crawl back into wanting to not be seen all over again. You uncapped the pen with a delicate snap.

And then, with deliberate strokes, you wrote your number across his palm. Like it belonged there. Like it was always meant to be inked onto the skin of a man who’d never asked for anything soft in his life.

“In case you decide you wanna see me somewhere quieter,” you said, voice barely louder than the jazz melting from the speakers. Your gaze held him firm. “Somewhere the music doesn’t drown out the good parts.”

Lion looked down at his hand. At the numbers written in ink that would fade by morning. At the delicate loops of your name beside them. And for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

“…You sure?” he asked, quiet, almost broken. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t charm. It was disbelief, raw and aching. Because no one like you had ever looked at him like that and meant it.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew what haunted him.

“I wouldn’t have written it if I wasn’t.” Your voice was calm, warm. Sure.

You said it like it was simple. Like there wasn’t any room for doubt.

Then you looked at him, really looked. Directly into those storm-blue eyes of his that didn’t quite know what to do with tenderness. Like you were memorizing him, or maybe just giving him permission to believe this moment was real.

You smiled, slow and sincere. The kind of smile that stuck with a man long after the lights went out. “Goodnight, Lion,” you said, letting his name linger like a secret only you were allowed to say that way. “I hope you call.”

And just like that, you slid off the stool. Graceful, unhurried, like you knew he would. Like you knew he was already halfway yours. Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you walked away. Lion didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. He just sat there, eyes locked on the spot where your perfume still lingered in the air.

Pen warm in his hand. Your name burned into his skin like something holy. And for the first time in years, Lion Kaminski didn’t feel like a man waiting to lose something. He felt like someone who’d been chosen.

Even if he didn’t think he deserved it yet.

You were everything Lion Kaminski wasn’t. Everything he never dared to dream about, not even in the fractured quiet between bruises and broken sleep.

Silk where he was scar tissue. Velvet where he was silence. A voice like warmth in a world that had only ever been cold to him.

And yet—you were his.

He didn’t believe it. Not really. Not for a second. But it was still true.

Months had passed since that bar. Since that slip of wine red silk and lipgloss and the ghost of your number written across his calloused palm. Since those first two agonizing days of debating whether to call you or let you be a beautiful memory he could carry like a relic.

He had paced his apartment like a man losing a fight with himself. Turned the phone over in his palm, back and forth, thumb hovering above your number like it was the trigger to something that might ruin him.

And all the while, Stan's voice filled the space between—talking fights, money, schedules, bruises, bills. Life. The kind that left no room for softness.

But he called you. Of course he did. And somehow, by some twisted miracle he hadn’t yet managed to explain, you answered. And you stayed.

From then on he spent every evening with his back pressed to the cold brick of the alley behind his apartment, tucked just out of sight, crouched on an old milk crate like a kid hiding from trouble. Fingers raw and bleeding from training, body worn out and half-broken—but still showing up, just for the chance to hear your voice on the other end of the line.

Stan thought he was cooling off, collecting himself. Lion let him think that.

Because how the hell was he supposed to explain that every night, he left the chaos of his life behind just to hear you laugh softly about your day? That he sat there, hunched in the dark, knees aching and knuckles throbbing, replying to your texts in under three seconds flat like a teenager? That when you called him by name—his name—it didn’t sound like the one people barked in a ring. It sounded like something he hadn’t known he needed until you said it.

You made the nights feel slower. Softer.

And every time you said his name in that voice of yours—sweet, low, like it was meant to be whispered in the hush between sirens and city static—Lion felt like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t imagined it all.

Those nights in the alley faded like a distant bruise. It been replaced by warmth, soft sheets, and a bed that didn’t groan beneath his weight like it resented him. Now there were mornings in golden quiet, nights wrapped in the scent of jasmine and skin, and pieces of Lion. His boots by the door, his jacket draped over your chair, his name murmured in your sleepy voice—scattered like he belonged there.

And God, how you made it yours.

You called him handsome with that silk-soft tone, kissed him like he was something rare and breakable—like he was the most precious thing in your velvet-draped little world. You’d straddle him on your couch, fingers buried in his hair, the nickname baby playing on your lips, your laughter trailing like smoke through a room lit by warm lamps that didn’t flicker like his always did. You kissed him like he was someone worth coming home to. And he let you.

Your perfume lingered on his skin long after you were gone, soaking into his shirts, haunting the curve of his neck like a memory. You were the first thing he saw most mornings now—messy hair, sleep-heavy eyes, lips still parted in the echo of a dream—and it made something ache in him. Something he didn’t have the words for.

It felt like a dream. The kind he never dared to have, let alone keep. But he was living it, somehow. And it scared the hell out of him.

Even if part of him still waited to wake up because you were softness incarnate. And he was a man who only knew how to hold things that could survive the grip.

Your relationship started slow, soft, and shrouded in a certain type of raw, unfiltered, captivating beauty. Everything Lion didn’t anticipate. Everything he never wanted to end.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t something he bragged about or put on display. It was quieter than that—secret and sacred. A balm to every part of him that had been bruised and left unhealed.

And tonight… tonight you were something else entirely.

You were dolled up in a dress that dipped dangerously low down your back, like it was tailored to flirt with every eye you passed. Lips painted a glossy, cherry-red hue, the color of cherry Coke on summer lips, one Lion wanted to drink up like a man deprived of water, and paired with mischief dancing just beneath your lashes.

Lion had stared at you for longer than he meant to. You’d caught him doing it. But instead of teasing him like you usually did, you smiled a little softer. Like you knew he was trying to memorize you. Like you knew he always was.

The dive bar had been your idea.

Ironic, really, considering the polished little lounge you’d met in all those months ago. This one was grime and wood paneling and stools that wobbled when you shifted too far to the left. Cheap beer. Flickering neon. A jukebox that refused to play anything made after 1989.

But you wanted it. And that meant Lion agreed. Even if it made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t have the words for. He’d never tell you no. Not really. Not where it counted.

He kept to your side, quiet and close, the way he always did in public. Hand hovering just shy of your lower back like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you tonight, not in that dress, not when you looked like that. And maybe it was the crowd. Or the whiskey. Or the way some guy across the room looked at you a little too long when you were headed back from the jukebox. But something in Lion shifted.

Tightened. He didn’t say much after that.

Just let the noise of the bar bleed into his ears while you sat beside him, glowing like something that didn’t belong in this place or beside him. Your laugh cut through the static. His silence deepened.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You leaned in, gentle hand brushing his knee, that lipstick-stained smile faltering just slightly. “You okay?”

He nodded. Too quick. Too practiced.

But you didn’t buy it. Not tonight.

You stood, smoothed your dress, and murmured something about air. He followed like he always did—wordless, reluctant, his boots heavy against the old floorboards.

Outside, the cold slapped his face like a warning.

You stood by the alley wall, arms crossed loosely over your chest, looking at him with that half-worried, half-patient expression that always made him feel seen in a way that didn’t sting. Lion exhaled, long and slow, like he was letting something dangerous out of him. Then ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back the same way he always did when he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally, jaw clenched.

You blinked, soft and steady. “For what?”

His gaze dropped to the pavement. “For this. For me. For not knowing how to be the guy who deserves this shit.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You let him say it.

“I mean—look at you.” His voice cracked at the edges, low and ragged. “You’re… fuckin’ art. You walk into a place and the whole goddamn room changes. And me? I’m…” He shrugged, gesturing vaguely to himself—bruised knuckles, heavy boots, old denim, and a winbreaker that still smelled like your soap and sweat.

“I don’t fit next to you. Never did.”

You stepped toward him. Quiet. Certain. He didn’t back away. But he didn’t meet your eyes, either.

“You think I don’t know what I look like standing next to you?” he went on, voice sharper now—not angry, just scared. “People stare. They wonder what you’re doing with me. Hell, I wonder what you’re doing with me.”

You reached for him. Slow and soft—always soft. Your fingers found his, pried them gently open. Held them between yours like something precious.

“I’m with you because I chose you, Lion,” you said, voice low like a secret only the alley was allowed to hear. “And I keep choosing you. Every day. Every minute.”

Lion’s eyes searched yours like he didn’t believe you—like he wanted to but didn’t know how. His breath hitched, chest tight, heart thudding like it didn’t know what to do with softness. Not when all he’d known was survival.

“I don’t deserve that,” he rasped, voice thick. “I don’t deserve you.”

Lion’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to the pavement like your words physically hurt—too soft for the callouses on his heart, too kind for the man he saw in the mirror.

You lay a gentle hand against his chest, the way someone might calm a frightened animal. He was all tension, all coiled muscle and tremors under the surface.

“You don’t have to earn me,” you said, slow, deliberate. “You always had me."

Lion made a choked noise in his throat, quiet and broken. Like he wanted to believe you but couldn’t. His shoulders trembled. His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

"God, I’m scared every day that you’re gonna wake up and realize you could’ve had someone who didn’t come with this much fuckin’ baggage.”

There it was. His voice cracked. You thumbed gently over the rough stubble on his cheek.

Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. “Then you don’t know me as well as you think.” His eyes snapped to yours.

“I’ve had the smooth talkers. The ones who made it easy. The ones who didn’t flinch when they smiled. They never made me feel like you do, baby."

He blinked.

You smiled—soft, sure, lips curled with something sweet and dangerous. “When I’m with you, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something real.”

Lion made a choked sound, one of half disbelief, half surrender. And then, before either of you could second-guess it, he moved.

His hands were on you in the next breath, desperate, one on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like he couldn’t stand another second without touching you. He kissed you like he didn’t know if he deserved it, but needed it anyway. Like he needed you—in this moment, in this body, in this skin, in this breath.

Your lips crashed into his with heat and hunger, the alleyway dim and distant around you. Cold brick at your back, warm mouth at your front. You kissed him like he was something to be consumed, and he kissed you like you were salvation with legs. His tongue swept over your bottom lip, slow, testing, until you opened for him with a soft, breathy sigh that made his knees threaten to give. Your fingers dug into his jacket, pulling him closer until your hips aligned, his thigh sliding between yours like he was grounding you.

He groaned into your mouth, low and reverent, like he hadn’t touched anyone like this in years. Like kissing you was the first thing that made him feel human again.

“You always kiss like you’re starving,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice sticky-sweet and slightly dazed.

Lion’s forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving. “Maybe I fuckin’ am.” You smiled. A little breathless. A little undone. “Then let me feed you.”

His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone as he kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing every sound you made. Every soft moan. Every shift of your weight toward him. Every time your hand fisted in his shirt like you couldn’t stand the distance between you, even if it was only air.

“Whether you like it or not, I'm not going anywhere if it isn't with you,” you breathed when he pulled back just enough to look at you.

That made him kiss you again—long, slow, and almost reverent. Like a vow written in breath and tongue and soft gasps.

The night Lion met you, he won a fight that didn't matter, even if he tried to give it purpose. Between the breathless moans slipping from your lips like prayers, your cherry-red gloss smearing against his mouth in kisses that taste like sin and salvation—this is where he feels it.

[buecketsnbueckets]

pretty on camera | P.B

summary: you, an upcoming actress, admit to your little crush on the rising in popularity basketball star, paige bueckers, in an interview. what you didn’t expect was for people to care that much about your confession but it might just work in your favor.

pairing: actress!reader x paige bueckers

contains: sweetheart!reader, reader’s sexuality is not mentioned so open to all wlw, rachel zegler is reader’s bestfriend (she’s not the fc this is open to EVERYONE! i just love that woman to death), fluff & flirting!

a/n: hi! this is my first post about paige so if you guys like this and want more of actress reader lmk :), ALSO my inbox is open for different suggestions for oneshots as well <3 MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE & HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

“Okay, everything’s all set up. We’re ready when you are.”

Your manager, Bella, instructs as you situate yourself in the chair that was given to you. Bright lights shone on your neatly pampered face, a boom mic right above the big camera lens that was aimed to your upper half. You nod with a kind smile, clearing your throat and trying not to ruin the position your hair was in that your wonderful hair stylist had done. Once you get the okay that the camera was rolling, you relax a bit.

You introduce yourself to the camera, motioning to the Teen Vogue box right next to you.

“I’m here with Teen Vogue answering your guys’ nosy questions that you sent in about my life and my roles.”

You beam as you reach into the red box, humming a tune to yourself before pulling out the first question on the strip of paper.

“First question; what has been your favorite role since you started your journey in acting?” You read off the ink on the paper, thinking to yourself with a small smile. “I think my favorite so far has been playing Brittany in Bottoms last year. Camp-y, stupid, fun movies are so entertaining to me and I was so excited when I got the call from Emma telling me I got it. Everyone was so incredibly nice and welcoming.”

You reach for another question, unfolding the piece of paper to reveal the next question for you. Your eyes widen at the first question, looking up at the camera with a chuckle.

“Okay so the next question is who is your current or past celebrity crush. Hm.”

You think to yourself for a moment before glancing over at Bella with raised eyebrows. The crew seems to chuckle at your stuck position already. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to say who you were first thinking of. Bella mouthed her name to you and you nod, heat already flooding your cheeks. Bella, seeming reluctant, nodded as permission to say the blonde’s name.

You cover your mouth with a hand and shake your head, letting out a long sigh.

“I don’t know if she’s considered a celebrity but,” you pause to purse your lips, puffing out a breath of hair. “Paige Bueckers. I also don’t want to hear shit in my comments or dm’s about it. I will block all of you.”

And oh, did you hear shit about it.

After that little exposing question on Teen Vogue, you were flooded with edits already of the two of you with clips from your few films you’ve been in and Paige’s games and TikToks. It had not even been a whole week since that interview was posted. Your best friend, Rachel, started spamming you nonstop with these edits with taunts and teasing.

You scoured through the comments, shocked at what people were saying.

‘pls never her get media training.’

‘wait lowk they’d be cute😝’

‘she’s gonna block us ALL guys omfg😭😭😭’

You really didn’t think you shared a fan base with a rising basketball player from a college in Connecticut but here you were. Rachel begged you to come over to hers so you could gossip about it the second your last interview was over. You, missing the comfort of normalcy, agreed immediately.

So after bidding the interviewer, crew, and Bella farewell, you got picked up by Rachel at the studio who was in sweats and a hoodie. She already had a cup of your favorite smoothie with a cheeky grin.

“Hey lover girl,” she leaned against her car, hand over her chest with an exasperated sigh as she handed you the smoothie.

“Shut up. Stop.” You already feel your face heating up at her words.

She laughed softly as she lightly kicked your ankle, brows raising at you.

“What? I’m sorry, is Mrs.Bueckers better?”

“Seriously, it's not funny.”

Rachel merely laughed louder some more at your flushed state, shaking her head. She unlocks her car as you hurriedly tug open the door. You settle into the seat as you take a long sip of the smoothie with a huff.

“I can’t believe you actually said that she was your celebrity crush,” your best friend hopped in the car as her laughter died down. “I don’t know how you didn’t see this coming.”

Truth be told, she was 100% right. You don’t know what the hell you were thinking.

“I didn’t think her fans would care about me of all people, you know?”

Rachel scoffs and shakes her head as she turns on the engine. “Whatever. You’re hot, gay and her age. I would’ve been more surprised if her fans didn’t freak out.”

You nod as you take a long sip from your smoothie, sighing out when your phone dings. You ignore it for now as you relax in Rachel’s front seat, asking her to please wake you up when you get to her place. You two talk about how Rachel’s birthday was coming up in a week and how you both wanted to go out just with your friends.

When you finally arrive at Rachel’s apartment, you finally check your cellphone to see a familiar name on your screen. Your heart drops at the sight, a wave of mortification falling over you.

paigebueckers | You have a crush on me?

paigebueckers followed yourusername

“Wait, no, Rach,” you reach for her arm as she's tossing her keys in a bowl by the front door. “She messaged me and followed me. I’ll kill myself right now.”

Rachel covers her mouth, words muffled but clear to you. “No. You’re kidding.”

“What the actual fuck? What do I say to that? This is so humiliating,” you groan as you cover your tired eyes with your free palm that wasn’t holding your phone.

In the blink of an eye, Rachel snatched your phone at lightning speed from your grasp, giggling as she ran more into her apartment. You took off after her, shouting ‘no’ as you knew exactly what she was planning on doing.

“You said you don’t know what to say so I’ll do it for you,” your best friend stated simply, shrugging her shoulders once she was able to flop onto her cozy couch.

She held her phone up in the air as her fingers hovered over the keyboard on your screen. You climb over her body to try and snatch it from her but she keeps moving out of the way.

“I’m gonna kick you,” you threaten her as you huff, pausing your attempts at fighting against her.

“Come on. Seriously. There’s no harm in texting her.”

As you settle back into the couch, you think about it for a moment. What is the harm? You reach over Rachel’s body to grab your phone back, huffing as you think about how to respond to that.

yourusername | oh god i am so sorry. this is so embarrassing.

paigebueckers | Nah there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m honored to be your ‘celebrity’ crush 😎

yourusername | i seriously never thought you would see that video but i guess our both of our supporters desperately wanted you to see it

paigebueckers | So what is it about me hmm?

yourusername | that crush just evaporated im ngl to you ‼️

paigebueckers | Alr Alr I’ll stop, pretty girl

yourusername | thank u. spare me pls ://

paigebueckers hearted your message

paigebueckers | Yk I’ve seen a few of your movies. I just didn’t realize it was you. You’re insanely talented btw

yourusername hearted paigebueckers message

yourusername | stop omg which ones? and thank you so much! <3

paigebueckers | Uhh the new Suicide Squad movie and Bodies Bodies Bodies. No problem!

yourusername | those are some of my favorites so i’m so glad you enjoyed them :)

“Okay when I said to text her back I didn’t mean only text her right now,” Rachel’s voice interrupted your furious typing.

You blush at her confrontation, clicking off your phone and setting it on the cushion next to you. “Sorry, Rach. She’s actually pretty chill. She seems…nice.”

“Next thing you’ll know she’ll be flying out to L.A to come and see you,” Rachel kids as she turns on her living room TV.

You didn’t say anything to that as you wouldn’t be completely opposed to it. You still had that lingering crush; that doesn’t just disappear overnight or within the first ten minutes you’ve been talking to her. Before you go lock in and focus on spending your downtime with your best friend, you check your phone one more time.

paigebueckers | Oh, I fs did. I was pretty focused everytime you were on screen, gorgeous

paigebueckers | I got practice rn but I’ll text you in a bit? 💗

yourusername | flirt but i believe you :)

yourusername | have fun at practice! get those gains in 💪

paigebueckers hearted your message

yourusername | happy birthday to my insanely talented best friend. you’re 23 now. i remember when we were both 13 year olds talking about becoming actresses and how cool it would be. now look at how far you’ve come, juliet on mf broadway :,) i love you, rach ♥︎

view all comments

rachelzegler | i’m gonna cry im literally sitting right next to you but i love you so much! 💜💜

↳ yourusername | i love you more 🤕💔

kit.connor | happy birthday to the icon herself!

↳ yourusername | iktr!!😩

randomuser | their friendship >>>>>

havanaroseliu | look at that angel ♡ ♡ happiest of birthdays!!!

↳ yourusername | that’s my mf bestfriend

randomuser | i always forget she was in bottoms and the cast is just in her comments LMAOSKSK

paigebueckers | Okay broadway legend! Period!! Happy birthday!

↳ yourusername | put some respect on her name!

↳ rachelzegler | oh hello paige😁 thank youuu!

randomuser | PAIGE?!!!

randomuser | wait omg they know each other???

randomuser | Did we bring them together?🙂‍↕️

TAG-LIST: @jnkbueckers @ch-3-rry

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴀʟᴀʀᴍ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦-𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥

slow burn, mutual pining, office romance, romantic tension, miscommunication, jealousy, unresolved feelings, longing, subtle angst, yearning

introducing dotty, my nickname for officecrush!reader!!

word count - 1.1k

The phone rings around 10:47 a.m, just as she’s reaching for her mug of lukewarm coffee. She answers it out of habit, eyes still half on her inbox. The voice on the other end is sweet and chipper.

“Hey, Dotty! It’s Sophie. Can you patch me through to Matt?”

She pauses, fingers hovering over the phone system. Sophie. Of course.

The sales girl Matt drove home once. More than once.

She glances over at his office through the glass wall. He’s wearing that light blue button-up he looks good in, sleeves rolled up like usual, hair fluffed from running his hand through it a thousand times already. She wonders if Sophie notices things like that too. If she compliments him. A part of her hopes she does, another wants to puke at the thought.

“Sure thing!” she says quickly, throat a little dry. She transfers the call before Sophie can say anything else. She knows it’s not a big deal. They’re just grabbing lunch. Still, something about it itches under her skin.

Dotty tries not to look over again, but out of the corner of her eye, she catches the moment he answers. He leans back slightly, smiling at whatever Sophie is saying. It’s not like the smiles he gives her, or maybe it is. She can’t really tell right now.

She hadn’t even realised he was still seeing her. That thought sinks in slowly, heavier than she expected.

By noon, she’s knee-deep in spreadsheets and trying to forget the way Matt laughed on that call. She’s focused, mostly, until the fire alarm goes off. Sharp, sudden, and way too loud.

Everyone groans. Someone makes a joke about burned popcorn again. Dotty quietly grabs her phone and stands up with the rest of her colleagues as she files out into the stairwell.

Matt catches up with her halfway down the stairs.

“Another drill? Or is this the real thing this time?”

She shrugs. “Depends. Did you bring your lunch?”

He laughs softly. “Nah, I'm grabbing food with a friend.”

A friend? Oh. Right. Sophie.

Outside, the whole team is standing around in loose clusters in the parking lot. The sky is overcast, but the fresh air is nice. She’s standing a bit off to the side, talking quietly with one of the marketing girls, keeping mostly to herself. Matt drifts over and stands beside her. Not saying anything. Just there.

A few people start a game to pass the time. “Three movies you'd bring to a desert island?”

Someone says Pitch Perfect.

Matt snorts audibly. “Seriously? You want an a capella drama while you're dying of heatstroke?”

She laughs before she can stop herself. “Honestly, I kind of like that movie. I used to watch it with my mum all the time.”

Matt turns to her, mock betrayal in his eyes. “Dotty... you didn’t strike me as a Barden Bella.”

She smirks. “It's comforting. Sue me.”

“Comforting,” he echoes. “Right. Next you’re gonna say you like Twilight.”

She looks at him sideways. “As a comedy, or…?”

He blinks. “I don’t even know you.”

The group splits naturally into smaller clusters, accounting and sales huddled together by the curb, admin and HR under the tree near the backlot. Most of the guys from the office, including Matt, wander off a bit, leaning against the building’s brick wall, where someone pulls out a cigarette and starts the next game.

“Alright,” someone says. “Who would you do?”

Matt huffs out a laugh. “Really? We’re doing this now?”

“Come on, it's tradition.”

Names get tossed out fast. Amanda, someone says. Priya. Then…

“Dotty. Easy.”

Matt’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he stays quiet, listening.

More than one person agrees.

“She’s got that quiet thing going on, y’know? Shy.”

Matt’s jaw shifts subtly. His gaze drifts toward where Dotty stands, halfway across the lot. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, hair pulled up in that half up half down style she always does when she’s trying not to overheat. She’s talking to another girl, nodding gently, smiling at something that was said.

Someone elbows him. “What about you, Matt?”

He takes a second to think, mouth suddenly dry. He manages a smirk, then says simplfy. “The corporate’s rep.”

A round of laughter follows, but he doesn't laugh. Not really.

He keeps looking over.

When it’s the girls' turn, the game naturally drifting over, everyone starts throwing out Matt’s name like it’s obvious. She instinctively shrinks back a little, hoping they skip over her.

“Matt. Definitely Matt.”

She keeps her eyes on the ground, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve, toeing at a crack in the pavement.

“Dotty, you gonna say Luke or what?” someone teases.

She looks up, startled. "Huh?"

The girls giggle. “Your fiancé, silly.”

“Right,” she says quickly, swallowing the heat in her cheeks.

But she wasn’t thinking about Luke. His name hadn’t even popped into her head.

Luke shows up right then, slipping through the crowd to her side. He leans in, pressing a brief kiss to her cheek. His hand rests a little too firmly on her lower back.

“You good? Didn’t think this thing would take so long.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice a little smaller than usual.

He scans the crowd, then mutters, “Figures they'd let everyone goof off instead of just sending us back in.”

She gives a small nod, but doesn’t say anything. His grip lingers before he walks off to join the guys. The girls fall quiet for a beat.

One of them finally says, “He’s cute. Kind of intense.”

Dotty doesn’t answer. She’s still watching where Luke walked off, then shifts her gaze, just slightly, to Matt.

That’s when Sophie shows up, a little breathless, clearly looking for Matt. He walks over to her easily, like they do this all the time. She slips into the circle with everyone else, looping her arm lightly through Matt’s.

“Did I miss something fun?”

“We’re talking desert island movies,” someone says.

Sophie grins. “Easy. Pitch Perfect.”

She glances at Matt. He’s laughing, but it sounds different now. Not performative. Just... soft.

Dotty turns away, swallowing around the lump in her throat. The sky’s starting to clear above them, a little sun breaking through. Someone says they’ll probably be allowed back in soon.

She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, gaze drifting over to the trees swaying gently in the breeze.

She looks back at Matt, whose eyes meet hers. For a second, she thinks he might say something.

And for a second, Matt forgets Sophie’s arm around his. He forgets the game, the parking lot, even his lunch plans. He just sees her. The way her eyes drop. The way she looks away, like she doesn’t want him to know she’d been looking.

By the time he shifts forward, she’s already turned away, facing her fiancé. And so he moves. Lets it be. 

Dotty blinks, and he’s already walking away. Sophie beside him, laughter trailing behind like a ribbon in the breeze.

Dotty doesn’t look away.

She just stays there, quietly watching, as Luke swings his arm around her shoulder.

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers ꨄ

a/n: lacy oh lacyyyyyy

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[taintedtort]

scaramouche trying to praise you during sex because you arent comfy w degredation and he gets all awkward and shit!! -💗ANON

" PRAISE, PLEASE? "

summary. you ask for praise and he gets nervy

character. scaramouche

warnings. afab!reader, SMUT!!, degrading near the beginning, praise

a/n. this has been in my inbox for so long, i’m so sorry 💗 anon! i’ve been meaning to right it for a while, but here it is finally. hope you like it! (i think it’s lowkey ass, im so sorry)

"fuck— you feel so good… such a slutty pussy," SCARAMOUCHE grunts, his hands gripping your hips as he pushes his cock into you over and over. it feels good, obviously, but his usual degrading words are bothering you a bit more this time.

"so greedy, sucking me in like a pathetic whore," he groans, his eyes glued to where you’re connected. he watches as he slides in and out of you, his length shiny with your arousal.

"scara…" you mewl, reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck. he leans over your body, his face getting closer to yours. he opens his mouth to say more, but you cut him off before he can get a word out.

"can you, uhm— praise me instead? i don’t really like the degrading all that much," you confess, mumbling through your pleasure filled moans. his thrusts come to a stop, and he looks at you with furrowed brows.

he’s hit with a short wave of guilt. he always tends to degrade you, as it just comes naturally, but with the new knowledge that you don’t like it, he feels determined to correct himself and make you feel good. he can be selfish, but he‘d never want to intentionally ignore your wishes and make you sad. he’d do anything you asked, even if it made him feel awkward.

"i… i can try, i guess," he resumes his movements, and you can tell he’s going much softer now than he was before. he’s silently worried he hurt your feelings, so he racks his brain to think of something nicer to say.

he leans down to pepper kisses across your face, mainly focusing on your cheeks and forehead. you can’t help but smile, appreciating that he’s trying to be nicer even though it doesn’t necessarily come naturally to him.

"i love seeing you under me like this, you look so pretty," he mumbles, and you swear you see his cheeks go a bit pink. he’s not looking at you, his eyes trailing over your body instead, trying to distract himself from his rising blush.

your body relaxes against the bed, letting his compliment sink in as your pleasure slowly builds. he keeps his pace quick, but his hips are no longer roughly slamming into yours. you certainly don’t mind the change, taking the opportunity to run your fingers through his silky hair.

"shit— you feel amazing, made just for me, all of you," he breathes out, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to keep his moans muffled. he buries his face into your neck, placing kisses and gentle nips to the skin there.

he‘s mainly trying to hide how awkward he is, and you know that, but you appreciate him trying. the thought of him going out of his comfort zone just to please you makes your head fuzzy and causes your orgasm to build quickly.

you jolt and moan louder when you suddenly feel two fingers press against your clit, rubbing quick circles to match his thrusts.

"scara! 'm gonna— ah! gonna cum!" you whine, seeing him nod encouragingly. he starts to go harder, fucking into you with the force that he normally does. your body rocks with each thrust, little squeaks and moans forcing themselves out of your throat.

"cum for me, sweet girl. make a mess on my cock," he grunts, his own release rapidly building as he watches you fall apart underneath him.

"fu—fuck! scara!" your moans increase in pitch as you teeter over the edge, dangerously close. your pussy throbs around him, making him hiss in pleasure.

"that’s my good girl," he mumbles, almost like he’s saying it to himself, but you hear it. his praise is what finally pushes you to your release, squirming on the bed before you finally cum around his cock.

he watches as your eyes roll back, your mouth popping open in a silent moan. he groans at the sight, loving the faces and sounds you make when your consumed with pleasure.

"you’re so cute when you cum like that," he grunts, chasing his own orgasm now. you can’t help but smile dumbly at his strained words, a bit dazed as you slowly come down from your high.

you watch as SCARAMOUCHE grows closer and closer, his face scrunching up in concentration and pleasure. you’re now able to hear the little sighs and groans he lets out, your own moans not drowning him out anymore.

"cum inside me… please?" his eyes snap to yours when he hears that. the thought of making a mess of your pussy has him cumming almost instantly.

he pushes his hips flush against you, shoving his cock deep in your cunt as he fills you, both of you letting out a moan.

"fuck… love this pussy so much." you giggle at how breathless and pleasure drunk he sounds, his eyes half lidded with a small blush on his cheeks.

after a moment of catching your breath, SCARAMOUCHE pulls out slowly, his eyes locked on where his cum drips out of you. it falls onto the bedsheets below, but he doesn’t seem to notice nor care. he takes in the view of you sprawled out on the bed, your body naked and slightly sweaty. all for him.

the knowledge that you’re his has his body heating once more, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looks up at your tired expression.

"again."