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gracieheartspedro · 8 months ago

Text

For Cryin’ Out Loud

pairing: post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

how to help the palestinians and what it means to write for the last of us characters

word count: 7.9k

description: living with joel is complicated, especially when you can’t sleep due to nightmares. when you find yourself in his bed, you can’t help yourself. but joel sure can. give him a day to mull it over.

warnings: pretty slow burn, kinda forced proximity, kinda angsty, unspecified age gap (don’t like it, don’t read it), joel gives you tons of nicknames (darlin’, kiddo, etc.), discussions of nightmares and possible mental illnesses, some fluff, reader isn’t really described, joel is kinda a gaslighter, he’s also a bit pervy, unprotected p in v (wrap it y’all), oral (f! receiving), dirty talk, joel like worships you!!!!!, joel licks his fingers clean, giving genitalia pronouns, joel’s a big boy. think that’s it. lemme know what I missed!

author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this. the idea is pretty simple but I love domestic jackson!joel. I promise i’ll try to switch it up soon and write something that isn’t jackson!era lol. support your fav fics by reblogging and commenting!! thanks love ya <3

For some reason, you always find yourself standing at the threshold of the front door when you cannot sleep.

The air was especially brisk tonight. You wrapped yourself in a gray chunky sweater you found in the lost and found in Jackson’s thrift store, hoping to regain some warmth. Your bed may have been comfortable, but it was the place where nightmares usually plagued you.

It was too late to be awake, and you knew that if you were caught, you would hear it from Joel. He always reprimanded you. Every time he caught you up late, it was like your father woke up and found your hand in the cookie jar.

The dynamic between you two had changed since arriving in Jackson, and you almost resented him for it. When it was just you, him, and Ellie, you were managing a family unit. Joel was always the protective father, you being the mom or the voice of reason, and Ellie being chaos.

When Ellie and Joel’s relationship shifted, he took on a fatherly role for you. It bothered you. A lot.

In a moment of contemplation, you hear footsteps coming down the steps behind you.

He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and no shirt, his hairy tummy something you did not see often.

“What are you doing awake?” He questions, his voice groggy with a twinge of annoyance.

You do not feel like explaining yourself, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this situation without a justification.

You huff, leaning your back against the door frame so you can get a full look at the broad man. “Can’t sleep. Thought staring into the darkness would help.”

He grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “How’s that workin’ for you, sweetheart?”

You could not close your eyes without the haunting dreams that seemed lively and so real. Every night, you had the same recurring ones. You were being chased, hunted, or murdered. Or all of the above. You would wake in a cold sweat, not wanting to shut your eyelids ever again.

“Hm,” You say, staring back outside for a brief moment, “‘Was better when you weren’t looking over my shoulder.”

He chuckles, “Get back to bed.”

“I can’t, Joel.”

“You can and will. You’re no good when you’re tired.”

“If I close my eyes, Joel, I will just have the same goddamn nightmares I have every night. And I will end up doing what I’m doing now, which is trying to get some fresh air to forget them.”

“You’re not gonna forget ‘em with some fresh air. You just need to… get over them.”

The breeze picks up as soon as he says it, almost like the world knew the tension would have to be broken with some frigid air. You retort with, “And how do you get over yours?”

"I just accept them," he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I don't have time to dwell on them. There's always more important things to worry about."

"I'm more tired in the morning when I just endure them." You explain, trying not to cry about it. But you are so sick of them. The same thing every night.

“I get it. One day they will subside, I’m sure of it. But for now, you gotta-”

You just want him to shut up. At the same time, your mind is trying to remember the last time you did not have a nightmare. The memory makes your stomach churn. “You remember that one time we were forced to share that sleeping bag? Back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah,” His tone was wary, “What about it?”

"That was the first night I didn't have it." You explain, your voice a bit shaking at the insinuation. You don’t want to face the fact that Joel, the man that you have known for going on 10 years, kept your nightmares at bay. The same man who continuously rejected you and told you that he was old enough to be your dad. The same man that told you no, I don’t like you like that. I never will. That Joel.

“And? Why are you bringing this up now?”

"Because every night I go to my bed and I'm forced to face them alone. When you were there... they didn't even bother holding my mind hostage.”

He took another step closer, closing some of the distance between you two. He towers over you and you can’t help but stare up at him in awe. Joel has always been a complicated part of your life. You consider him your sexual awakening, honestly, but he will never ever know that. Over the years, he’s only gotten more handsome.

But now, he has a curious expression written all over his face.

"Are you saying you want to share a bed with me?" he asks, his voice gruff and low.

You suck in a deep breath, not wanting to answer. You knew that was stepping over a boundary for Joel. He liked his space. He didn’t like you impeding on that space, especially. Your bedroom was the furthest away from his for a reason.

"I don't know." You manage to say.

Joel's gaze darkened, his expression was completely unreadable. You wish you could read his mind, but you should be grateful you can not.

Because in Joel’s mind, he’s trying to formulate a way to convince you to stay away from him altogether. The wall he has built over the last decade was intentional. He did not want to hurt you any further. He already knew you had feelings for him, but he was an old man. He did not want to drag you into his mess, all the baggage he carried. He looked after you, he shared a home with you, and that’s it. Strictly platonic.

He shifted on his feet a little, unable to tear his eyes away from you. You shook like a little leaf.

"You don't know?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

You nod, "I don't know if I want that."

You do want that. But you want more, too. You knew you would be playing with fire. You would just be disappointed.

Joel’s temptations are buried deep but they still fester every now and again. Some days he would catch a glance at you getting dressed in the crack of your door and have to take a cold shower. As soon as he felt those emotions bubble in his chest, he would try to distract himself. Maybe he would take a longer patrol. Maybe he would go to the Tipsy Bison and try to find a woman to take home. That one never really worked.

“Well, what do you want then? Because standin’ at the door and letting all the cold air in ain’t gonna work for me or you.”

You look down at your picked-over fingernails and contemplate your next sentence. You don't want to be heartbroken in the morning when you wake up and he's there sleeping peacefully next to you and you're not... his.

"I want to sleep with you."

Joel was not expecting such a blunt response from you, but he appreciated you not beating around the bush about it. He gestures for you to step out of the doorway so he can shut the door, which you do.

He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your face, taking in the exhaustion and uncertainty.

"You sure?" he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

You just nod as he locks the front door. You couldn’t believe you were doing this.

Joel couldn’t believe it either. Maybe it was the tiredness or the instincts he felt to protect you, but he was not mad at the idea of sharing his bed with you.

You signal for him to go upstairs, “You lead the way.”

Joel’s room was always off-limits to you. So when you step into his small little world, you take it all in.

The artwork around the room was mainly nature landscapes. He had a big dresser right at the room's entrance with picture frames of Sarah, Ellie, and other family members. You were even included in one photo—a picture of you and him on some horses from last year.

A shirt littered one side of the bed, so you took that as it was probably his side. Unfortunately for you, it was the right side. You felt a pang of guilt realizing you would probably end up restlessly lying in Joel’s bed if you were stuck on the left.

Before he can pull back the blanket for himself, you stop him.

“Uh, can I sleep on that side?”

He completely halts in his motions, turning his head towards you with a blank expression. “My side? Why?”

You lick your lips, already regretting this whole thing.

“Because I have had this superstition since I was a kid that I could only sleep on the right side of the bed."

Joel wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He can tell you are at war in your head about the question, your expression practically anticipating his rejection.

"Superstitions, huh?" he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips."You and your weird beliefs."

You watch as he crosses to the other side of the bed and lifts the blanket. Is he actually letting you have his side? Maybe he doesn’t hate you.

“You could also call it a compulsion, but superstitions seem more fun and less like a mental illness.”

He laughs this time, his deep chuckle making you feel a bit more relaxed about the situation. You did not feel like a burden as much. You walk to the right side and pull back his navy blue sheets and blanket. The spot looks warm and inviting so when you crawl in next to Joel, you start to realize that you’re back in the same situation you were in years ago in that sleeping bag. He was so close and warm and you wanted nothing more but for him to hold you and keep you comfortable.

But then another thing came to mind before you could imagine his arms around you.

You usually sleep on your right side or back, but now you don't know what to do because you didn't know how Joel slept.

"Do you sleep on your side or back?"

Joel studies you as you fidget beside him, your uncertainty causing him to smirk slightly. It was almost endearing, seeing you be completely out of control of your surroundings. He remembers back when you were traveling with him you had an obsessive need to straighten up everything before you fell asleep. You had to roll yourself up in your sleeping bag the same way every night.

"Usually on my back," he said finally. "But I can sleep on my side, too."

You swallow, trying to picture yourself sleeping. For some reason you felt the urge to have control of the situation, dictating exactly how he has to sleep, too. "Can I... I'll sleep on my side if you can sleep on your back? Is that okay?"

Joel had to suppress a smirk at your request. You knew he was trying to hold back a snarky remark. Instead, he surprises you.

"Sure, you can sleep on your side," he agreed, shifting his body weight onto his back, "��n I'll sleep on my back. No big deal."

You turn to face him, tucking the pillow further under your head. You can tell his eyes are heavy from exhaustion. You know it's time to shut up, to go to sleep, but you feel the need to say something else to him. Sometimes your brain concocts questions and statements and you know you shouldn’t say them, but your mouth betrays you.

"When was the last time you had a girl in your bed?"

Why the fuck would you ask that? You think to yourself. It fell out of your mouth like drool.

Joel's eyes widened at your blunt question, surprise and a hint of embarrassment coloring his expression. You knew he was probably just expecting you to lay here next to him, maybe roll around a bit, then sleep. But instead, it’s an interrogation.

He took a deep breath, his mind rattling around as he tried to think of a response. He didn't want to admit what his genuine answer was to you, but he too could not help himself.

"Why do you want to know that?" he asks, his voice steely.

You hate that he even responded because now you needed to defend yourself.

"I uh, don't know. I don't know why it matters."

Joel chuckled softly, noting that you probably just had a case of word vomit. You always told him you were infamous for putting your foot in your mouth, especially in awkward situations.

"Curiosity got the better of you, huh?" he asks, rubbing his face with his hands. “You just can’t help yourself, sweetheart.”

He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, his gaze studying your expression.

You smirk, grateful that he's letting it slide. When he turns onto his side and he's at eye level with you, your face drops a bit. He is ruining the vision in your head. He’s throwing a wrench in your plans.

"You're supposed to be on your back, sir."

Joel couldn't help but chuckle softly at your comment. He knew he was supposed to be on his back, but the new angle allowed him to see you better in the faint moonlight.

"Don't worry," he said, a hint of humor in his voice. "I'll turn back over in a minute. Just... enjoying the view for a bit."

You roll your eyes, lifting your hands from under the covers and lightly hitting his arm. You knew he was just fucking with you now.

"Okay, for that, I want to know the answer to my stupid question."

Joel let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He shook his head, amused by your persistence. You start to think about it and you have never really seen him bring anyone home. Maybe it had been a very long time and he was embarrassed.

"Alright, alright," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Last time I had a girl in my bed..."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dropping to the covers, his mind racing to find the right words.

"Go on..."

Joel took another deep breath, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke.

"It's been a long time, kiddo," he admitted, his voice pierced with a bit of shame. "Almost ten years, if I'm being honest."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "No way... You've never just... got it on with someone in bed?"

Joel's face flushed with embarrassment at your blunt question, a mix of shock and slight irritation flashing across his eyes.

"Jesus, you really don't hold back, do ya?" he muttered. He shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable in a different way. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn so personal, so quickly and he did not want to face you anymore. He was mortified.

You mentally slap yourself in the face.

"I'm sorry, I am just tired and delusional. Uh, you don't have to answer that."

Joel could practically feel the humiliation radiating off you and he too felt the exact same way. You knew how to add to an already awkward situation.

"No, no, it's fine," he reassured you, his voice a bit gentler now. "I get it. You're tired, and your filter has taken a backseat."

"Yeah, exactly..."

He shifted on the bed, turning onto his back again, his gaze shifting to the ceiling, avoiding your curious stare.

You could not help but stare at his side profile. A prominent straight nose. His downturned lips are surrounded by some fine lines that show his age. He was a beautiful man now, but you can’t help but imagine him back in his 20s. He had to have been a hit with the ladies back then.

Joel could feel your gaze on him, studying his face. And while you were not scrutinizing him, he felt like a commodity in a museum or something. He forced himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling, refusing to meet your eyes.

"So… ten years and no sex?”

You could seriously, not help yourself.

"Correct.” He grumbles, still not meeting your stare.

"Damn, Joel." You mutter, adjusting a bit to sit up a little more on your pillow. "I seriously thought you were sleeping around the whole time we have been in Jackson.”

He finally turns your way, a bit of offense on his face. “Why would you think that?”

You shrug, not wanting to insult him. But that’s how you formulated your grudge towards him. It was easy to just chalk everything up to problems with random women you have seen around town.

“You just give off the energy…”

“What?”

You huff, laying back on the pillow. “I don’t know, Joel! I feel like when I’m around you all the ladies think you’re handsome. They stare.”

“They are staring because you’re always following me around and we aren’t married or… together. They think we are odd.”

You had never heard such things around Jackson, but it does sort of make sense. Everyone was probably just confused because you two lived together but were not a couple. You can admit it is bizarre, but it just did not feel like an option any other way, in your mind. So Tommy gave you two a bigger house and you set up separate rooms.

But in actuality, Joel secretly told Tommy that he did not want you too far from him. So when Tommy couldn’t give you any other houses nearby, Joel just told him that you two would be roommates.

“Well fuck ‘em.” You mutter, trying not to sound too offended by the thought of people gossiping about you two.

Joel just nods. You settle by tucking your arm under your pillow. You yawn, the exhaustion now taking over your body. You watch Joel grab a pair of reading glasses from the side table and a book. You decide not to bother him, especially because he probably wanted to just read himself to sleep instead of being interrogated by you any further.

You close your eyes and eventually fall asleep. The deeper you get, Joel notices how your breathing pattern changes. When he’s finally ready to get some shut-eye as well, he watches as your body crawls closer to him. Your arm swings over his stomach and rests on his forearm. He is so shocked he does not move a muscle.

You adjust some more, not knowing what you are doing. Your leg creeps up and tucks right between his. You snuggle your face right into his chest. The only movement Joel decides to make is slinging his arm over your shoulders to pull you in tighter.

It’s the first time in years that you two slept soundly, with no interruptions. No nightmares, no sudden intrusions, nothing. Silence and snores fill the room and that’s it.

When you wake up, it’s slow and gradual. Your brain hardly computes that you’re laying on top of Joel’s shirtless frame, until your hand runs across his warm tummy.

You crook your neck up, looking at the handsome man you are spreading across.

His lips are slightly ajar, letting out hardly-there snores. They are so pretty and pink and you cannot help but touch them with feather-like fingertips. You would feel so guilty waking him up-

His eyes slowly open taking notice of your actions even though you tried not to stir him. Your eyes fly open in shock, but he does not seem very annoyed. He smiles.

“Mornin’ darlin’,” He says in a deep sleep-laced voice. You smile back at him, loving that he decided to call you the nickname you always got giddy over. You press your fingers into his chest before replying.

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

His hand comes up from your shoulders and tucks some hair behind your ear as he stares down at you, “That’s good kiddo. I’m glad you slept well.”

The intimacy is almost too much. The way this is how it would be if you woke up to Joel every morning. It sends your brain into overdrive and you force yourself to ruin it a bit.

“Woulda slept even better if you didn’t talk so much in your sleep.”

Joel froze for a moment, his cheeks immediately flushing pink with embarrassment. He sits up a bit more, adjusting to the brighter lighting in his room. He knew he had a problem with talking in his sleep. Ellie used to talk about it all the time. He dreaded hearing what he was saying while curled up next to you.

"Uh... what did I say?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Something about it felt so good to be pressed up against someone, I don't know..."

You could not help yourself and started to laugh. You knew you were going to get a rise out of him.

Joel's face flushed an even deeper shade of pink as you started to laugh, clearly amused by your joke. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to come up with an excuse. He was just dreaming, it was not about you.

"W-what?" he spluttered out instead of making an excuse. "I didn't... I didn't say anything like that."

You have a shit-eating grin on your face and you press your hands on his chest to prop yourself up. You enjoyed watching him squirm.

Joel's eyes flickered down to your hands on his chest. He sickly thought they felt so right placed there. He imagined what you would look like fully mounting him.

He tried to keep his expression neutral, but you could see through his stone-cold exterior.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he grumbled, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Fully fuckin' with you." You giggle, hoping he is not really that mad at you.

“You’re a brat.”

You move your foot slightly, running it up his leg. It sends shockwaves up his body, having you so close and moving around so seamlessly.

"No, you said something about how beautiful, alluring, and incredible I am. Said I was the girl of your dreams…"

"Yeah, right," he said, a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice. "You expect me to believe that?"

"So, you don't believe me?"

"No, I don't believe you," he says, his voice stern but playful. "I think you're a dirty little liar, trying to play me for a fool."

"A dirty little liar, huh? Well, it's good to know that you don't think I'm beautiful, alluring, and incredible." You giggle at his acknowledgment, knowing he caught you red-handed.

"Oh, I never said that," he smirked, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You are all of those things, darlin’. But you're also a dirty little liar who likes to play games."

"So you think I'm beautiful?" You crack, the biggest smile painted on your face. You don’t even care that he’s calling you a liar because it does not matter. Joel thinks you are beautiful.

“‘Course I do.”

You push yourself up onto your butt, sitting crisscross next to him. He secretly wishes you were still curled up on top of him.

“You always this nice in the morning?” You ponder, your fingertips starting to toy with the hair on his stomach. He tries not to pay mind to it, letting you have full access to touch him.

But it’s driving him insane. The way you look freshly woken up, completely enamored with the idea of him calling you beautiful. You have some puffiness under your eyes and your lips are more swollen than usual.

“I am always nice to you.”

You let out a scoff, “No, you’re not.”

He notices the shift in your tone and starts to get defensive, “Now you’re just lyin’.”

Joel always loved to gaslight you in these situations. You knew better than to let him get away with it, especially now. “No there was that one time you told me you did not like me and that you would never like me. How you are old enough to be my dad-”

“Because I am!”

And there’s the wall. The only constant in you two’s relationship. He was so good at throwing it up when feelings were being expressed. When vulnerability was presented, Joel could not help but reject it.

“And the world’s fuckin’ ended, Joel! Big deal!” You almost yell, moving your hands from him.

Why does he already miss your hands?

He huffs, crossing his arms over his soft chest. “We have had this conversation for the last 10 years.’M not sure why we keep rehashing it.”

“And every time you turn me down it’s another fuckin’ stab in the heart.”

“You know why we can’t,” He practically growls. You can not stand to even look at him anymore with your bitterness and irritation taking over.

“Whatever, Joel.”

As soon as you say it, you’re already leaving his room and heading to your own. When you slam the door, you hope you have made your point. You want to scream and punch a hole in the wall, but instead you just furiously stomp around the room and grab your clothes. You had patrol at noon, so you needed to get to the mess hall before breakfast was over. You try not to cry as you strip down and get dressed.

Joel sits in bed, reeling. He hates that it has become a conversation every six months. He hated that rejecting you always sent you into a spiral of hating him for extended periods. It’s not that he did not want you, it was simply just not in the cards. He was too old to be in love. He was too old to play house with you. He just could not submit to the idea of leading you on, especially because you had so much more life to live.

He finally works up the courage to get out of bed and put on some clothes. He opts for putting on his typical jeans and thick flannel. It was getting colder and he knew by the end of the winter, you would end up with half his flannels anyway, so he had to enjoy them while he had them.

You storm downstairs, going to the back door for your boots when you spot him in the kitchen.

“You got pat-”

“Yes.” You respond quickly, shoving your foot into your shoes. He stands behind you with a mug full of tea, watching your every move.

“Who are you-”

“Jesse.”

He was asking his usual questions, which you were not in the mood to answer.

“Hey, can you-”

You snap your head back at him, giving him the glare you gave him as a warning usually. By now, he takes it as a hint and backs off. But not this time.

“Can I what?”

He rolls his eyes, “Can you fuckin’ not be a brat about this?”

You wish your glare came with knives. If that were the case, Joel Miller would be dead on his kitchen floor.

You are so thrown off by the question that you just watch him get angrier when you do not respond.

“Are you serious, right now?” You press, keeping your voice from cracking.

He brings the mug up to his mouth, taking an obnoxious sip. When he pulls the mug away, you notice how steaming it is. “You always pull this shit-”

“No, you do! You do this shit to me every fuckin’ time, Joel. You sweet talk me, make me feel comfortable, have me lapping everything up in the palm of your hands, and then you snatch it away. Then have the audacity to get mad at me!”

You are yelling now and it is throwing him off. Joel knows better than to interrupt you like you do to him. You were the kind of person who would calm down if you felt heard.

The way he knew you down to your core made this all so painful. Because if he was not so stubborn and true to his convictions, he would have fucked you the moment you touched his lips this morning.

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this harder than-” “Too fuckin’ late.”

You think back to the moment last night when you knew you were going to hurt your own feelings by sleeping with him. You knew better, yet here you are, still blaming him for your stupidity.

He stands there, still holding his mug, staring you down like a wounded doe who got pierced with an arrow. He feels guilty like he misled you. Before he can say anything, you are lacing up your boots and leaving out the front door without another word.

All day long, Joel wanders around the house trying to get rid of the pit in his stomach. Nothing works. A shower. Reading a book. Cutting wood. As soon as he tried to use laundry as a distraction, he reached into his hamper and found one of your t-shirts. He held it close and smelled it, trying to wrap his head around how he got here.

You spend all day, silently fuming on horseback with Jesse. When he tries to get you to open up, you ice him out and tell him to focus on the trail in front of him.

You get back by sundown, the sun setting making it a lot chiller than you expected. You decide to take the long way home, wanting to avoid being home for as long as possible. You were not ready to face Joel, let alone share a space with him. But unfortunately, during your patrol, you fell into some mud and needed a shower. The more time it spent on your clothes and body, the grosser you felt.

You open the front door, announcing that you are home. It was a habit you and Joel developed after you both pulled guns on each other during late-night arrivals.

You hear Joel mumble something from the living room, but you do not stop to listen and continue on your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You strip down as soon as the door is closed, tossing your muddy clothing into a hamper in the corner. You would get them washed and hung as soon as you shower off.

You hear Joel’s footsteps creaking around the upstairs hallway as you scrub your body with homemade soap and warm water.

When you start to dry yourself off, you hear Joel grunting something in the hallway. You wrap yourself in a towel and peek your head out the door. He’s on his hands and knees wiping something off the hardwood. “What’s goin’ on?”

He looks up at you, your body only covered in a bleach-stained blue towel. It makes his head spin. He can’t even be mad that you tracked in mud.

He swallows, gripping the cloth he’s using tighter. “You got mud everywhere.”

You step out, not even really thinking about the fact that you are not properly dressed in front of Joel. You were still mad at him, anyway. Who cares what he thinks?

“Sorry, I could’ve cleaned it up.”

He returns to wiping the wood, “It’s fine, I got it, kiddo.”

You accept his response and move on to your room, but the draft you leave behind drifts to Joel’s nostrils. Your soap smells like lavender and it always sends his mind racing when you are fresh from a shower. He clears his throat, trying to get through the emotions filling his chest.

But it’s been like this all day. You’re all around him even when you’re not physically here. How can he get away from you? Why is he trying to run in the first place?

He’s on his knees in your hallway, cleaning up your mess, sniffing the air you leave behind because he’s fucking in love with you and he cannot help himself anymore.

Joel starts to think about how peaceful he felt having you next to him last night and how he would love to feel that way every night. For once he’s not thinking about what everyone else would think. For once he’s thinking selfishly and caving into every desire he has ever pondered about you. How would you feel under him? How would your lips feel pressed against his pulse point?

His body was on fire, thinking about you.

You are fiddling with some clothes in your dresser after you flick on the overhead light. You do not hear him come into your room behind you.

You are so wrapped up in your own thoughts that when he clears his throat to announce he’s in your room, you scream. Loud.

“For cryin’ out loud, woman!”

You grip your towel tighter when you turn and see him standing at your mercy.

“Joel, what the fuck?” You yell, gesturing to the fact that you are practically naked. He does not care, of course, and his ears are ringing from your piercing scream. He gathers himself as you shift back, trying to create some distance from him.

He is trying not to gawk at the fact that your grip on the towel against your chest is only pushing up your cleavage. He’s biting back everything. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what? The fact you crept into my room when I was trying to change? Are we past boundaries now?”

You are pissed, trying not to rattle off another million things to discuss with him. He’s only really talking about one thing.

He scoffs at your last statement. “Boundaries were already out the window when you crawled into bed with me last night.”

Silence fills the room as you completely stop breathing. The anger you originally felt dissipates.

“Joel-“

“I ain’t doin’ this back and forth anymore,” He starts shifting in his spot, unsure if he really should be doing this. “I can’t live how I've been livin’. Somethin’s gotta give.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused.

“You are the one who won’t give, Joel.”

As soon as you say it, he practically drags himself over to you. Completely destitute. You have never seen him look so desperate before. You can tell that he’s been at war with himself ever since you left this morning. His eyes never lied.

His hand creeps up your bare arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

But then you remember his words from this morning. You start feeling like this is just a moment of weakness for him and that he will regret it later. You had to stop it before it was too late. You did not want to deal with the consequences.

“Joel, you said we can’t-”

“Fuck what I said,” He cuts you off, “Do you want this?”

You stare into those brown eyes, searching for a sign of hesitance. You cannot believe Joel is being this vulnerable with you.

But, you do want him. God, you have wanted him so badly for so long. You have searched for him in every man you have ever been with since knowing him.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. He takes note of your parted lips, every word failing you at that moment.

“Darlin’-”

“Yes,” You finally manage. “Yes, I do want this.”

It’s all he needs. He closes the gap between you two by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his space. His lips crash onto yours, not wasting another breath of air waiting to indulge in his sickest fantasies.

You are all Joel ever dreamed about. He knew that once he caved and physically gave in, his world would be shot and everything would revolve around you. For years it had been a teetering object on a cliff, one nudge would have him falling. He always managed. But now, he was falling head first.

His lips move so perfectly with your own. Your hand released your towel and found the tufts of his curls at the base of his head. You did not care that the article pooled around your feet, leaving you completely bare in front of Joel. You have wanted this all along. To be uncovered, to be stripped down to the rawest form. He broke the kiss briefly just to scan your naked body, his forehead pressed against your own.

“Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters as his hand traces your stomach down to your hips, all the way down to your ass. He stops there, grabbing a handful.

“I need you,” You choke out before pressing your lips to his over and over again. “Right now.”

He mumbles “jump” into your mouth and you do so, his hands working quickly to hike you up onto his waist. He carries you to your bed, wasting no time dropping you onto your back.

He cannot get enough of your soft, swollen lips. Every time he pulls away slightly, he dives in again even more aggressively than the last time.

You are so hypnotized by the way he feels on top of you. In the light, he seems so much broader than he was last night. He’s still fully clothed, to your dismay. You start to tug at his shirt, motioning him to remove the articles that are in your way.

He throws off his shirt before he stands up at the edge of the bed and pushes down his jeans.

“Joel… I-“

He just shuts you up with another passionate kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth like he’s trying to melt into your mouth. Your hands trail up his back, gripping onto his shoulders, holding him down so he is pressing against your nude body.

“God, I have wanted this for so long,” He sputters, trying not to sound too desperate. “Been wanting this.”

That’s when his hand reaches down between your thighs and gathers the wetness your slit has to offer. His fingers dance across it, starting from the top all the way to your spongy entrance.

“Please, Joel.”

He loves the lust-laced tone you speak with when you say his name. It almost makes him cum there and then.

You watch as he makes his way down your body, peppering kisses from your shoulder to your hip. When he parts your legs, you feel quite exposed. The adrenaline of being so spread for him manifests into a moan.

“You are divine, baby.”

The use of that adjective is so-not-Joel that it makes you giggle. He notes your reaction and decides to sink down into you. When his mouth gets close to your core, it’s no longer a laughing matter.

He uses his fingers again, using them to spread open your pussy lips. He cannot keep his eyes away from how dripping you are. “This all for me?”

“Y-yes, Joel.”

“God, I was a fuckin’ fool for so long. Could’ve had her earlier and I never fuckin’ caved. Such an idiot.”

Him giving your cunt pronouns was enough to have you throwing your head back and shuttering. His touch was magnetic like he knew exactly what buttons to push as he rubbed his fingers and palm over your core.

“Yeah, you’ve been missin’ out. Every night…” You swallow before looking down at the man that is enamored with your pussy, “E-every night I would lay in this bed, fuckin’ myself just thinkin’ about you.”

He growls at the statement, before teasingly kissing your clit. “Every night, hm, kiddo?”

“God, yes.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he leans forward more and dives in. His nose is pressed firmly against the top of your pussy, nudging forward every time his tongue enters your hole. When that motion became consistent, you began to note the rumblings in the pit of your stomach. A familiar build-up that you managed to get when you were playing with yourself.

His fingers move in tandem with his lips and tongue. While his middle and pointer finger slide in and out of you, his lips wrap around your clit. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming.

You do not know where to center yourself, so your hands grip the bed sheets you were completely soaking as Joel pulls the first orgasm out of you.

“That’s it, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, hm?”

You hardly make a noise, the orgasm is so earth-shattering that you just writhe on the mattress.

“Oh my god…” You groan, finally able to catch your breath. When Joel removes his fingers from you, you watch as he slowly brings them up to his lips.

When he inserts them in his mouth, you gawk at him, unsure how to react. He watches your expression and chuckles darkly.

“Mm, never seen a man enjoy the taste of ya?”

You shake your head. “Never expected to hear those words leave your mouth, either.”

“Wait ‘til you hear what else I got to say.”

He stands up beside the bed, grabs your hips, and brings them to the edge. He is tossing you around with ease, bringing your lower body flush with his. He yanks down his briefs, revealing himself to you. You instantly take notice of how well-endowed he is. You never thought you would ever be close to his cock, let alone have it lining up at your entrance.

“Joel…“ You stop him with your small voice, but still welcoming him in with your legs opened wide, “I don’t know if it will fit.”

He grins, “It will, baby. Just relax for me, okay?”

You watch him slide his member along your center, the feeling so blissfully overstimulating. You whine a bit, raising your hips to his.

But Joel continues his torture, enjoying the way you’re squirming under him. The way your eyebrows are knitted together, your eyes shut as you grind up into him. It’s the prettiest sight.

“Ready?”

Your eyes fly open as you watch him ease his way into your core, the sound of squelching filling the room. You don’t think you have ever been this wet for someone.

“Oh my fuckin’ god, Joel…”

He smiles as he inches in, “Squeezin’ my cock so good, darlin’.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside, he tests the waters by drawing out slowly. You roll your hips in a circle, trying to feel out every inch of him. He fits, but you know once he starts to move faster, the stretch will become overwhelming.

He’s trying to focus and not blow his load immediately. You look so beautiful below him, your tits slowly shifting back and forth every time he draws back and forth. He reaches out, wanting to feel the flesh between his fingers. God, he craved every inch of you, he realizes.

You open your legs as far as you can, letting him hit you at a different angle. The movement allows him to slip in a bit more seamlessly, so when he speeds up his thrusts, you don’t feel like you will completely split in half.

He brings your leg up to hips, and feeling your soft delicate skin against him makes him lose all sense. His hips snap faster the more you moan out for him.

“Fuckin’ Christ, girl. I can’t believe I was missin’ out on this cunt,” He babbles, “Need this cunt every day from now on. Gonna have you all to myself every night.”

You are too fucked out of your mind to read into those implications.

“‘M all yours, Joel.”

He smiles, slowing down a bit. “Keep talkin’ like that and ‘ll finish a lot sooner than you.”

You sit up a bit, your eyes flickering over his entire body. He notices you checking out his nude frame, which makes him feel a bit more bold. He leans down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. You love the way his tongue slips into your mouth so effortlessly. When he opens his mouth, his facial hair tickles your nose a bit which makes you smile. When his hips pick back up to a quicker pace, it sends you gasping into his mouth.

“Please, Joel,” You whine, that familiar build starts up but this time it’s like a freight train. Moving so quickly down every nerve ending in your body. “I’m gonna cum.”

“‘M with you, darlin’. Soak this dick. I’m right behind ya.”

His dirty talk causes the crash. Your body practically lifts off the mattress. You cry out so loud you are sure a neighbor could hear you. You try to gain your bearings, but you are panting like you just ran a mile.

Joel fucks you through it, but the restriction your pussy is putting on his cock sends him over the edge. His hips stutter into yours, his seed emptying into your spent hole. He just keeps repeating your name as his thrusts slow down.

He has never had such a visceral orgasm in his life. His knees are weak and can hardly keep up his weight. He practically falls on top of you, which does not offend you at all. His warm sweaty body on top of you is almost reassuring.

“You okay, kiddo?” He finally mutters as his hot breath fans the nape of your neck. You just nod, bringing your hand up to his salt and pepper hair. You tug lightly, smiling to yourself.

“I’m more than okay.”

He finally sits up, his cock spilling out of you as he adjusts his position. Your hole drips a mixture of cum onto your newly clean sheets, but you could care less. It’s just another thing to hand wash tonight.

Joel stumbles to the middle of the room, picking up your bath towel. He uses it to wipe himself up before coming over to you. Your legs are still slightly apart so he decides to clean you up a bit. He’s gentle, knowing that you are probably still sensitive.

Once he finishes up, he crawls next to you as you continue to recover. Your bones felt like jello so standing up to adjust yourself was not an option.

So instead of facing him, you stare up at your ceiling fan as his eyes lock onto every detail of your profile. It brings him back to one night you two shared under the stars a couple of years ago. It was his turn to keep watch so you curled up in your sleeping bag by the fire. He admired you from across the flames, the orange hues lit up every angle of your face. It was at that moment that Joel realized that he could not picture his life without you. You had weaseled your way into every facet of his life and he used to resent the impact you had on him. You were younger, more patient but still stubborn like him. You made him laugh, like genuinely laugh, for the first time since the infection. While you may have been a bit impulsive with your emotions, he envied the way you could say exactly what you were thinking.

Joel did not want to love you, but it was impossible not to.

You finally look over at him, noticing the softness in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” You pose, scrunching your nose.

He gives you a toothless smile, his eyes crinkling a bit. “I just can’t wait to sleep next to you for the rest of my life.”

tags of people I love and who may wanna read (no pressure I just love u) (some of u did ask tho) : @ashleyfilm @hockeyhughes @pedrospookie @guiltyasdave @amanitacowboy @myownwholewildworld

#joel miller tlou #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal #tlou au #tlou fic #tlou smut #joel miller fanfiction #fic: for cryin’ out loud #the last of us smut #gracieheartspedro

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jungwnies · 1 month ago

Text

f1 grid (1/2) | come back to bed

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @makanirock05) : you tell your f1 boyfriend to “come back to bed” while they're gaming or doing something and when they come in the room you flash them ;) (tiktok trend)

୨ৎ : genre : comedy / tik-tok trend ୨ৎ : tws : slightly suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 2783

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ�� a/n : you guys KNOW i love writing these trend posts.. also monaco weekend lAWDDDDD I HAVE BEEN ANTICIPATING THIS MOMENT.

ʚ・max verstappen

the sound of engine revs echoed down the hallway — max was deep into some sim racing session, probably mid-championship, headset on, completely in the zone.

you leaned on the doorframe, wearing nothing but one of his oversized red bull shirts and a mischievous smile.

“max,” you called softly.

he didn’t even glance up, adjusting the wheel with intense focus. “mhm?”

“come back to bed,” you said, voice sweet and low.

still nothing — just the clicking of paddles and the occasional mutter in dutch. a full-on tunnel vision moment.

you bit your lip, then slowly stepped into the room, arms folded behind your back.

he must’ve sensed movement in his periphery because he finally glanced toward you. just a glance.

and then?

immediate double take.

his eyes widened as his jaw went slightly slack. “wat de f—”

you didn't say a word. just dropped the shirt, still holding it in place for now, and tilted your head toward the hallway. “bed. now?”

the silence that followed was deafening. his car slammed into a barrier on-screen, the thud echoing through his headset, but max didn’t even flinch. his controller dropped to the floor like it offended him.

“okay—yeah. yes. i’m—give me a second.”

he tugged the headset off so fast it caught in his curls. tripped over the wires. stepped on his own sock. you didn’t even move — just stood there, blinking innocently as if you weren’t actively destroying the man’s brain.

he crossed the room in three big strides, his hands reaching for your waist like it was pure muscle memory. “you planned this.”

you smiled. “i don’t know what you mean.”

“you definitely planned this. i was leading.” he kissed your shoulder, then lower. “now i don’t care.”

“you lost?”

max looked up at you, eyes dark, voice low. “i’m about to win something better.”

you barely had time to laugh before he scooped you up — shirt still dangling from your hand — and carried you toward the bedroom like the sim rig had ceased to exist. the sound of his game over screen blinked softly in the background.

“max,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck, “you didn’t even pause.”

he grinned against your skin. “i did. i paused my whole life. for this.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

it was late, but lewis was wide awake, perched at the edge of the couch with his laptop in front of him and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. some kind of zoom call played quietly — a team debrief or maybe a sponsor meeting. you couldn’t tell. you weren’t paying attention.

you were wearing one of his t-shirts, soft with age and hanging off your shoulder. nothing underneath. not really planning anything… until you saw him push the glasses up and bite his lip slightly while concentrating.

yeah. it was absolutely planned now.

you padded softly into the room, leaning on the doorframe just out of the camera’s view.

“babe,” you whispered, voice low and teasing.

lewis glanced over with the faintest smile. “hey, baby. i’ll be done soon.”

“come back to bed.”

he didn’t look up right away. “i will, i promise. just gotta finish this slide.”

you stepped closer. still out of frame. still innocent.

and then you let the shirt drop.

his jaw didn’t drop, but his hand froze on the keyboard. his eyes flicked from the laptop to you, down your body, and then back up to your face — expression completely unreadable for a second.

then he said, very calmly, to his screen: “can you give me two minutes? i’ll be right back.”

he didn’t even wait for the response.

the laptop snapped shut in one swift motion.

“lewis—” you started, backing up with a giggle as he stood up, adjusting the waistband of his sweatpants.

“you can’t just do that,” he muttered, stalking toward you with a calmness that was somehow more dangerous.

you took one slow step backward. “do what?”

he smirked. “walk in here like that. drop that shirt like it’s nothing.”

“it was nothing.”

“mhm.” he reached you, fingers sliding gently along your bare waist. “it’s something now.”

your back met the wall, but he was already pressing a kiss to your shoulder, slow and deliberate.

“thought you had a meeting,” you teased breathlessly.

“not anymore.”

you wrapped your arms around his neck, smiling as he tilted your chin up. “that was fast.”

he chuckled, voice low in your ear. “there was a much more urgent situation happening in the hallway.”

you didn’t say anything else. you didn’t need to.

the laptop sat forgotten on the couch — screen off, meeting abandoned — while lewis carried you right back to bed.

ʚ・george russell

george was hunched over the dining table, sleeves rolled up, laptop open, glasses on, and completely immersed in a spreadsheet titled something painfully dull like training metrics - q2 review. you watched him from the hallway in silence for a moment, admiring the little furrow in his brow and the way his foot tapped softly against the leg of the chair.

you weren’t trying to distract him. not at first.

but then he let out a soft sigh and rubbed the back of his neck, and your brain short-circuited. you were still in his shirt — just his shirt — and he hadn’t come back to bed like he promised.

so you padded across the hardwood floor quietly and leaned on the wall near the kitchen entrance. his back was to you, so you cleared your throat.

“george,” you said sweetly.

“mhm?” he hummed, not even turning around. still typing.

“come back to bed.”

“in a moment, love. just finishing this—wait—”

you dropped the shirt.

he heard the sound of fabric hitting the floor and finally turned his head — just a little. then a little more. then he full-on spun around in his chair like a dramatic movie character discovering a plot twist.

his mouth parted just slightly, eyes going wide.

“good god,” he whispered.

you gave him a sheepish shrug and a cheeky smile. “bed?”

george blinked hard like he was trying to reboot. “that… that is so unfair.”

you laughed as he stood, chair squeaking back against the floor. “i was being productive.”

“you still can be,” you teased, stepping back slowly as he approached, tugging his glasses off with one hand and tossing them onto the table without breaking eye contact.

“not when you’re walking around like that. christ.”

“are you blushing?”

“i’m british. of course i’m blushing.”

he reached you, hands gently settling at your waist, voice dropping lower. “you know i had two more pages of data to go through?”

“consider this a better use of your time.”

george leaned in, kissing your forehead first, then your lips — slow and warm and full of restrained chaos. “i’ll be giving you my full attention now.”

and with that, the spreadsheet was long forgotten. the only numbers he cared about tonight were the goosebumps rising across your skin.

ʚ・carlos sainz

carlos was lying on the couch, shirtless, legs stretched out, fifa controller in hand and a smug look on his face. you could hear the commentary from the game echoing softly down the hallway — he was winning. of course he was.

you leaned on the doorframe, wearing the thinnest tank top and underwear, watching him like he was some sort of wildlife documentary subject. calm. focused. unbothered. and clearly neglecting his “i’ll be right there” promise from twenty minutes ago.

you cleared your throat. “carlos.”

he didn’t look away. “mhm?”

“come back to bed.”

he laughed under his breath, still controlling his virtual team. “let me finish this match, cariño. i’m almost done.”

you stepped into the room, letting the soft overhead light catch the curve of your body as you moved to the side of the couch — just out of reach.

“carlos,” you repeated, voice slower, sweeter. “come. back. to bed.”

he glanced up.

and that’s when you dropped the tank top.

it hit the floor silently.

carlos didn’t.

his thumb missed the joystick, sending the ball flying into the corner flag, and his jaw literally dropped open. the controller clattered to his chest as he just stared — fully, openly, no blinking.

“madre de dios.”

you raised your brows, all innocence. “something wrong?”

he blinked. “do that again. i dare you.”

you smiled, tilting your head. “do what?”

he groaned, sitting up like gravity had stopped working, running a hand down his face. “you’re trying to kill me. i swear.”

“you’ve been playing for so long…”

“i was playing well—until you came in here with your evil tricks.”

“are they working?”

carlos stood up slowly, gaze trailing over you like he was trying to memorize the moment. “you think i’m just going to let that slide?”

you laughed and took a step back, holding your hands up. “hey, i just made a request.”

“you made a statement,” he muttered, already circling the couch.

“where are you going?”

“to make sure you never have to ask me to come back to bed again.”

you shrieked when he lunged, catching you by the waist and lifting you effortlessly. he carried you off toward the bedroom like a man on a mission — fifa completely forgotten.

“your game!” you giggled, kicking your legs.

“it can lose.”

carlos was officially done playing — just not the way you expected.

ʚ・charles leclerc

charles was at the piano.

hair messy from a shower, plain white t-shirt hanging just right, fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys. he wasn’t even reading sheet music — just lost in some improvisation, humming softly as he played.

you were supposed to be patient. you’d already said “come to bed” once and he’d mumbled “just a few more minutes, amour.” that was fifteen minutes ago.

now?

now you were done playing nice.

you padded softly into the living room, the only light coming from the dim lamp by the piano. you didn’t say anything. just stood in the doorway for a second, watching him — this boy who looked like art, who played like he was trying to say everything he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“charles,” you said gently.

he kept playing, glancing over his shoulder with a lazy smile. “oui, chérie?”

“come back to bed.”

“i’m almost—” he started, then froze.

because the second he turned his head fully, you let the robe fall from your shoulders.

soft, slow.

deliberate.

you were wearing nothing underneath.

his hands stilled on the keys mid-note. for a moment, he just blinked — once, twice — like his brain needed a second to process what his eyes were seeing.

then?

his mouth parted just slightly. “putain.”

you stepped closer, saying nothing, letting the silence thicken like syrup between you.

“are you trying to ruin me?” he asked, voice low, breath catching just a little. “because it’s working.”

you smiled, all innocent. “you said five minutes.”

“that was before you—” he gestured vaguely, eyes still fixed on you like you might disappear if he blinked.

“you looked busy,” you teased, walking over to him slowly.

“i’m about to be,” he muttered.

he stood, chair scraping softly against the hardwood as he reached you. his hands settled on your waist gently, reverently, like you were breakable. his voice was a whisper against your skin. “you walk in here like that and expect me to keep playing?”

“i was hoping you’d switch instruments,” you said sweetly.

he huffed a laugh — strained, desperate. “you’re impossible.”

you leaned up to kiss him, slow and teasing, and felt the sharp exhale against your mouth as he melted into you.

the piano sat behind him, long forgotten, as charles slid his hands down your back and murmured something in french you didn’t quite catch — but didn’t need to.

you already had his full attention.

ʚ・lando norris

lando was deep into a stream — headset on, focused expression, yelling at his teammates like they could actually hear him better if he leaned closer to the mic.

“BOX, BOX, BOX—NO YOU’RE MEANT TO COVER THE INSIDE, YOU TWAT!” he yelled, halfway off his chair. you’d been watching from the hallway for a few minutes, biting your lip, waiting for the right moment.

you were wearing his mclaren hoodie and absolutely nothing underneath.

it was time.

you knocked on the doorframe gently. “lando.”

he glanced over, smile automatic. “hi, babe. i’m almost done, yeah?”

“come back to bed,” you said sweetly.

“promise i will—give me five mins, i’m in the last few laps.”

you tilted your head. “are you sure?”

“baaaabe,” he whined, eyes back on the screen, “i’ll be quick i swear.”

so you dropped the hoodie.

soft fabric pooled around your feet.

he didn’t see it immediately — but when he looked again, mid-turn, his reaction was instant and explosive.

his head whipped toward you. controller dropped. car went off track. he yanked off his headset like it had personally offended him.

“what the f— oh my god. oh my—babe.”

you blinked innocently, still standing there in absolutely nothing, hands behind your back.

“i—did you—what—why?”

you shrugged. “i was cold. needed you to warm me up.”

he blinked like you’d slapped him. “i just drove into the wall.”

“oops.”

“no no, not oops,” he said, standing up so fast the chair nearly tipped. “that’s—i’m gonna crash again. on purpose this time.”

you giggled as he crossed the room toward you like a man possessed, eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief. “you flashed me. mid-race. you flashed me.”

“i asked you to come back to bed.”

“you’re naked!”

you tilted your head. “so are you, technically, under your clothes.”

he groaned like he was in pain, hands running through his curls. “oh my god, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying into him. “wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”

he let out a choked laugh, already backing you toward the bedroom, mumbling under his breath. “someone clip that stream. i need to see the exact moment i lost the will to compete.”

“and what’re you doing now?”

he kissed your shoulder, voice rough. “retiring. immediately. full dnf.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

oscar was perched on the edge of the bed, laptop open, ipad in hand, headphones in—all business. his brows were furrowed in that quiet, determined way he always got when reviewing footage, laser-focused on sector times like they were sacred.

he’d been sitting like that for almost an hour, eyes flicking between data sets like he wasn’t actively ignoring your very obvious attempts to get him back under the covers.

you were trying to be patient.

but then you caught your reflection in the mirror—one of his oversized shirts hanging loose off your shoulder, legs bare, nothing underneath.

and your brain said: what if?

you walked to the doorway and leaned your head around the corner.

“oscar,” you called gently.

he didn’t look up, but you saw the faintest twitch of acknowledgment. “mm?”

“come back to bed.”

“i will,” he said distractedly, scribbling something on the ipad. “just want to finish this last lap analysis.”

you stepped into the room. “you sure?”

“yeah, it won’t take long.”

you dropped the shirt.

it landed softly at your feet.

oscar finally looked up.

and stopped breathing.

his hand froze mid-air, stylus hovering inches above the screen. his mouth parted slightly, not dramatically, but in that rare way he only ever looked when he was completely, truly speechless.

you blinked innocently. “problem?”

his voice cracked a little when he answered. “i’m… gonna need to pause.”

you watched as he calmly removed his headphones. closed the laptop. put the ipad aside.

then slowly stood.

“you planned this.”

“me?” you said, stepping back as he approached. “never.”

“you’re naked.” his voice was calm. controlled. except for the very obvious shake at the end of the word.

“you weren’t listening.”

he stopped in front of you, jaw tense, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize every detail.

“i was listening,” he said softly. “i just didn’t think you’d weaponize it.”

you smiled. “effective, though?”

“devastating.”

you leaned up to kiss him, and he caught your waist mid-movement, fingers digging in just a little harder than usual.

“you’re evil,” he muttered against your lips.

you kissed him again. “you love me.”

“unfortunately,” he whispered, lifting you into his arms like it was the easiest decision he’d made all day. “i really, really do.”

the laptop beeped in protest somewhere in the background, but oscar didn’t hear it.

he had a new favorite sector to analyze.

and it wasn’t on the screen.

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 1 year ago

Note

I have a request for Jacaerys Velaryon x reader. They have been married for some time, but Jace still had feelings for Baela. He has never cheated and was always respectful towards reader, though. Jacaerys and her performed their duties and eventually she got pregnant. The fact that reader is now carrying his child makes them grow closer and Jace starts to fall in love with his wife.

For this one, the legitimacy of Rhaenyra’s children was called into question and there was no betrothals between Rhaenyra’s boys and Daemon’s twins.

Warnings: pregnancy (I don't like pregnancies when I read/write, but this one was okay and mostly a small part of the story)

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

When King Viserys fell, a prince showed up to your home and asked your mother, Jeyne Arryn, for her support to Princess — now Queen — Rhaenyra’s claim. In her message, Rhaenyra didn’t fail to mention her mother, Aemma of House Arryn, and remind Lady Jeyne that she shared Arryn blood through her. Your mother was hesitant, knowing her support would make Daemon Targaryen king consort, but she couldn’t give her support to the Greens. So, she agreed but demanded to get something in exchange: a husband for her only daughter.

You didn’t like the idea of being sold for politics, but according to your mother it was part of being a woman.

Married life wasn’t bad like you thought. Jacaerys was a respectful and kind man, but there was one problem: he had feelings for another.

You didn’t take long to notice that his heart was elsewhere. It was written in the silence. The way he looked at Baela, the way he smiled at her — a special smile he kept just for her. He had undeniable feelings for her. You begged for attention, time, acknowledgment, but Jacaerys was never fully with you. Him and Baela spent a lot of time together riding their dragons together or practicing High Valyrian in the great hall, which left you hurt and jealous. Other than the red gem on your finger that matched the one of his cloak-pin, you had nothing in common.

Sitting in your chamber, you held a necklace of your house’s sigil. The gold was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. You hadn't seen your mother since the beginning of the war and you missed her dearly. You exchanged messages by raven, but it wasn’t the same as seeing her in person.

A tear slipped down your cheek, wishing for this war to be over soon.

The door of your chambers creaked open, snapping you out of your sorrowful reverie. You glanced over your shoulder and saw Jacaerys in his armor after a day spent teaching the dragonseeds. It was a smart idea to get more dragons and riders on their side, but also a lot of work.

‘’What are you doing?’’ he asked, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity.

‘’Missing home, that’s all,’’ you replied, quickly wiping the tear away and forcing a smile. The weight of the necklace seemed heavier than ever as you clutched it in your hand.

Jacaerys stepped further into the room, running a hand through his tousled hair. He crossed the space between you in a few strides, his expression softening. ‘’Don’t cry. I hate it when you cry.’’ He wiped your tear and sat next to you. ‘’I’ll take you to the Vale when it’s safe,’’ Jacaerys promised, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. ‘’I would take you now if it wasn’t so dangerous to fly over Kingsroad. The Greens have taken Harrenhal and—’’

‘’Is my mother okay? You promised you would send a dragon to watch over my home.’’

He nodded. ‘’Rhaena left this morning with Joffrey and three dragon eggs. They should hatch soon and assure more protection to the Vale.’’

You let out a shaky breath, the news offering a small measure of relief.

A few moons later, you announced to Jacaerys that you were pregnant. It was a surprise as you only had the occasion to lay together two times, but it’s been two moons since you last bled and the maester confirmed your suspicions. You were with child.

The timing was not ideal, but the Queen was beyond happy for you and Jacaerys. She hosted a small feast in your honor, and made everyone keep your pregnancy a secret. Jacaerys was her heir, making your baby his heir. If the news got to their ears, she feared you would become a target for the Greens.

At the table, Baela congratulated you with a smile. You thought she would be bitter, but she was genuinely happy for you.

As the weeks went by, the walls that once stood between you began to crumble and you and Jacaerys started getting closer. He would spend more time in the evening in your chambers, talking by the hearth while eating lemon tarts. And ask how the baby was although your stomach was barely round every time he returned from teaching the dragonseeds.

You’ll never forget the look on his face when felt the baby move for the first time. The stars of complete amazement. He kissed you that night — a real kiss.

On the seventh moon, as you were getting ready for your bath, you felt blood dripping down your leg. Terrified, you asked one of the servants to fetch the maester and the Queen. She had other — more pressing — business to take care of, but you needed the reassurance of a mother by your side.

The news ran through the castle and made it way to Jacaerys, who dropped everything he was doing and ran through the corridors of Dragonstone to get to you.

His face pale with worry when he bursted in your chamber, thinking you were going to lose the baby like his mother did. An early bleeding was how it started.

‘’I’m fine, Jace. Maester Gerardys said bleeding can happen,’’ you said, taking his hand and pressing it over your belly. ‘’Our baby is fine.’’

—

House of the dragon taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @domoron @ididliquorice @lover-of-helios @lover-of-helios @shine101 @tanyaherondale@mikariell95 @serrendiipty @lantsovheiress @gilliananderfuckme @shine101 @tetgod @clayzayden@memeorydotcom @tnu-ree @futuregws @blackravena @winxschester @mysteriouslydelightfulchaos @xxlaynaxx @secretsthathauntus @pilarxxxaguayo @emmavan39 @stargaryenx @erylilly @bbblackmamba @rainedrop97 @dreamer087 @gothicgay14 @ashlatano7567 @superkittywonderland @justaproudslytherpuff @evesolstice @buckysmainhxe @padfootsvixen @scarletmeii @evesolstice @dkathl @kaywsworld @tetgod @padfootsvixen @domoron @weird-addiction @angeliod @xjennyx2 @adaydreamaway08 @mymultiveres @secretsthathauntus @puffycreamcakes @thirsty4nonlivingmen @naty-1001 @katiepie67 @moshpot24x @hc-geralt-23 @lovelynerdytraveler @saturn-sas @zgzgh @sssjuico10 @tabloidteen @timetoten @deekaag @wondxrgurl @aerangi @strmborns @astridyoo15 @daemonslittlebitch @queenbeestuffs @severewobblerlightdragon @agentstarkid @msliz @vane1999-blog @fairyfolkloresposts @todaywasafairytale07 @otomaniac @zgzgzh @thebeardedmoon @golden-library @kikyrizuki @hnslchw @camy85 @winxschester @armstrongscommentsection @withfireandbl00d @randomstory56 @JudgmentDays-Girl @darylandbethfanforever9 @darylandbethfanforever9 @aegonswife @dakotapaigelove @jays-bullshit

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#house of the dragon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon imagine #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys #hotd

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briefinquiries · 10 months ago

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Tyler Owens x Reader: Read Between the Lines

Request: anonymous said: "I was wondering maybeeee if you could write some protective bf Tyler ( because i would be swooning ) maybe either someone keeps hitting on her so he steps in or someone maybe in another storm chasing crew is being mean so he steps in and defends her <3 idk"

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: language, mild fighting i guess?? slight angst

A/N: sorry I haven't been posting as frequently! I started work up again and ya girl has been BUSY. Anyyywayyy, thank you for reading! please keep the comments coming! I love to see all your requests and I promise i'm getting to them as quickly as i can :)

“Need anything?” Tyler asked, leaning against the hood of the truck in a way that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is.

“I’m good,” you said, offering him a gentle smile before brushing a few loose strands of hair from your sticky forehead.

“You wanna come in with me then?”

You shook your head– the idea of sitting in a stale diner with no AC was just about as unbearable as the thought of driving another second. “No, I think I’ll stretch my legs out here.”

“Okay,” he said in a tone that indicated you’d be missing out. He gave the truck a pat before adding, “We won’t be long.”

“Take your time,” you assured him.

He offered one final nod before turning and following Dani, Boone, and Lily across the parking lot. Dexter also stayed behind. Instead of shitty diner food, he’s opted to take a nap inside the RV accompanied by his noise canceling headphones and a fan blasting right at his face.

You were exhausted, down to your bones. You and the rest of the team had driven nearly six hours that day tracking a cell that hadn’t ended up amounting to anything. You were stiff and tired and irritable– just like everyone else. But you hoped that some time alone outside might help at least level out your mood.

You extended your arms over your head, groaning when you felt something lightly pop in your back, before craning your neck from side to side. The air was stifling– thick and humid with little to no breeze for any sort of relief. The heat hadn’t broken in nearly a week, and unfortunately for just about everyone, the truck’s AC didn’t work as well as it used to.

The parking lot to the diner was relatively empty. Aside from the crew’s RV and truck, there was an SUV parked in one of the front spots and a small sports car with a steady cloud of smoke pouring out the cracked window.

You let your eyes wander past the diner parking lot at the sprawling field across the road. The windmills were agonizingly still in the stale air– like even they were desperate for some reprieve.

Your eyes fell shut as you took a few deep breaths, trying to get your bearings.

Your peace lasted for about thirty seconds. And then the sound of blaring music and screeching tires had you turning your pulsing head. Instantly, you rolled your eyes at the sight of the familiar vans pulling into the lot beside you.

Merrill Anderson and his crew started chasing in the area almost thirteen months ago. You knew because each and every moment that you’d known about their existence had been more painful than the last.

Anderson was a meteorologist out of Texas that wore a cowboy hat almost as big as his mouth and an inflated ego to match it. He made sure you and everyone else around him knew that he had a PhD, and therefore, in his opinion, was automatically more entitled to chase. Him and Tyler had hated each other from the moment they met while chasing an EF2 in Arkansas– their feud only grew each time their paths crossed.

Anderson was grinning at you through the window as soon as his van rolled by. You did your best to avert your gaze– hoping that lack of eye contact would avoid any sort of conversation.

Unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky.

“There she is,” he announced, boots scuffing against the dirt parking lot as he hopped out from the driver’s seat.

“Now what're you doin’ out here all by yourself? Your team finally leave you behind? Realized they didn’t need two uni drop outs on their team?” he asked, tone already dripping in sarcasm.

He was an antagonizer who got off on provoking others. And although you and Anderson had your fair share of unpleasant exchanges, you knew he only ever bothered you to get under Tyler’s skin.

Tyler’s biggest weakness was that he was endlessly protective of the people he loved. You saw this particular trait as a strength– but you knew that Anderson fed off Tyler's anger, which you could only imagine was his intention now. Thankfully Tyler was in the diner– hopefully gorging on raspberry pancakes as you spoke. Because if he were to see Anderson talking to you– you knew this whole interaction would escalate quickly.

“Anderson,” you sighed, leaning casually against the hood of Tyler’s truck. The smile you forced on your face was almost painful. “So lovely to see you, as always.”

You hoped if you withheld from his taunting, he might move on quicker.

Instead, to your despair, he backtracked from his van to stand across from you. “You guys go ahead,” he instructed his crew. “I’m gonna spend some time with my friend here.”

They nodded before heading towards the diner, leaving the two of you alone.

“You should teach that hillbilly- boyfriend of yours some manners. If I remember correctly, last time I saw him, he drove through a puddle to splash me.”

You bit back a grin as you recalled the moment he was referring to. “I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose,” you lied (it was absolutely on purpose).

Anderson chuckled. “You know– I don’t know if we’ve ever had a conversation just us, without him lingering around. You’re much more pleasant. Both in conversation and in looks.”

You felt a chill run down the length of your spine at his words– but the way he was looking at you was infinitely worse. You watched as his eyes flickered from your face to your chest– currently more exposed than you would like in the tanktop you wore in the stifling Oklahoma heat. You wished you had grabbed a shirt to cover up in– but they were all either dirty and packed away somewhere in your duffel.

Clearing your throat, you stood up straight and crossed your arms, attempting to shield yourself from his lingering gaze.

“Oh, hey now darlin’, don’t cover up. I’ve been stuck in the van all day with these jokers, this is the most action I’ve gotten all summer.”

You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks as you tried desperately to remain level headed. Anderson was a jerk– and he’d definitely make you uncomfortable… but you couldn’t imagine that he’d ever actually do anything to harm you.

Then again, you’d never interacted with him for longer than a minute or two with Tyler and the rest of the crew at your side. This was uncharted territory that you didn’t care to explore. You felt your earlier determination to handle him on your own fade away with uneasiness.

You turned your head towards the diner, hoping you might catch Tyler’s gaze through the window or something. Of course you were too far away for that– all you caught was the glare from the sun.

“You know I’m not used to seeing you in clothes like this, usually you’re all covered up,” Anderson whistled.

As soon as he took a step closer, you instinctively moved too. Except your legs collided with Tyler’s truck– preventing you from actually going anywhere. For some dumb reason, you felt obligated to hold your ground– to not let him see how uncomfortable he was really making you. But with each passing comment, you grew more and more fearful.

Anderson now had his body angled towards you with a look that could only be described as predatorial. “God, it’s true you don’t know what you’re missin’ til you see it. We should have these heat waves more often if it means I get to take a look at this every day.”

You tried and failed to remain stoic. You wanted to yell– to tell him to shut the fuck up. But for some reason, your body and brain weren’t connecting.

“C’mon, where is she?” he taunted. “You know, your sweet side has its perks. But I much prefer ‘em a little spicy.”

He took another few steps closer to you. It was subtle, but you noticed. Anderson was so obviously getting a kick out of whatever the hell he was doing here, and you were doing a piss-poor job at withholding from it, like you’d originally planned.

“Why don’t you come on back in my van with me,” he winked. “I’m not sure how your hillbilly does it, but I can show ya a real good time.”

Get away from me, you wanted to scream. But your mouth wouldn’t move– your voice was lost somewhere inside of you. And all you could get your body to do was lean away from him slightly.

“Don’t be like that, darlin’,” he cooed. He was so close that you could almost smell his breath. Your brain told you to fight– to shove or kick or do something to get him away from you. But all those previous instincts you had to fight back faded into paralyzing fear.

Anderson reached across the space between you to move a loose strand of hair from your face as you began to tremble. “And don’t be afraid, baby doll. I don’t bite… too hard. Owens ain’t gotta know–”

“Anderson!”

Your head snapped at the sound of a familiar voice… Not just any familiar voice– Tyler’s voice. He was currently storming across the parking lot with a look of pure hatred across his face. The second his eyes landed on you– undoubtedly and obviously terrified, that anger only intensified.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he demanded. His eyes were narrowed and shockingly darker than their normal shade of sage.

“Here he is!” Anderson taunted. “Her douche bag in shining armor.”

You couldn’t help but notice Anderson didn’t step away. In fact, if anything, he looked like he was about to step closer, just to really test his limits. But then, to your relief, you saw Boone, Dani, and Lily storming out of the diner in Tyler’s wake– all coming to your rescue.

In an instant, Tyler was there, stepping between you and Anderson– forming the protective barrier you needed to finally feel safe again. Without thinking, you fisted the back of Tyler’s T-shirt for good measure.

“Easy, Rambo,” Anderson sneered. “I was just tellin’ your sweetheart here how much I enjoy her new look. Who knew she had all this hidin’ under those baggy shirts? That the reason you keep her hangin’ around, Owens? I knew she had to be good for something–”

But Anderson didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Because before you knew what was happening, Tyler was lunging forward and connecting his fist with Anderson’s nose.

The crack as it broke was deafening, you released Tyler’s shirt to cover your mouth in shock. Tyler hit him with enough force that he went staggering back a few steps, his hands instantly moving to cup his face.

Tyler was still shaking off his hand when Anderson stood up straight, blood pouring out of both nostrils.

“Damn, that bitch must be as good as she looks if she’s worth all this,” Anderson continued to taunt. Even with a broken nose, he didn’t back down.

Without even hesitating, Tyler moved to strike again. But as soon as he did, Boone and Dani were both stepping in front of him to break things up.

“Easy, T–” Boone said.

“Stay the fuck away from her,” Tyler snarled in warning, pointing his finger over Boone’s shoulder. You’d never quite heard his voice so malicious or threatening before, and even though it was in your defense, it sent shivers down your spine.

Suddenly, Lily grabbed your hand from the side, causing you to flinch. “It’s okay,” she said, tugging you a few steps away from the chaos– like she knew how badly you needed space from everything. “You alright?”

You nodded, flustered.

“Next time you want to settle this without your little army of strays, you let me know, Owens. And next time you want a good time, Y/N, you know where to find me,” Anderson said, offering you a wink that churned your stomach. With that, he wiped some blood from his nose and began sauntering back towards his van.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Tyler snarled, still being physically held back by Dani and Boone.

“Yeah, and he’d deserve it. But he’s not worth catchin’ a charge,” Boone said. “It’s been a slow season and we don’t got the kind of money to bail you out of jail.”

“Take a breath, T,” Dani said. “He’s walkin’ away. Take a breath.”

You watched Tyler slowly come back to his body. He listened to Dani and took a deep breath– his shoulders visibly relaxing when he exhaled. It seemed to be enough for his friends to finally release him.

As soon as he was free from their grasp, Tyler turned around– his attention landing on you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his previously menacing voice now laced with so much care and concern. He stood in front of you– his body blocking all views of Anderson and their vans. His hands moved to cup your cheeks gently.

“I’m fine,” you said, attempting to convince yourself more than anyone else. But even you knew it didn’t sound convincing. Your voice subtly cracked on the final word.

Tyler stroked his thumb along your skin. The look on his face told you he didn’t quite believe you as his eyes flickered down to your trembling hands. Thankfully he didn’t ask more.

“I gotta say that was a nasty right hook, T,” Boone said, clapping Tyler on the back as he approached. “I didn’t know you had it in ya.”

“What’d that asshat say to you?” Lily asked. “You looked really shaken up when we saw you out the diner window.”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, too embarrassed to repeat his taunts. You were shocked by how self-conscious you suddenly felt with everyone’s eyes on you. Anderson’s previous words had made you incredibly aware of every inch of yourself– like there was an electrical current humming underneath the surface of your skin.

“Just the usual shit,” you tried to brush it off.

You felt grateful when they didn’t push.

Eventually, the crew disassembled– everyone focused on getting their stuff together to hit the road again. Anderson didn’t reemerge from his van, but as you sat idly in the passenger seat of Tyler’s truck, you didn’t take your eyes off from where it was parked– like you were anticipating some sort of retaliation.

You remained hidden from the team– feeling so awkward and uncomfortable– like you didn’t want to be perceived or noticed by anyone. And you hated that Anderson’s words were the ones to make you feel that way. You couldn’t find any shirts in your duffel bag that weren’t disgusting. And currently you didn’t have the time or patience to dig through your second bag in the RV. So instead, you wrapped your arms awkwardly over your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible just as Tyler climbed into the front seat.

“Everyone else is riding in the RV, it’s just us,” he said, eyes lingering on you.

“Okay,” you said, trying your best to sound casual. You wondered if he ordered everyone in the RV so that you’d feel more comfortable. You made a mental note to thank him for that later, he was always so good at reading between the lines.

Tyler instantly noticed your uneasiness. “Baby, what’d he say to you?”

You shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze out of sheer embarrassment. “I mean, I think you caught the gist of it at the end there… Just a lot of that.”

You heard his loud exhale. “Just say the word and I’ll barge into that stupid van and kill him right now.”

The corner of your lip tugged into a small smile. “I just want you to stay here,” you admitted.

He nodded solemnly. Without another word, Tyler passed you something he had scrunched up in his fist. It was one of his T-shirts– like he knew you wanted to cover up without even having to say it. You took the shirt– the thanks you wanted to offer him remained stuck in your throat, but Tyler didn’t seem to mind.

Instead, he pretended to fiddle with the radio while you silently slipped the shirt on. Almost instantly, you felt like you could relax underneath the fabric of his clothes.

You curled your arms around yourself and tucked your knees to your chest. When Tyler asked if you were ready to head out, you nodded without another word.

…

It was only seven when you arrived at the motel. Tyler went into the lobby to book the rooms while everyone else hung back. Boone and Lily were going on and on about using the pool later that night, but once you’d grabbed your bags from the truck, you sort of tuned it all out.

Tyler found you sitting on the curb once he’d passed out everyone else’s room keys. He picked up your duffel from the ground before speaking for the first time in almost an hour.

“You ready for bed?”

You nodded, offering him your best attempt at a convincing smile.

“C’mon,” he motioned his head to the left. “We’re upstairs.”

Tyler led the way to your room– and even though this was a dingy motel, you’d never seen anything more perfect. The shades were dark, the AC worked, and there was a single, plush-looking queen bed in the middle of the room just screaming your name.

Tyler let you shower first. And when you emerged from the bathroom, all the sweat and grime finally washed from your skin, he was gone. But in his place, he’d laid out one of his T-shirts and a pair of his boxers on the bed for you to use. You almost teared up at the sight of just how thoughtful he was… Still reading between the lines.

You’d spent the entire duration of your shower trying to convince yourself that what had happened earlier wasn’t that big of a deal. Anderson was a jerk– of course he was going to say some jerk-ish things. It shouldn’t have been a surprise– and yet, you couldn’t shake the discomfort you felt. It was like all the words he’d said to you had nestled underneath your skin and made a home for themselves.

In an attempt to shake the thoughts away, you quickly shrugged on Tyler’s clothes before sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping your arms around yourself.

Almost as soon as you sat down, you heard the front door to the motel open up. Tyler stepped into the room carrying his own bag and a couple of water bottles he must’ve grabbed for the two of you.

“Better?” he asked, handing you one.

You nodded and cracked it open. “Much.”

Tyler sighed before joining you on the edge of the bed. “Baby, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I-” you started and then stopped. Your hands were shaking, but you jumped when you felt Tyler’s hand close around yours, steadying them. His touch gave you just an ounce of courage to speak.

“It wasn’t even anything that bad–” you admitted. “I meant it earlier, you heard the worst of it… I just, I don't know, I can't explain it. But everything he said made me feel so gross… and dirty, and…” And, well, you didn’t quite know what else. Words were hard to come by tonight.

“Oh, baby,” Tyler exhaled. He released your hand to wind his arm around your shoulders, tugging you to his chest instead.

It wasn’t until he shushed you that you even realized you were crying, but it came out in a rush. You clung to him, instantly impressed by his ability to just make you feel so much safer.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he assured you, only squeezing tighter.

“I don’t know why this bothered me so much–”

“Because Anderson is an asshole and he intentionally said some gross shit to shake you up,” he answered for you. “You’re allowed to be upset by that.”

You exhaled against his shirt, and when you licked your lips, you tasted salt.

“I’m the sorry one,” he said.

“What?” you shook your head. “You don’t have to be sorry–”

“I should have been there.”

“You were there,” you reminded him. “Unless I blacked out or something and I was really the one who punched him in the nose…”

Tyler chuckled softly, you felt the vibration against your chest– instantly soothing you.

You sighed after a moment, trying to decide if you wanted to share what was really bothering you. You bit the inside of your cheek. It was so tempting to keep it to yourself, but more tempting than that was the idea of finally feeling a little more at ease again after just telling Tyler the truth.

“I just–” you paused again. “I–”

“Hey,” he said. You looked up at him briefly. “It’s just me.”

That was the problem– it was Tyler. And you didn’t want Tyler thinking less of you because of what had happened.

“I didn’t fight back,” you said quietly. “I just froze up– it was like I couldn’t even think straight. And he kept going and going, and I just stood there– taking it.”

Tyler ran his hand up and down your arm reassuringly. “What are you talking about?”

“It just felt like…” your voice tapered off.

Tyler waited a moment before asking gently, “Like what?”

“It just felt like I didn’t do anything to stop it,” you whispered so quietly you weren’t even sure he’d heard you. “Like I let it happen.”

“Baby,” Tyler sighed. “Baby, no. Anderson is such a jackass, it wouldn’t have mattered what you said–”

“But I could have told him to get the fuck away from me–”

“You were just trying to keep yourself safe. Baby, we can’t control how we react when we’re scared. It’s fight or flight–”

“Or freeze,” you mumbled, embarrassed.

“Or freeze. I’m pretty sure fawning is one too, now,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter– what matters is you can’t control that you froze. Just like–”

“Just like you couldn’t control punching him in the face?” you asked.

You glanced up just in time to see Tyler’s lips tug into a smile. “Exactly,” he said.

“I just wish my fear reaction was a little more effective,” you pouted. “Freezing didn’t do much.”

You let your eyes fall shut when Tyler tugged you closed to his chest. “I guess it’s a good thing you have a douchebag in shining armor to come help whenever you need it,” he smirked.

“Thanks for protecting me,” you said quietly.

“I’ll always protect you, you know that,” he said, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head.

You smiled against his chest. You really did know that. “And thanks for punching him in the nose.”

Tyler snorted. “Anderson’s had that coming for a long time.”

#twisters #twisters imagine #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens fic #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x reader imagine #tyler owens x reader fic #twisters x reader fic #twisters fic

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ekybrini · 3 months ago

Text

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.

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crunchystarz · 19 days ago

Note

Hii! Thanks for clarifying your character limit! ＼(^o^)／

I wanted to request Housewardens hearing the readers voice for the first time, even tho they thought reader was completely mute. Like the reader never communicated verbally and normally always talks in sign language and then they suddenly hear them speak, even if their voice is rather quiet. When asked why they never communicate verbally, if they can speak, they answer that talking verbally is really exhausting for them and not something they like doing, which is also the main reason they learned sign language.

Take your time and thank you!! (´^ω^`)

"YOU CAN SPEAK?!?

Housewardens (separately) x GN!reader

Summary: You're a quiet person in the sense you don't talk ever. People learned to communicate with you in other ways however what happens when you speak around the housewardens suddenly.

Cw- Reader isn't explicitly mentioned to be yuu, Could be read as romantic or platonic, slight crack (ish) , Leona calls you little mouse.

A/N : I'm backkk from my hiatus that was way longer than expected Sorry this took SO long to get out and a bit shorter than I'd like, I just hate Azul so much that writing for him had me losing my mind/j(all jokes aside I had some personal stuff AND school was alot LMAO so I just couldn't find the time but I hope you enjoy regardless) (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)-your fav vamp

Riddle Rosehearts

The redheaded boy was lost in thought. He subconsciously tapped his foot impatiently. Ace and Deuce had promised to be on time. Of course, in traditional adeuce fashion, the two are nowhere to be seen.

The housewarden grumbles to himself. He doesn't hear when footsteps pitter-patter into the room. You watch him quietly as usual. You're quick to realize that he's busy in his head and didn't notice your presence. it was hard to get his attention whenever he's like this.

"Why, Good morning, Riddle!"

A quiet and almost meek voice catches him off guard. He quickly turns to the owner of the voice, only to be met with you a teasing smile was plastered on your face.

His round gray eyes somehow got bigger. His face full of shock. He clears his throat, trying to remain his usual professional self. A hand finds his chest.

He had never heard you speak before. It didn't make communication any different for him since he already had some prior knowledge of sign language. You were more than happy when you found out. So hearing your actual voice had taken him back a bit.

"[Name], you sure did startle me there …I wasn't aware you could —"

"Speak?" You responded. Again, voice quiet just like before.

Riddle let out a hum before nodding his head. He glanced away, his cheeks tinged the lightest shade of pink. “Yes, that. I just…simply hadn’t heard you before."

You chuckled a bit at his flustered appearance and leaned forward a bit with your hands behind your back. “I didn’t have anything important to say,” you murmured."… It's more ideal for me to stay quiet," you continued with a shrug. He hummed again, not making eye contact.

“…You were waiting for Ace and Deuce,” you said after a beat, the corner of your mouth twitching just a little. Taking amusement in Riddles stunned state, “Should I scold them for you?”

That earned a laugh. A real one, short but still genuine. Riddle looked at you. Not used to your voice one bit. You could see it on his face even if he tried to remain unfazed

“Tempting,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “But I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure myself soon enough.”

You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself, placing a hand over your mouth as you did. The sound of loud footsteps started to rapidly approach. There in the doorway stood Ace and Deuce, both wearing an awkward expression. Clearly out of breath, as they had ran. Riddle looked anything but impressed, arms crossed.

“You're late,” He spoke, placing a hand on his hip. Ace let out a nervous chuckle while Deuce just smiled sheepishly. You giggled before nodding and pointing to the door. The three understood you were taking your leave. They waved. Before you could fully make your way out, you turned back.

“ Go easy on 'em, Riddle,” is all you said before walking away. You wished you could see the shock on their face. The housewarden couldn't help but chuckle at your antics.

Leona Kingscholar

In the botanical garden the lion beast man lay basking in the sun. He rolled over from his side to his back letting his tail fall into his lap. His ears flickered at a sound. He grumbles one eye opening.

"I know you're here herbivore" He spoke turning his head in the direction you were coming from. You poked your head from behind a bush.

Since you didn't talk you and Leona made up a small "game" over some time. How close you could get to catching him off guard. You often try and sneak up on him but with his heightened sense well almost everything it never really worked. He'd always catch you by the sound of your movements or your general scent.

You learned to be a bit quicker and quieter on your feet but turns out you weren't careful enough. You pouted before walking over and plopping down next to him.

"you're never gonna surprise me by sneaking up on me like that you know" He chuckled, voice cocky. You couldn't help but raise a brow. You poked the inside of your cheek, before an idea hit you. Maybe you didn't have to sneak up on him to catch him off guard.

"is that so?"

His emerald eyes quickly shot open. His ears laid flat. A soft voice. Quiet but very much there. Leona looked around but there was no one else around.

"That was you?" He said. Clearly he knew the answer he was just still in a bit of shock. Baffled even. You nodded, you couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of your lips.

"Maybe" you said placing a finger on your lips. Forging a fake coy smile. The brunette rolled his eyes. His tail playfully smacks you causing you to scoot back and glare at him. He just closes his eyes and lays back down.

"I guess I finally win" you spoke again hands falling into your lap. That earns a deep chuckle to emerge from his chest.

"Dirty move herbivore, but I can't help but respect the play" he said with a shrug "Didn't know ya had a voice thought you were just a silent lil mouse " He continued, voice teasing. You huffed and sat back.

"Why haven't you talked before, thought you were mute this whole time" Leona said breaking the silence.

"I just never really felt like it, it's always been exhausting me I suppose" You mumbled. He let out a hum in acknowledgement.

"Can't blame you, people are a pain to talk to— you almost gave me a heart attack though don't go 'round just scarin' me like that" The lion teased.

You giggled before flopping your body next to his. "You just sound like a sore loser to me Kingscholar" You huffed smiling. He opened one eye to look down at you. Eyes closed, snuggling closer into his side. He couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips.

"if I'm anything it's not that little mouse" He responded , shifting to flick your forehead. You moved back a bit and stuck out your tongue. "What you do like my voice" you jokingly retaliated.

“Nah, your voice suits you,” he added casually before relaxing his body and letting an arm drape over you like a blanket. He soon felt himself drift back into a slumber syncing his breathing with your own.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul stared at the paper in from of him for some time. He kept pushing the pen down with a click. His mind seemingly wondered. He needed help reviews on which new dish he should add to the mostro lounge menu. However the tweels were not any help.

He couldn't seem to get anyone to give an honest opinion. Maybe he should go to Ruggie? He'd do anything for free food. He'd have to track him down first. Sevens know what work Leona has him running around doing. He groaned and placed his head in his hands. It wasn't anything to get work up over he told himself. He'd figure it out.

As if the sevens heard him the answer to his problems walked through the door. You waved from the doorway. He smiled and sat up.

"Ah [Name]! Perfect timing" He spoke clasping his hands together. You tilted your head.

You somehow end up in mostro lounge sitting with three meals in front of you. The first two were okay. Azul slid over the third plate.

He watched as your eyes basically turned into stars. He smiled at your reaction wtched as devoured the food in front of you.

"I presume you enjoy that one the most yes?"

"it's delicious!"

"Yes I s- [Name] did you just speak" Azul said with a smile still on his face. On the outside he was calm and collected. On the inside everything went off balance.

You nodded and swallowed what was left in your mouth. "Yeah it's so good this one should get added!" You chirped.

He clears his throat trying to ignore the way so many questions flooded his head.Azul sat back slowly, hands folding in front of him like he was trying to ground himself. “Forgive me, but… I was under the impression that you were nonverbal.”

You looked down at your plate, fingers brushing over the edge. “I usually am. Talking’s… hard. Not like physically, just—draining” you explained.

Azul’s brows knit together, he just hummed"…I see,” he finally said, placing a hand in his chin. “Then I must thank you. You chose to use your voice here. With me.”

You nodded, still a little shy, and Azul’s lips formed a faint smile—genuine this time, not his usual polished expression.

“In that case,” he said, picking up a pen and notepad, “I’d be a poor host if I didn’t let your taste decide our next special.”

Kalim Al Asim

The house warden tugged at your sleeve as he led you somewhere. Where? You don't know— you never know with Kalim honestly. He wanted to show you something he said. You were silent the whole walk just letting him tug you along

Kalim was used to your silence. From the moment you met, he never once made you feel strange for only using sign language. He tried to pick up some sign language turnng it into game...even if he wasn't the best. He'd cheer every time he got a phrase right. He never pushed, never asked why you didn’t speak. He just… accepted you. He never expected you to speak.

He was so excited he seemed a bit zoned out only having tunnel vision for where he needed to go. You had a bit of a hard time keeping up with his fast pace..

"Kalim slow down!" You yelped. You had tripped on the uneven flooring, stumbling forward slightly. He quickly let go and turned all his attention to check if you were alright. He gave you a sympathetic look.

"oh I'm sorry! You okay [Name?]" Kalim asked with a pout. You nodded and he smiled and let out a sigh of relief.

"That's good sorry sometimes I get carried away" He chuckled. It got quite for a bit. Then it hit him. Gears finally started to turn. Kalim froze completely. His red eyes went huge.

"You talk?!" He shouted. You covered your mouth as you tried not to laugh at his dramatic reaction.

"That is so cool!" Kalim beamed. He grabbed your hands lifting them a bit. It was such a small thing for him to be excited about. Reacting as if you speaking was mind blowing.

"it's really not that big of a deal, I just don't like talking all too much, it's a bit draining" you laughed nervously. Kalim paused, squeezing your hands gently.

“Then don’t ever feel like you have to. I love your signing! But—thank you. For trust and choosing to share your voice with me 'n stuff ” He ranted, his smile softened, radiating nothing but pure warmth. You nodded and let him proceed to drag you along. The whole time he was asking you questions, swinging your arms back and forth.

Vil Schönheit

Vil hummed to himself as he applied the finishing touches on your face. You shudder as the cool liquid eyeliner was brushed in the creases of your eyes. He pulled away and examined you, hand gently gripping your chin and angling your head where he desired.

He smiled before turning his attention to the earrings that sat hooked up on the vanity. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked back and forth between the two pairs. You tilt your head and sign 'whats wrong'. Vil just lets out a sigh and shakes his head. He places a hand on his chin.

"It's nothing it just appears I am having trouble deciding which pair would complete the look more " He finally spoke. You met out a hum and shifted in your seat to get a better look at the jewelry. Perfectly manicured hands lifted the jewels up and placed either one of them on each side of your face.

"What do you think [Name]?" He asked looking for your reaction. He expected you to point at whichever one you decided you liked more instead you surprised him.

"I think the purple pair compliments the eyeshadow you choose more" You explained, voice soft.

"I suppose you're core— erk"

You had never seen Vil make such an expression not even in the movies he acts in. He blinked slowly before gaining his composer once more. This wasn't the oddest thing to happen suddenly in his career. Regardless hearing your voice understandably surprised him. Clearing his throat he sat down the earrings.

"You sure did catch me off guard, Darling" He said with a little chuckle. You felt a cheeky smile spread across your face. You sat back and shrugged forging innocence.

"You react as if you haven't heard my voice before" you teased. The model raised a brow at your antics.

"Yes almost as if" he replied sarcastically. You let out a giggle as he threaded the earrings with the purple gems through your ear lobe. "Talking is simply a chore no?" You said snuggly as he pulled back.

"Can't say I disagree with that statement, and your choice of jewelry either" He spoke with a smile.

Idia Shroud

You laid in Idia's lap listening to the sound of his controller. You had started to drift off as the night stretched on. Idia had been gaming for quite a while. You were originally watching him play as usual but soon you found yourself laying your head on his lap as he still continued to play his game.

Idia didn't talk much on the regular but in his element he could yap up a storm. It was perfect for you two since you didn't talk at all and he didn't like much conversation but you still listened when he did end up talking. Nights where he'd end up mumbling mostly to himself and you listened weren't uncommon.

You cracked one of your eyes open. The housewarden kept grumbling about being stuck at the level he was currently on. Too stubborn to look at any tutorials and was planning on going through trial and error. Luckily you knew how to gety past the level having already played a while back.

It was rare for you to know something about a game Idia didn't. Sleepily you shifted and pointed at the character on his screen." You have to go back the way you came, the parkour was supposed to be impossible " you mumbled before yawning.

Idia let out a yelp at the sudden voice. He looked around before looking down at you. You lay smug and very very sleepy in his lap. Shock was plastered on his face. He couldn't even form proper words just stuttered.

"[Name]?!?" He finally got out. Yellow eyes wide as ever. You shifted to where your cheek rested on his thigh. You simply hummed in response.

"You talk ! " He exclaimed. You didn't respond properly just nodded and snuggled closer. He let out a huff still completely baffled that you had said anything at all. He couldn't question you as you had already fallen asleep by the time he finally collected himself.

Malleus Draconia

The dragon fae quietly watched as you struggled to get a book from a high shelf. You had come to the school library to find a book on a certain plant for professor Crewel's class however the book you needed was unfortunately out of reach.

"Struggling Child of a man?" A cool voice said as Malleus suddenly appeared behind you. Startling you enough to cause you to jump. You turned and glared at him, narrowing your eyes. He just smiled showing off his fangs.

"Apologizes I did not intend to scare you" He chuckled. His eyes wandered back up to the book you had been struggling to obtain just a few fleeting moments ago. Slender fingers easily grabbed the hook and brought it down to your level.

"I believe this was what you were looking for correct" Malleus said with a slight amount of mischief lacing his words. You rolled your eyes and gently took the book from him.

"For a prince you sure are cheeky when you want to be huh" You mumbled. Now it was time for him to be startled . His green eyes shot open. You smirked at his expression. You tried to keep down the giggle that was going to erupt from your chest.

"I wasn't aware you spoke..." he mumbled suddenly the teasing Malleus disappeared. "Well speaking is very tiring do I don't do it much" you replied simply. He let out a hum and nodded his head.

"And my teasing behavior was enough for you to speak" he mumbled almost to himself. You giggled and rolled your eyes, gently flicking his arm. "Yes"

"I am truly honored that you decide to use your voice around myself" he dramatically said. You sighed and just smiled at his sincerity.

MASTERLIST

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humanjarvis · 2 months ago

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pop star!reader x manager!caleb 🔞

you and caleb grew up together. with his shrewd mindset, natural charm, and uncanny business acumen, he always looked out for you. so when you finally made it big, of course you’d asked him to be your manager. and of course he’d agreed. it never would have been anyone else.

you've kissed a couple times before. touched some. but it always ended the same: he’d pull away and shut you out. he’d used more excuses than you could count: “it’d be irresponsible,” “i’d be crossing a line,” “i’d never forgive myself if i ruined our friendship”

but funnily enough, caleb’s never had a girlfriend. and he’s scared off every A-list suitor who’s dared to look your way.

caleb hates when you provoke him. also hates when you wear revealing costumes.

so when he helps plan your setlist for an upcoming show, you sneak behind his back and recruit your bravest dancers to switch out your song cover segment for a special surprise performance

the lyrics are raunchy and rebellious and loaded with references to him—a challenge for him to act on his forbidden desires

your “outfit” is basically strips of fabric, and the way you’re practically flashing the audience nearly gives him a heart attack

he wants to pull you down from the stage. wants to stop the show entirely. but even in his outrage, he puts your reputation first

when you flounce backstage for your outfit change between songs, he hunts you down. steals your clothes from the girls who were supposed to help you change, grits out that he’ll do it himself, and pulls you into your dressing room

the argument starts as soon as he locks the door. you’re asking what he thinks he’s doing, he’s asking what that stunt was. all the while, he hurriedly yanks and tugs and unzips, leaving you half-dressed and breathing hard

the moment you’re almost bare in front of him, his anger begins to fizzle. he can’t waste his focus on anything more than the shape of your body

but you can’t have that. so you set him back off.

taunting him about how the song was for all the cowards in the audience, and maybe you should go find one and ask if he liked what he saw. he’d show you a better time than your manager ever had, that’s for sure

narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. that’s all you see before he’s ripping off your tights and underwear, pushing you against the wall and surging into your waiting core

it’s fast and messy and unrestrained. it’s not what either of you would’ve chosen for your first time together, but something had to give. it was either this, or he followed you onstage and gave the audience a real show

the room fills with a mix of groans and sighs and traded barbs about how annoying the other is. and when you smugly tell him the kicker—the song you’d performed was an original, and you’d written it about him—the thick, sticky jets of his cum warm your insides, and you clench around him with a breathy, dazed laugh

and in record time, snapping immediately back into the overbearing manager role, he shoves your new outfit over your still-trembling body and walks you back to the curtain

“this discussion isn’t over. i’ll see you when you’re done” he promises lowly before nudging you onstage

and for the next half hour, you’re forced to finish the show with your mixed release dripping down your legs

i watched a clip of garden of eden by lady gaga & it inspired this quick outline of how i would write this full thing if i were going to. which i’m not bc i’ve already written a similar pop star au

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pugh-bug · 2 months ago

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His Promised Sin

———————————————————————

Remmick x reader

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: smut, nsfw, lots of mentions of religion and Satan, brief threat of sa

Finally posting this, sorry for the wait I’ve had a lot to sort out this week planning a funeral but I adored writing this. I’ll definitely be writing for Remmick again and for other Sinners characters. Any comments are appreciated so much <33

——————————————————————

In the fierce heat you trudged home, the journey only seeming longer with each step. The centre of town was five miles away on foot but there was nowhere else to buy groceries so walk you did. What you couldn’t afford to buy you grew and what you couldn’t grow you borrowed, from old friends who also couldn’t leave town. No one ever left and those who did soon returned, even the Moore brothers couldn’t stay away but you saw little of them.

Once the path shrunk into a pitiful thing only you could follow you knew you were almost home. You glanced at your ring finger thinking of Chris and the promise he’d just made before leaving. The promise of marriage. Soon. Guilt rang in your chest, working its way down to your gut and settling there.

It wasn’t just that you didn’t love him, that most suitors could live with, it was that you didn’t particularly like him. He didn’t make you laugh or cry. He didn’t make you feel anything worth much and yet you’d agreed. To Chris your politeness was excitement but you knew the truth. No man had made you excited since that night.

Creek

You pushed your weary door open with one hand and clutched your bag of goods with the other. Home at last. It was modest, nothing special, and yet it was the one place you felt comfortable. Peaceful. Some deep part of you hated how safe those words had become, how you prized surviving over thriving and hid from the world. Something better had to be out there, something you wouldn’t just settle for but embrace. Something to fuel you, fill your soul with purpose and set your nerves alight. In your lifetime nothing had matched that description except…

“Where are we going?”

You followed your new friend and classmate into the woods missing home already. If your Mother knew you were alone with a boy at night you’d be in more trouble than you could handle. No amount of grovelling would appease that woman.

“I should get home, they’ll be wondering where I’ve gotten to.”

Johnny ignored your worries, snaking an arm round your waist and pulling you close to his warm body. You froze. “You’re gonna enjoy this.” He grinned, before planting a sloppy kiss on your unsuspecting lips and attempting another.

“Get off!”

But he wasn’t concerned, not until -

“Listen!” You hissed, shoving Johnny away. Something was lingering in the trees watching your every movement. Your Daddy had taught you about hunting animals and in that moment you felt at one with his prey. Hunted. Somehow you knew where to look to see your predator, catching its gaze a few yards away.

Your heart began pounding loud as Johnny’s voice telling you to stop wasting his time. That didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Nothing else existed but you and the glimpse of a face among the branches. A face with eyes you could hardly make out in the darkness except for red. A grin, a gleam in his eyes and a finger to his dripping lips telling you shush.

Nightfall approached as you sleepily unpacked your things, cursing yourself for craving more than you had. For daydreaming about anything but the wedding, if it ever happened. He’d only kissed you once the day his Grandma, who’s life was sadder than her death, gave her blessing. It hadn’t been the love you’d read about in books or witnessed between Smoke and Annie. It hadn’t been love at all and to worsen the blow, to fuel your disappointment, it hadn’t been lust either. A marriage of convenience.

That night you read until your eyes grew heavy and the book slipped away. You dreamt of the face from years ago, the face of something evil.

If it hadn’t have been for the open window you’d have slept through the howling wind.

Rising from your bed to close it, you heard it stop as quickly as it had started. Silence. You were left only with silence as a companion in the twilight except it seemed to want something. It stirred in the air and within you. A deep longing for a cure to the emptiness that had buried its way into your bones through years of sorrow.

Cautiously, you lit a lantern and held it to your window. Something ancient had awakened and somehow you knew Satan in the flesh was just outside. He’d been just outside all your life watching and waiting. Biding his time until you’d abandon all hope of a lasting morality and gladly give in to your sinful desires.

It seemed that night he would no longer idly watch.

Tap tap

Taking a deep breath before doing so, you walked towards the sound. Your front door. You ought to have walked like a traitor on a plank, like a person approaching death with terror. You didn’t, although a rhythmic thud sounded some alarm in your chest as you opened the door.

But there was no one there.

Relief should have been your immediate and only feeling but although it was there you felt a wave of disappointment overpower it. Had the tapping been in your head, or had the wind sent branches tumbling to your front door? The wind that had ceased long before the tapping…

You stood there for a moment letting the night air cool your body until a whisper of your name set your nerves alight.

“Y/n…”

Again, unmistakable a second time. You were not alone.

“Y/n…”

Taunting and nearby, the voice was beckoning you outside. All you had to do was answer. There was nothing but miles of forest between you and the nearest human soul. To answer would be inviting death.

As you made to enter and lock the door the air around you changed as if a gust of wind had ran through you. Alarmed you turned away from your house only to see him standing metres away. In every way he was the same demonic presence you’d encountered all those years ago without a mark of time on him. The only difference was his face, his mouth, was clean from blood. He would have looked to anyone else normal. Human. Harmless. You knew better.

“You know my name.”

A nervousness rang in your voice that only amused the visitor.

“Darlin I know lots of names, names are easy. Bet you’d even know mine if you thought about it long enough.”

You tensed at his words, his unnervingly charming manner of speaking and his grin and yet you did know. You’d always known, somehow he’d told you in the spiritual sense. In a different realm, perhaps in a different lifetime.

“Remmick.”

He bowed as if accepting a great honour, always remaining a few steps from you and your door.

“That’s what God gave me.”

His sardonic smile told you he was mocking your beliefs before he spoke again, eyeing your small house.

“Hasn’t given you much has he?”

“I have enough.”

That was the truth. You had more than you needed and less than you wanted, same as everyone else in town.

“But are you happy?”

You pursed your lips.

“I’m content.”

Remmick simply tutted, leaning closer to you with a demonic shine in his eyes.

“Ah sweetheart, contentment is the enemy of joy.”

Suddenly the emptiness you’d carried within you felt encompassing. Impossible to ignore. When your eyes met Remmick’s you knew he could see it on you, even smell it. A moment passed before you considered the small yet powerful distance between the two of you.

“Are you going to ask me to invite you in?”

Remmick rocked back on his heels, smiling comfortably to himself.

“No need to.”

You cocked your head.

“You already let me in.”

He ceased rocking.

“I didn-“

“You called out to me, you’ve been calling for my kind a long time.”

You thought of every celebration, every lonely night, every passing year you’d spent longing for something to take you away. A part of you had always felt heard, understood by some invisible force of nature - perhaps God. But God hadn’t been listening, Remmick had.

“Why now, after so long?”

He didn’t answer.

“Will you answer if I let you in?”

The light of the moon flickered in Remmick’s stare. He was undoubtedly the flame to your moth and he knew it, smiling as all those do who know they’ve won. It wasn’t just foolish to let him in it was suicidal but you felt a strange peacefulness with your decision. It was like he’d said: you’d already let him in.

Remmick watched, impressed, as you opened your door fully and gestured for him to come in. He hesitated only for a moment before slowly following you down the hall and into your kitchen. As he eyed your home, you glanced at the drawer you knew housed several knives.

Inside Remmick could almost pass for human, even to you. His eyes didn’t have the same demonic gleam they possessed outside. You watched as he ran a calloused hand down your armchair and caressed the tassels of your lampshade, like a child left unsupervised. He seemed in awe of everything and you found yourself feeling a solemn sense of pity in your heart. What kind of life did he live? Did he have a home of his own? These were questions amongst hundreds of others you craved answers for.

“Why now?”

Remmick turned toward you, still keeping a few metres distance. The air moved differently around him, sensing he did not belong. It parted for him out of fear and perhaps on some level respect for he was more ancient than any other being. He smelt of the earth as if he’d been born from roots, not a Mother’s womb.

“You weren’t sure what you wanted, til now.”

“And what do I want?”

He just smiled as if the answer was obvious and perhaps it was. You turned away from Remmick pondering his words…escape.

“That’s it.”

That voice, he spoke like a serpent. A siren. Everything the local preacher warned you about was standing before you in your own kitchen. Invited.

“Don’t look so afraid now darlin, you wanted me here.”

That he knew you couldn’t argue with, no matter how horrid a truth it was. It hadn’t been delirium or the forceful hand of another that had led you to sin. You’d had the same teachings as everyone in town, the same goodness and voice of God. It had never been enough and looking at Remmick, sensing his sinful ferocity, you knew only he would be.

“I know...”

It had barely been a whisper but you knew he’d heard. Resigned to your fate, you stared solemnly at Remmick. He stared back with the sight of countless forgotten souls.

“Will you leave…”

You let out a shaky breath, finding the floor easier to talk to.

“My body…will you leave it here when it’s done?”

Remmick took slow, almost careful, steps toward you. Once his face was mere inches from your own he shook his head, looking down at your tearful eyes as if you were a thing to be pitied. Pitied and played with.

“We’ll see where the night takes us.”

You felt weakened by his words and yet no encounter rendered you so energised. None except…

“Johnny.”

Remmick ran a sharp tongue over his sharper teeth.

“Don’t worry. He’s out of reach.”

You thought of Johnny’s incessant touches, his threats.

“Is that where anyone who meets you ends up?”

“Just the ones who deserve it.”

You looked up at Remmick taking in the shape of his jaw, the line of his nose and the unruliness of his hair. He shouldn’t have been appealing, not when his very existence went against God, but he was. With every look, every word uttered you felt yourself being pulled by an invisible force into him. Shrouded under his being.

“Do I deserve it?”

“Deserve?”

Remmick’s eyes were transfixed on your neck before he pulled away to speak once more.

“Forsake that word, it means nothing to you.”

His eyes bored into yours, you heard his words run through your entire body. You felt the sudden urge to nod in blind agreement as after all it had been Remmick who’d saved you. Answered your callings. He had been your saviour so you’d worship him as you saw fit.

“You don’t have to hide your true nature from me, I smell it on you.”

Before you could think of a reply Remmick moved, slow but purposeful like a hunting snake. You watched him mouth agape as he lowered himself down…down…down until his eyes were level with your thighs. There was nothing between you and Remmick but a thin layer of linen and yet he made no attempt to rid you of your clothes. Instead he looked up at you with a face as innocent as you believed him capable of having. He was asking for permission.

“Chris…”

Your stomach churned at the thought of him at home, eagerly telling his family of your plans.

“Isn’t here is he?”

Remmick’s voice took you out of your head, snapping you into submission.

Your only response was to lift your nightdress, keeping your eyes on his. You waited for the judgement, from who you didn’t know. There were only sinners present. Remmick took a long look, drinking in the sight before he tasted you.

“Mnghn…”

You let out before clasping a hand over your mouth. Remmick peered up at you, grinning.

“Don’t gotta be quiet for me sweetheart.”

If you were thinking of speaking there was no need, Remmick dived back in without another word. His tongue felt feverish, its movements unrelenting and hungry. You clung to the kitchen counter as he tasted every inch of you, his tongue seeming longer by the second.

“Jesus…”

But he wasn’t present, only Remmick and his tongue could end your suffering. Only the warm feeling of lust could envelope you, your mind unreachable and your soul his. No man on Earth ever made your body sing, it was as if Remmick had done this a hundred times before. You knew this feeling had been chasing you, and you it, long before the knock at your door and worse still…that you’d miss it tomorrow.

“Sweetest thing these lips have tasted.”

His words were purest filth, his mouth ancient sin spurring you on. Your hips involuntarily bucked into his mouth demanding, praying for more. He gladly obliged by adding a finger to your torment, circling your clit whilst his tongue had its way. Your grip on the counter tightened, your eyes pleading to close but Remmick’s eyes on you said no: don’t look away. Savour every minute. Savour him.

It was too much: Remmick’s devouring, his words, his scent and the feeling of oblivion growing hotter in your core. Your hand found its way into his hair, gripping him harder than the counter only invigorating him.

“Yes angel, just like that.”

Every cell in your body felt magnetised to him as you came with a howl of his name and fire in your lungs. You hardly registered Remmick’s awe filled eyes on your shaking body, pre occupied with seeing every star in the universe. The room, the house it all felt small. Inconsequential. You were rising above it or perhaps sinking below, you no longer cared.

“Better?”

Remmick rose to steady you with strong arms, not waiting for an answer. His fingers and mouth were wet with your slick but he made no effort to clean himself. You had half a mind to grab his face between your hands and bite, kiss and lick yourself off him but his words halted you.

“Are you ready sweetheart?”

He traced the shape of your face with his index finger admiring you almost like a lover would, a starved one. Your breath hitched when his hand found your throat and ever so gently squeezed.

“Your blood is louder than most.”

“You can hear it?”

“Always have.”

You pictured Remmick following your pulse to Johnny’s chosen spot, basking in the cover of twilight before draining him dry. It was an image you’d torn apart and rebuilt countless times when trying to forget. But in your kitchen, with Remmick’s teeth so close to your neck and your escape in reach it seemed almost comforting. The inevitability of it all eased your lost soul, the knowing that no force on Earth could steer Remmick from your path. His path was yours and yours his, always had been.

You craned your neck for him, closing your eyes to bask in what would surely be the beginning of something unholy but no bite came. Remmick guided your head back in place, a solemn finality in his gleaming eyes.

“Dawn’s comin.”

He gestured to your window and sure enough a sunrise was brewing, threatening to end your night of living. Your mouth opened to speak but no words came out.

“I’ll still be here when you wake.”

Remmick licked what was left of your slick off his fingers, tasting as if you were a delicacy. In the time it took for your eyes to blink he was gone yet the scent of him lingered. You imagined it always would, that a part of him as he said would remain with you. He’d doomed you both, promised without such words to end your stagnant suffering and damn you to Hell.

You dreamt of following him there gladly, knowing your time would come soon enough.

Part 2

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#remmick #remmick x reader #Remmick x reader smut #Remmick x you #sinners #sinners Remmick #vampires #Remmick fanfic #Remmick fanfiction #Remmick smut #sinners remmick smut #sinners 2025 #jack o'connell

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flowersforbucky · 11 months ago

Text

it's nice to have a friend

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: you're having the worst period you've had in a long time. bucky is determined to help you feel better.

author's note: this is a silly and smutty piece that i felt compelled to write when i got my period a few days ago!

warnings/tags: smutty, reader has a period, langauge, use of a vibrator, nipple stimulation, no use of y/n, use of a cbd gummy lol, 18+ only

Approximately every twenty-eight days, you curse the fact that you were born with a uterus and vagina.

This month, however, you were cursing that fact a bit earlier than expected. Cycle day twenty three, to be exact.

Your periods never start this early, but as soon as you opened your eyes at six o'clock this morning, you knew what had occured while you were asleep. You could feel the moisture that soaked through your underwear and pajama pants before you could turn on the light to see that your white sheets had been dyed bright crimson beneath where you'd been laying.

One load of laundry with extra stain remover and as much Pamprin max strength as one can safely take later, you are curled up on the couch of the compound's living room with a cup of coffee and a heating pad turned up so high that you risk first degree burns.

“Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you today? We can go to Coney Island another time,” Natasha tries to reason with you once again.

“I promise I'll be okay here,” you assure her. “These cramps are killing me, I won't be any fun to hang out with today. Go, enjoy yourself. When is the next time that you'll all have a free day and weather this perfect?” You gesture towards the sunshine streaming through the living room windows.

“If you're sure,” she caves after a few moments of hesitation. “Promise I’ll win you that stuffed panda that you wanted so badly last time.”

“I am going to hold you to that,” you tell her in a faux-serious tone.

After Natasha and the rest of your friends have left for their day of riding rollercoasters and eating hotdogs on the boardwalk, you turn on your comfort show and settle in for an unexciting and uncomfortable day by yourself.

A few hours later, you decide you've sat in the same position for long enough - you can practically feel your body morphing to the sofa. You're walking to the kitchen to refill your water bottle and find something to snack on when you collide with what feels like a brick wall.

A brick wall that happens to smell really, really fucking good.

You step back, finding that the brick wall is staring at you with a confused look on his face.

"What are you doing here?” Bucky asks as he glances you over from head to toe, taking in your choice of apparel - baggy sweats that are about two sizes too big for you, a cropped tank, and fuzzy slippers. You resist the urge to cross your arms over your stomach - you didn't think anyone else would be here today and the tank top you're wearing doesn't exactly conceal the period bloat you're currently experiencing.

"I live here,” you snap, a bit harsher than necessary. “What are you doing here?”

“I also live here,” he says, returning your attitude. You roll your eyes, maneuvering your way around where he blocks the doorway.

“What I mean,” he continues as he turns around, following you into the kitchen. “Is why aren't you with everyone at Coney Island?”

“I could ask you the same question,” you challenge, pouring some more ice into your cup. “Steve never shuts up about the glory days, all the time the two of you spent at Coney Island. I'm surprised you're not there with him right now.”

He huffs a laugh, pulling out one of the barstools at the kitchen's giant island and taking a seat. “We did spend a ridiculous amount of time at Coney Island,” he admits, his voice almost wistful. He hesitates before continuing, staring down at his hands as he traces a metal crevice on his left palm.

"But I haven't been to Coney Island since the forties. Guess I'm kinda scared it won't live up to my memories of it. Plus, I had a lot of laundry to catch up on, so..” he shrugs, trailing off.

You're taken aback by the honesty of his explanation. “Yeah, well,” you start awkwardly, turning away from him to search through a cabinet for something to eat. “I can't say that I know what it was like in the forties, but it's one of my favorite places, present day.”

“Then why are you hanging out by yourself while all of your friends are at one of your favorite places?”

Damn it, you curse internally. He's really not going to drop this. What should I say, that my uterine lining is falling out in clumps?

You grab a bag of freeze-dried fruit from the cabinet before turning back to face him, trying to come up with an excuse.

“I just didn't sleep great–” you come to an abrupt stop in the middle of your sentence as a blinding pain shoots through your lower abdomen. The bag of fruit falls to the floor as you steady yourself on the ledge of the counter with one hand, clutching your stomach with the other.

Bucky rises from his seat in an instant, closing the several feet of distance between the two of you in one big step.

"Are you okay? What’s going on?” His hands are both extended to you in an offer of help.

“I'm fine,” you say through a sharp intake of breath. “It’s.. it’s just cramps. Bad cramps,” you force the words out, propping your elbows up on the countertop to relax your body weight.

“Oh,” he says as realization dawns on him. He bends down to grab the bag of fruit that lays next to your feet, and then places it on the table in front of you. “I guess that answers my question, then,” he adds, referring to why you didn't go to Coney Island.

“Ya think?” You stand back upright, grabbing your snack and water bottle off of the counter. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a busy day of bed-rotting ahead of me.”

“Some exercise would help,” he calls when you're about to exit the kitchen. “Laying in bed won't do much for you. A little bit of light exercise to release some beta-endorphins, maybe an abdominal massage–”

“Are you really man-splaining menstrual cycle pain management to me right now?” You ask, slowly turning to face him with an incredulous look on your face. “I wasn't aware that you had a medical license or that I asked for your opinion.”

“Just trying to help, sweetheart,” he shrugs with a mischievous grin.

“If you want to help, you can go get the Italian food that I'm craving and give me an abdominal massage yourself,” you practically spit at him. “Otherwise, keep the unsolicited advice to yourself and fuck off.”

You turn back around and all but run out of the room before you can process the shocked, albeit pleased look on his face.

After you've closed your bedroom door behind you (with perhaps a bit more force than necessary), you sink into the fresh sheets on your bed and shove several pieces of apricot into your mouth.

Rationally, you knew that Bucky's advice was solid, and that he was just trying to get a reaction out of you. That's just the kind of friendship that the two of you have. Sarcastic, teasing and occasionally… tension-filled.

You definitely didn't help the matter by telling him to massage your abdomen, but what does he expect when he suggests something as horrible as exercising during a time that you simply want nothing more than to melt into your mattress?

Your cell phone chimes from the pocket of your sweatpants. You dig it out and look at the text displayed across your lock screen.

Bucky Barnes: What kind of Italian food, specifically?

You would never admit it to him, but the corners of your mouth tug upwards into a smirk as you read his message.

You type: Don't you have a lot of laundry to catch up on? and press send. The message is marked as “read” right away.

He types. And types. And types some more – until those three dots indicating a message in progress disappear.

Whatever. You click your phone off and toss it somewhere in the covers around you.

The next couple hours are spent sitting under the near scalding stream of your shower, and then reading on your Kindle in the dark. As jealous as you are that your friends are undoubtedly having a blast today, you honestly don't mind your current situation - aside from feeling like your organs are being pulled out of your vagina, you hardly ever have days with zero obligations other than to just relax in whatever way you see fit.

A strong knock on your door causes you to lose your place on the page.

"You didn't give me a legitimate answer so I hope you like gnocchi, or eggplant parmesan, or traditional lasagna, or extra breadsticks..”

“You know, it's not funny to joke about carbs to someone when they are–”

You come to a stop in the middle of your sentence when you swing your door open to see him holding several plastic bags. An aroma of garlic and herbs hits you in the face.

Oh. Not a joke, then.

He extends one of the bags to you with his big, blue puppy dog eyes. You take it from him, opening the door further as an invitation to enter your bedroom.

"Consider this a peace offering,” he says, placing the other bags of food on your bed and perching awkwardly on the edge of your mattress. You close the door behind you, walking back to where you had previously been lounging on the bed.

“I'm sorry for being a smartass,” he adds more genuinely. “I just.. didn't like seeing you in pain. That's all.”

“This is far from my first period,” you shrug, not meeting his stare. “You get used to it after a while. But consider yourself forgiven.”

He gives you a small smile when you finally look up at him. He grabs a smaller bag that you hadn't noticed him carrying, one that is visibly less full than the others. He reaches inside, pulling out a small jar that he hands over to you.

Your brows furrow as you inspect it closely. “CBD gummies?” You ask, your brows now raising quizzically. You open the jar, popping one of the pink, cube-shaped gummies into your mouth. “Watermelon flavored CBD gummies?”

You notice the faintest trace of blush bloom across his cheeks. “I take them sometimes to help me sleep,” he starts, fiddling with some of the beading on your comforter. “But they can help with all different kinds of pain too, so I just thought you might like some.”

You close the jar, placing it on your bedside table before reaching over and grabbing his flesh hand in yours. “Thank you, Bucky,” you say, giving his hand a squeeze and then releasing it. “Really. I appreciate all of this.” You try to ignore the jolt of electricity that buzzes through you when your skin comes in contact with his. His hand is both softer and warmer than you would have imagined. It brings you back to the last words that you spewed at him in the kitchen earlier.

"A shit ton of pasta and CBD gummies,” you snort a laugh. “Would I be pushing my luck if I asked for that abdominal massage too?” You say it in a way that sounds halfway serious, halfway joking.

“If that's what you want,” he says lowly, turning to angle his body towards you on the bed. “Then just say the word.”

The air in your room suddenly feels suffocating.

It is what you want - but you're at a loss for words. So instead of a verbal response, you scoot over to the middle of the bed, closer to where he sits on the opposite side. You lay down so that your back is flat against the mattress, your head propped up by a single pillow.

Bucky's eyes widen in surprise, but he quickly wipes the look of astonishment from his features. He moves so that he's sitting directly next to your legs, giving him a proper angle to put his hands on your lower stomach.

You're wearing the same sweatpants and tank top from earlier, having thrown the outfit back on after your shower. The loose sweatpants hang low enough to expose your hip bones and the edge of your underwear.

The intimacy of the entire situation hits you the second that his hands make contact with your skin.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, perhaps sensing your nerves. “Or if I do anything that doesn't feel good.”

Your eyes shut instinctively at the polar opposite sensations of his flesh and vibranium hands. Skin and metal, fire and ice.

“I will,” you assure him. Your words come out breathier than intended.

There's an immediate relief in your lower stomach as he rubs languid circles across your midriff. It's a feeling beyond pleasure as the cramps fade the more he touches you.

His vibranium pinky dances along the waistband of your underwear, causing goosebumps to spread across your skin. You try to focus on the relief he's bringing you - not the fact that you're wearing a thin tank top that leaves so much of your skin on display, giving him a clear view of the goosebumps that he's caused.

He continues with the precise motions until the pain in your abdomen has faded nearly entirely - you feel so good that you can't stop yourself from letting out the smallest moan when his flesh hand applies just the right amount of pressure near your pelvis.

You know he heard it - there's no way he didn't. Just as you know there's no way that he doesn't notice your fully hardened nipples through the thin fabric of your tank top.

You keep your eyes closed, terrified to meet his gaze in this state. You dread the moment that you feel his hands pull away from your skin.

"You know,” he starts, his voice possessing a strained edge. “I don't think this is good enough for you.”

Your eyes shoot open, looking at him in a nervous confusion. There's a glimmer in his eyes that you can't quite pinpoint - his stare trailing to your bedside table on the opposite side of you. “But I think I do know what could make you feel much better.”

“What are you talking about?” Your voice quivers as you follow his stare. You're not sure what he's looking at - all that sits on your nightstand is the CBD gummies he had just given you, your Kindle, a few books, a bottle of lotion, and the Himalayan salt lamp that paints you both in an orange glow.

He smirks before leaning across you - keeping his vibranium hand pressed firmly on your belly as he uses his flesh hand to pull open the drawer of the small table.

“Hey! What are you–” but he retrieves the object he’s looking for before you can finish questioning him. You freeze at what he's holding in his hand.

Your vibrator. Your glittery, lavender colored vibrator.

“How the fuck did you–”

“Do you think I can't hear you using this from across the hallway late at night?” He grins smugly. “That I can't hear your little whimpers when you think everyone's asleep?”

Your face heats up a hundred degrees. You don't know whether to be infuriated or massively turned on.

Both. You're definitely feeling a mix of both.

He clicks the power button, turning on the device to its lowest setting. He watches you for a moment, giving you ample time to tell him to fuck off.

Instead, you once again relax against the pillow, your body going limp for him. You spread your legs the slightest bit.

He takes this as his signal to proceed. Not taking his eyes off of your face, he trails the head of the wand from your lower stomach and over the fabric of your sweatpants until he reaches the apex of your thighs. Your nipples pucker once again, your thighs clenching around the tip of the vibrator.

Bucky moves the device in a circular motion, making your back arch off the bed and your head tip back.

How is it that it feels better when he massages you with it through your fucking pants than it does when you use it on your bare pussy?

You hear the clicking of a button again, and the force of the vibration over your clothed cunt increases. You grind down on the device, desperate for friction.

Bucky watches you with something akin to pride on his face.

“You know how I told you to tell me if I do something you don't like?” He asks as he pushes the head of the wand directly down on your clit with the perfect amount of pressure.

“Yeah,” you answer - it comes out like a moan that you'd hear in a porno.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Remember that.”

Before you can clear your head enough to wonder what he means, he's tugging up the cotton fabric of your tank top and exposing your breasts.

You gasp at the sensation of the cool air blowing from the AC coming in contact with your already hard nipples. Bucky leans forward, keeping the vibrator on your core, and captures one of your nipples in his mouth.

Your hand immediately goes to his hair, tugging the soft brown locks in your fingers to keep him in place. His free hand grasps your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

The combination of pleasure radiating from your pussy and his hand and mouth on you is fucking perfect. Fucking perfect, and all too much.

You clench your thighs together, riding against the vibrator until you feel warmth spreading through your lower belly.

“Oh my god, Bucky,” you moan - he groans when you say his name, the vibration sending you tumbling over the edge. You come hard, possibly harder than any other orgasm you've had in your life, thoroughly soaking your panties.

When you've finished writhing beneath him, Bucky pulls back, removing both his mouth and the vibrator. He clicks the device off, tossing it towards the foot of your bed.

You're panting, staring up at the ceiling, trying to process what the fuck just happened when you hear Bucky let out a low chuckle.

Your eyes snap to him, finding that he looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Can't say that's how I expected the day to go when I decided to sit this Coney Island trip out,” he sighs.

“You can say that again.” You sit upright, bending your legs and crossing them at the ankles. You lean forward, tugging your shirt back into place before pulling one of the bags of food to you.

"We should go sometime soon. Together,” you add, somewhat nervously. You aren't sure why - the guy just gave you the best orgasm of your life (and barely even touched you).

“Are you asking me on a date?” that sly smile reappears.

You shrug. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

"Then my answer is yes. But only if you share some of this food with me.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

thanks so much for reading!!! can anyone tell that i really fucking love food by how often i incorporate it into my writing? 😅

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fic

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elysianightsss · 7 months ago

Text

Pen Pal Price Part Two🫧🍑

nsfw ahead so I’ll cut it off at that point…reader is also described as chubby below because I am so they are too lol.

His voice startles you to the point where you visibly flinch, it’s nothing like how you imagined it to be. First of all, you didn’t know he was British. The accent that wraps around his words so sharply is one you recognise but can’t quite put your finger on in this moment.

His voice is deep, rumbles out somewhere from within his chest. It vibrates through the phone and through you. For him your honeyed voice drips into him like the sweetest summer wine.

“Sound so pretty.” You hear him mutter, barely a whisper but definitely something he was trying to hide. Your cheeks burn as you blush hard, your bottom lip caught between your teeth while you think of what to say to the man you’ve been writing to for weeks on end.

So many words exchanged and yet now you’re at a loss. Can’t think properly, it begs the question; how will you react when you meet in person?

“I haven’t got long, I guess now’s the time I tell you what I do for a living.” He chuckles lightly and you wish you could see his face while he does.

“Sounds intriguing.” You frown though your face is still smile stricken.

“Oh you bet it is love. Very dangerous, rough. I don’t think you’d want to hear about it.”

“Excuse me good sir, I live for danger. Did I not tell you how I dangerously painted the spare bedroom the other day? Though I don’t think it went well.” You joked looking over at the room that was half done and had paint streaks pointing in all different directions.

“Are you doubting your mad painting skills?” Your heart soared at the joke, at his laugh, just all of this. Being able to speak to him properly, being able to communicate more easily without waiting a whole week for his response to arrive by post. Shifting through the mail everyday desperate to read his words. You hadn’t felt this happy in years.

“Maybe just a little.” There’s a pause, and you think you hear some background chatter, something about unit leaving and someone definitely says captain, “maybe you could help me?”

“I definitely will.” He doesn’t hesitate with his answer, it’s so sure and so final. It says a lot about him. You’re desperate to know more. “I’m sorry love, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow? Same time?”

And he does, you lunge for the phone practically jumping through the air to answer him. You chat about useless things, have silly little conversations about everyday life. There are days when you think it’s his day off work, those days he stays on the phone to you for hours. Those days are your favourite.

He tells you about the new book he got and even reads you a few chapters while you cook dinner, he makes you promise to cook him a meal sometime. You don’t hesitate to agree.

Again he loves the domesticity of it all, how prefect you are in his eyes, though his ocean blues haven’t actually seen you yet. What a perfect little wife you would make. He knows it’s far too soon to think about things like that but he cannot help himself.

The way you fly away with yourself, talking about what you’re doing that day or joking about something you saw on tv or giggling about the cupcakes you were making because the icing went wrong making what you piped look like pigs instead of the unicorns you were going for, for you niece’s birthday party.

He listens with his eyes closed, dreaming of the day he comes back from deployment. The day he comes back to you, to home smelling of freshly baked goods. His pretty lady waiting for him all smiles and giggles. He wishes.

“Um..” you pause unsure, wondering what if he says no.

“What is it love?” He asks so worried. So ready to fix any problem you throw his why. Once again though you hesitate and once more he encourages you, “Come on pretty lady, tell me. What’s up?” You let the nickname you’ve reprimanded him about numerous times slide with what you’re about to ask.

“D-Did you want t-to video call?” He grins at how fucking adorable you are. The way you stutter just asking a simple question like that. He bites back a groan at the way he stiffens in his trousers. Dirty old man.

“I would love to.” He of course then had to explain he had a flip phone. You laughed hard at him and said he would need a smartphone. You had no idea he would go and buy one just to video call you with. Another thing you reprimand him for, spending his hard earned money so easily like that. His little lady nagging him, and all he does is smile at the sound. He loves it.

Your heart hammers in your chest as the phone rings. A lot like the first time he called you. You had talked him through the set up and helped him understand what an app is and how to call on text on a smart phone. And finally, you told him how to video call. Which app to press, you were just explaining how it works when your phone begins to buzz with ‘John💕 is FaceTime you’ popping up on the screen. Your number of course being the first one he added.

You can’t help but feel nervous, checking you look semi okay on the screen before pressing the green answer button. Then your breath is knocked out of you so hard you actually choke, John fussing about getting some water and breathing for him goes in one ear and out the other. You can’t look away from him even as you catch your breath.

He’s nothing like you pictured and yet he’s perfect.

He looks like the kind of man you picture when you read romance novels and the kind of man that sneaks into the dreams that have you waking up hot under the collar and panties sticking to you uncomfortably. The little description of himself you asked for certainly did not do him justice.

“Hi love.”

“Hi John.”

“Fuck you’re gorgeous.” Even though you frown, you can’t stop a smile from splitting your face.

You’ve got chubbier cheeks and thicker thighs than most girls, something you’re insecure about and john can tell. But fuck you look gorgeous to him. Over the next few weeks John catches on to just how badly you feel about your body image, the way you put yourself down in favour of supermodels, the way you wear oversized clothing to cover yourself up. He finds himself grumbling, hating it each second more than the last.

He understands how badly beauty culture has fucked over women who are genuinely beautiful but are made to feel like they’re nothing. He gets it, he does. But he certainly doesn’t agree. Especially not with you. He finds himself dreaming of those squishable cheeks of yours, the way you’re so soft around the edges, he can tell.

You completely did him in last Monday, it’s the middle of winter for goodness sake, how did he know that you’d be wearing shorts when he FaceTimed you. Gym shorts that hugged your plump ass so fucking perfectly, that flashed your thick thighs to him. Christ, he’s been thinking about those pretty thighs all week long. When he’s running drills, your thighs are on his mind. When he’s planning out a mission with his unit, your thighs are on his mind. And when he’s alone at night with his hand wrapped around his swollen cock, your thighs are on his mind.

He can’t stand it anymore, it’s been agonising with how busy he’s been not calling you, not seeing you or hearing your voice. No knowing what you’ve been up to or how your day has gone. He calls and he praises the Lord above for bringing you to him, when you answer. A prayer on his lips, a beg for you to become his wife one day when you’re there smiling in the cutest silk pyjama set he’s ever seen. It hugs you exquisitely, showing off your rounded edges and all John can think about is how he can’t wait to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your tummy.

You’re clearly fresh out the shower or bath with your damp hair and freshly wash face, but John’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life, in fact he tells you so. You haven’t felt your cheeks burn the way they did then, well maybe one other occasion.

“Love?”

“Yes John?”

“Would you like to meet me for coffee tomorrow? At that cafe you like?” He’s hopeful when he asks, you can not only hear it in his voice but see it in his face. “I’m in the area for work and have a few days where I’m free and I’d love to see you.”

You can’t recall a time in your life where all you did was smile, but since you found John, you don’t remember what not smiling all the time was like. You don’t remember anything other than how happy he makes you. So you take a breath, you muster up the courage and say yes.

“I’d love to see you too John. Just tell me what time and I’ll be there.”

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chixkencxrry · 2 months ago

Text

What Does Yesterday Whisper to The New Day's Sun

Summary: You are on the hunt for your family's history. This takes you from Mississippi to Louisiana, where you meet a man who unravels you. An AU where Smoke also became a vampire. Smoke x Reader.

Warnings/AN: UNEDITED, NOT PROOFED. SMUT. If it isn’t obvious from my lack of ability to write metropolitan, I am not American nor North American-based. Everything comes from Google and books/movies. As such, I do apologise for inaccuracies in describing Charlotte or New York. I am borrowing from the fact that in the Caribbean, we can only trace our Black ancestry as far back as someone can tell it. Only our immediate elders have papers or have even begun to keep records. If I am erring in assuming the same for AA, I apologise and hope it doesn’t ruin your fanfiction!

You feel the shiver of the night on your skin; chill and damp, like a storm was coming.

The Louisiana air was rife with humidity, the sounds of the saxophone player in the bar besides your hotel echoes like a distinct cricket. Your fingers grip the lapel of your coat as you tighten it – looking out of the smudge window, you see a long-haired white boy bum a cigarette light off a brother with a fro thick as an ixora bushes outside your grandmother’s house.

“Looking for someone?” asks a young woman, not a bartender or waitress. Another patron who seems to have noticed your easy watching. She’s dark-haired and pretty with big, brown eyes.

“No.”

She lingers, lean over the back of the booth across from you. “Awfully pretty to be so alone.”

“I’m not alone.” You lie, lighting a cigarette. Your red painted lips suck on the stick and blow the smoke beside you. “Are you?”

“Nah.” She drawls, smiling. “You remind me of someone.”

“You local?” you ask, peeked.

“Been that way for a while.”

“I’m looking for my people. Got some family from here and the Delta.”

“Really?” she grins; smile wide and teeth bright. “What’s your last name?”

You squint, but you’re on your third Merlot and finished a second Whiskey Sour not that long ago so your lips are loose. “Landry. I have a long-lost aunt that disappeared in Mississippi a few decades back. She went by Cormier though. Annie Cormier then Moore. I’m doing research on her for my masters in Cultural Studies out in New York.”

The woman doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure, but you’re certain you saw her eyes grow misty – even for a moment. She plasters on that odd smile again. “Isn’t that something!”

“Yeah.” You finish your drink and smile at her. “You have a nice night, alright?”

“Oh, you’re going already? We just got to talking.” She says with no small intensity.

You slid out the booth, standing. “I’m good on the drinks. Gonna close off before I get reckless.”

“Now that ain’t no fun. You gotta be reckless once and a while. I’m Mary.”

“You here alone?”

You give your name, eyes catching the bartender’s figure moving across the counter. You pick up your jacket and knot it at your waist. “I’ll see you some other time, Mary.”

“I’ll catch you.”

The sentence stings like a promise against your back – haunting you as step into the Louisiana air. Charlotte was a lively city. Music pouring out from everywhere, food as good as any kind of sin. Soon as you turn your head; there was a homeyness to it too. One that Brooklyn didn’t have, that country flair to the city that you were sure you’d miss when you left.

You turn back to the bar; Annie’s, sprawled across the neon sign, hanging like ripened apple. There’s an iron wrought balcony beneath it, a man stands, leaning over – with a fat cigar in his hand. You can’t see his face clearly, but you feel his eyes on you. Unnerving you in a look.

A shiver runs through you, like a river full of life, and you keep on ahead trying to forget that man and his gaze. When you hit the door of your apartment, you find yourself racing to the flat, keys trembling in your hand. You breathe air into your palms and rub them, crafting warmth.

You burn cinnamon that night, all around the flat, and dust salt on the door.

The next night, though fear pushes your heart to your ribcage, you return to the bar. This time, when you see Mary, you go straight to her and ask her to dance with you. She smiles at you; like you’ve been expected and pulls you onto the dancefloor.

The heat of the club burns against your skin, bodies on bodies on bodies, she smells like the root of a peppermint. You think you can feel her on your soul when your bodies press together. Screaming Jay Hawkins echoes from the stage, crooning mean into the air. The muggy heat presses upon you, sealing you closer. You don’t stop though – hips rolling over her, hands reaching behind her.

“Come ‘long, baby.” She murmurs, turning you around and pulling you through the crowd. Her hand is cool in your own. Ice in a flesh sack.

Mary takes you through the crowd, cutting until you met double doors – a circle emblem at the centre, like the roots of a big oak tree.

“Where are we going?” You ask over the sound of the holler at the end of Put A Spell on Me. “You got a secret red room back here?”

Mary laughs. “Child, if you only knew.”

The hairs on the back of your hand stand out and you pull from her hand, but she holds you tighter, brown eyes staring you down fierce. You tug again, narrowing back your gaze at her. “I need to take a piss.”

“There’s a bathroom back here. You scared of me or something?”

“You ain’t nothing to be scared of.” You say, mimicking her accent.

She laughs. “Then why you trembling like that. Looking like a rabbit ‘bout to be slaughtered.”

You roll your eyes about to speak, but a deep vibrato rings behind you.

“Why you don’t leave that girl alone, Mary.”

Turning your face, you catch the look of a young man – about Mary’s age, with deep brown eyes and full, well-shaped lips. He was tall and seem to be of a stern nature. It wasn’t his good looks that took you though; rather, it was his familiarity. You feel tender just thinking of it.

“We just having fun, Smoke. No harm, no foul.” Mary insists.

Your eyes bounce between the two and you clear your throat. “Think I need a drink.”

“You do that, darlin’.” Smoke says, dragging a cigarette between his lips and puffing white into the air.

Brushing pass him, you try not to inhale the tobacco, but you do. You take in his scent too. Eucalyptus and whiskey; like a fire was under him, burning up something furious. Just walking by you feel the heat, dragging you in like a hearth. You’ll be warmed by me, it seems to whisper, you’ll be safe with me.

You look up and catch his gaze on you, its softness stifling.

This time when you ran from the bar, you did not glance back at it though you feel that stare all the same.

***

You go back during the day, knocking on the door to see staff cleaning it out. You seem to have barely made it in time before they closed up. A man scrubs the entrance with high-scented water, he speaks in deep Cajun, “Sis, you gon’ get yo’self in trouble askin’ ‘em sort of ques’ions.”

“All I’m asking is a name. Who owns it?”

“All I know is my cheque clears.”

When they weren’t any help, you head down to city hall. This sort of thing was public record after all. You sift through records and civil servants who want to be less than helpful, to find the name of a famous blues singer – who was about fifty years old and currently touring Japan according to the papers. Sammie Moore.

It is the first clue you’ve had in two weeks.

After you’d been to the Delta, gathering what you could from registries and whoever was still alive to even remember Annie, you’d taken the bus to Charlotte. The history on black folks on paper was limited; if existent at all.

You go through decades of newspapers; find one stray article that Sammie had given when he was a young man in his twenties, interviewed by a short-lived coloured papers. The Ohio Tribune, titles the article “Bluesman of the Century: Barely a Quarter Century”.

…the son of sharecroppers, the seed of a preacher. You sing about the complex relationship you had with your father a lot. What does your Daddy think of you all the way out of that plantation – selling out arena worldwide?

I figure, if he was still alive, he might have hated it.

Did your family outside of him encourage?

My cousins. Gave me the guitar I play with. Annie, my cousin’s wife loved it too. She would ask me to sing whenever I could.

You read on, searching for a name or names. Only to find nicknames – Smoke and Stack. What the fuck could you do with that? You rub your eyes. You were hoping to see Annie’s husband’s name, so that could be a connection. Elijah – Elijah Moore. The name on the tattered journal you’d found while rummaging that abandoned shack in Mississippi. Elijah. Elijah. The man shared the same face as this Smoke fella. But the Smoke Sammie spoke of, an older cousin, could be kin to the Smoke you met? His father maybe? But Smoke looked so much like Elijah.

You sigh. A headache was coming on. You were twisting yourself something ugly.

Could it be another Annie? Sammie and her were from the same community, that much you had gathered. Maybe you could write the archive there, ask them to send a copy of the list of residents to you? If they even had it.

You sigh, head hurting even more from all the questions. The more you uncover, the less you seem to find. Turning your gaze to the window, you see the twilight of the fallen day. Night coming slowly. You could go back to that club. Make sure that Smoke probably had no connection to Annie; but could you risk it? Sammie Moore owns the club, and this mysterious man who was the carbon copy of your great-aunt’s husband was no small coincidence.

Tapping your fingers on the table, you hum. It was about the time that even if the club couldn’t open – that could be there, preparing for opening. Grabbing your bag, you run out, hoping not to miss the bus.

The bar – as you suspected is partially opened. The front is all locked up but the back is spawled, with two workers sharing a cigarette and chatting. They pause, staring at you as you approach.

A lie slips easily; “Mary asked to see me.”

They part in a second and let you in, telling you she’s in the back room. But you don’t go there. You enter the bar, which looks different brightly lit. Clean and aired out. Sitting at a booth, is Smoke and a man who is identical to him. He’s dressed in white shirt and a dark blue suit. The man, in a black to what he’s wearing. The man looks at you in the strange way Mary had before he grins; white teeth glittering by golden grills. They’re a handsome pair; sitting there like two haunts.

“Good evening.” You greet. “If I could speak with you, Smoke.”

“Good evening.” The new man drawls, chuckling. “Girl sound like Dracula. Good evening. Who the fuck are you?”

“I didn’t speak to you.” You say at the same time Smoke says. “Shut the fuck up, Stack.”

Stack whistles, raising his hands. “Well damn.”

“I’m doing some research on the area, well a woman from this area. She’s kin to me, though deceased.” You stammer, going right up to their table. You empty your bag, spreading the photographs, files, and copied data sheets. “Annie Cormier. I’m doing my paper on Hoodoo and its connections to black womanhood. Rather, Black American womanhood and the efforts to drown it.” You pluck the copy of her photograph out, the one with her husband. You look up at them; Stack looking like he was longing to be anywhere else but there and Smoke looking like he might combust. “You look just like him. It’s like a doppelganger. If you’re related to the Moores from there – like Sammie Moore, you could help me find out more about her. I gotta know her. Gotta understand her.”

For a moment, the twins look at the paper. Like it was something sacred and holy. Smoke’s fingers reach for it then pull back. Like it might burn him up. He turns his face away, looking to the wall, as though something might be summoned from it.

“Sorry, darlin’. No clue what this about.” Stack starts, pushing your paper away. “Best of luck. Feel free to come back later and drink some vodka. Straight from Russia. Real pure shit.”

“I don’t want no fucking vodka. I’m just looking for some answers.”

“Ain’t no answers here for you little girl.” Smoke snaps. “You bes’ get to getting befo’ you find yourself in trouble.”

“You planning on doing something to me for asking a few questions?” You dare.

Smoke stands, towering over you by a good few inches. Though, you were sure if you stretched – you could punch him in his fucking throat real smooth. “I can promise you, you won’t like the answers.”

The threat slams into you with a force, fear making your knees buckle but you never dropped your gaze. “I’m not going to be bullied out of this. You aren’t going to stop me from searching.”

“Yeah, well, you keep searching lil’ girl. You gon’ find some shit you never wished you did.” Stack says, placing a cigarette between his lips. He takes along, deep pull.

“I’m a grown ass woman, nigga.” You cuss with a sneer, huffing you pack up your papers and spin out of the room. “Fuck y’all for not helping me. Fucking gangstas.”

A low, humoured whistle follows you as you leave. Anger burning in your chest. You make it all the way to your bus stop before you cool down. Your hands tremble as you hold your bag. Your frustration seeping out like the flood of a broken dam. Those motherfuckers. You steel yourself; they wouldn’t be done with you yet. There was no chance of you leaving now; not when you’d gotten so close.

Why else would they be so adamant you left them alone? They knew what it was. They had to know something about Annie. You weren’t a fool. You might be impulsive – but not foolish. They hadn’t seen the last of you. You’d be there every night until your research months died out. They’d be sick of you. Or they’d kill you.

Knowing your history was worth it.

***

At 3AM, a rapping at your apartment door wakes you up. You tumble out of bed, tripping over books scattered about your bedroom and hitting a broken typewriter at your ankle. Your blurred vision doesn’t help; sleep addled, you open the door without peeking and find yourself startled at the sight before you.

“Mary?” You say, rubbing the cold from your eye. “How the fuck did you find where I was living?”

“You sure as fuck pissed Smoke off.” She says instead of answering you. “I think I might have some answers for you.”

“Yeah?” You whisper; awake. “Well get in then, girl.”

Mary takes a seat on your couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She goes into her bag – a broad designer thing that looks good even in the dim, yellow light of the apartment. You feel self-conscious all of a sudden, shy. “What do you know about Annie?”

“I know she disappeared, along with tens of other poor black people one night. She had a husband who’d abandoned her after the death of her infant. She was known as a witch doctor of sorts in her area and was the sister of my Grandmother. Annie was around thirty-three when she died, though we’re not sure cause my Grandmother isn’t even sure how old she is.”

“And did your Grandmother share much of the practice with you?”

“No. She’d converted to Catholicism when she married my Pops, didn’t want to lose him.”

“Ain’t that some shit.”

“Ain’t it.”

The two of you chatter amongst each other, Mary tells you the twins have kin in the Delta. Roots deep as the Earth’s core. The way she tells stories about Annie, you feel as though she were there. You set your recorder up half-way through the first one. While she speaks, you try to cross check with the limited information you have on Annie and the oral history passed down on Hoodoo, on the roots within your blood.

There is something about what she says that strikes you as true, like she knew Annie.

“It’s getting late.” She says, looking out your window, the view of the city obstructed by another apartment building.

You chuckle. “You mean early. Do you want breakfast? I make a mean cup of coffee.”

“Come by the bar tonight.” She says, moving faster than you’d ever seen her. “The twins will be more willing to talk. I promise.”

“Alright.”

You sleep for most of the day and make notes in the afternoon. Mary had given you information smartly – part here, part there. She teases you and leaves you hanging. There was no choice in going to the bar tonight.

You picked your hair out, nice and wide. Glossed your lips and curled your lashes. You wore thigh high boots with a sensible heels for kicking – just in case those gangstas tried to bully you again. A mini-dress that skirted your bum complimented it, the purple looking royal against your skin as your thighs shun.

When you arrived at the bar, barely a foot in, your purse clutched at your side, Mary greets you. Dark hair curled in big Farrah Fawcet style curls. She gives you a fleeting look, smirking. “You look damn good, girl.”

Shyness fills you up, warming your cheeks with her tone. “Do they have the time to answer my questions?”

“They don’t.” She corrects, leading you away from the crowded floor. “Smoke will have everything you need. It’s his area of expertise.”

“He related to her? Or got kin in it?”

Mary doesn’t answer you, just leading you closer and further down the back of the club. The same path Smoke had blocked you from entering. This time, she made no pause or gave no look-backs. She opens the door with a key that had been tucked into her bosom and puts you in front of her. “Door opens from inside. You go straight up that staircase, the first door belongs to Smoke. You don’t gotta knock, just open. He knows your coming.”

You follow her instructions, trying not to flinch at the sound of the door slamming shut behind you. The stairs creak as you walk up them. Bleach and pine sol fill your nose, like they clean here constantly, like it was some sterile hell.

Fighting against your natural instinct, you open the door and find Smoke pulling on a cigarette, face the opened balcony door of his office. His silhouette looks drawn out of a dirty magazine; broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs. He turns his face to you, smoke clouding his head. Then he steps forward, outing the cigarette on the iron flooring of his balcony before he came in. The yellow light casting an attractive glow on his face.

He was a good-looking man. Too bad y’all might be cousins.

“I want to apologise for chasin’ ya out here the other day.” He murmurs, sitting on the side of his desk. “Family is a touchy subject. Annie is a touchy subject.”

“You talk like you knew her.”

He smiles, though it looks sad and forced. “I knew her well enough.”

“I don’t want no trouble. I’m just looking for my history, sir.”

“Sir.” He chuckles, looking at you like he was searching for something in your face. “Got manners like someone from the Delta. Tell me again how Annie is related to you.”

“She’s my grandmother’s sister. My Gran was her little sister, her name was –”

“Marie.” He says. “Annie was twelve years older than her and would write her once a month.”

“Yeah…” you murmur. “Are you Annie’s grandson? You look just like that picture of her husband and her. I knew it couldn’t be coincidence.”

“Nah.” He drawls. “I’m Moore but ain’t kin to her. Too good of a woman for me to have come from her. Too pure a soul.”

“No such thing as a pure soul.” You correct. “I have a few of her documents, like her marriage license and birth certificate. Mary gave me a lot of good data but I still feel as though I need parts of her. Like I’m getting surface level shit.”

He hums, the front of his expensive shoe pushes at the chair in front of him. You take the hint and sit down. “I’m not a practitioner but I know a few things. I don’t have the sensitivity people say she had but I know when my ancestors are speaking to me. They keep sending me here. To you. You have to have some sort of information about her that I can’t get elsewhere.”

“Yo’ gut telling you that?”

“Yes.”

Smoke shakes his head.

He goes behind his desk and removes a paint, one of sunrise across the Mississippi. The face of a safe stares back and you, and he unlocks with his back blocking your gaze. From it, he lays a chest on his desk. When he opens it, there’s a plethora of notes, sketches of herbs and plants, wax coated bottles and letters. You don’t even have to ask to know its all Annie.

When your hand touches the box. Filled with authentic things that holds her spirit, held by her hands. You feel your vision darken and you collapse; hums ringing in your ear.

***

Smoke doesn’t make you feel bad for fainting. In fact, when you awake you’re startled by the look of fear in his eye. Though he discounts it, saying he didn’t want a lawsuit or anything. You sit up, sipping the water he had one of the waitresses bring up for you.

“Can I take these back to my apartment? I just wanna go through them. I’ll go to the library and make copies.”

“We got a copy machine in the office. These,” he presses a ringed index finger on one of the few photographs. “Don’t leave here.”

“How often can I come then? Can I stay till you close?”

Smoke narrows his eyes. “You can stay till we close. You can come tomorrow then after you’ll have to call.”

“The club number?” You ask, removing your purse and taking out your notepad and pen. You stand over the chest and start to go through it. You find a letter addressed to someone named Elijah, her husband.

“Take mine.” A card slides over the letter and you pocket it.

“I’m grateful for this.” You say, for the third time. “You don’t know what it means to have this in my hand.”

Smoke hums. You find he tries not to say more than he has to.

You stick around until the music from the bar is done. Till your boots feel too tight and chafe, till your belly roars in hunger as you feast upon the information laid out to you. Annie had been meticulous. Her knowledge of herbal medicine was something special; not even in the most detailed of interviews garnered this.

A pang of loss stings you; had you not found your way here, all of this ancestral knowledge would’ve been lost. The roots, gone.

“This should be in a museum.” You mutter, half-way through her notecard on herbal treatment for chickenpox scars. “A history tucked away in a box.”

“It ain’t history if you lived it. It’s part of you.”

“Well, I haven’t lived it. Millions of black people haven’t. Millions of us don’t have someone who kept records, or who told us these parts.” You bemoan. You set the notecard down and put your pen and notepad back up. “I’ll be here tomorrow ‘round six. Is that okay?”

Smoke waves his hand. “Just put my shit back in the box.”

On instinct you roll your eyes. Jackass.

That evening, Smoke is who greets you. Looking sharp in a blue jeans, colourful waistcoat that was finely made, and a long-sleeved shirt. You hated when a man knew he was good-looking. Smoke doesn’t say anything, walking you up to his office and taking a seat on the balcony while you took notes.

You’re a few hours into reading her letters to her husband, Elijah. When the door opens to reveal his twin. Stack glances at you briefly before looking straight at Smoke.

“Nigga, we got a problem.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy.”

“It’s urgent.” Stack stresses on the last word, the toothpick between his teeth threatening to snap. Smoke curses low and stomps out, but not before issuing a warning to you. “Don’t take none of my shit.”

“I don’t steal.” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind.

You set that letter down and pluck another one. This one is one of the later dates. Post-war, many years. This one wasn’t written by Annie, rather, her husband. Elijah writes with flourish to her, his chicken scratch promising betterment through schemes. Yet there is an earnest, mature affection there. A love divine.

Your heart aches for him, you wonder if he panicked when she disappeared. If he mourned. Setting it back, you go to her notes – wishing for a reprieve from sentiment. There’s a cluster of notes based on all kinds of spirits; haints, wendigos, vampires, she had them by the dozens. You buzz with curiosity, slipping the notes into your bag.

Smoke wouldn’t notice it missing. Right?

When he comes back, looking more frazzled than you’d ever see him, you continue reading and note-taking until its time for you to leave. One of his staff brings up some copies you’d asked for, and you pocket them, leaving.

“I’ll call around six to make sure I can still come?”

Smoke nods and turns his face, looking out the balcony with no small amount of longing.

Yesterday’s routine of sleeping and note neatening repeats, settling on a dull rhythm. You unravel yourself in the daylight, lingering over what was taken from you. No. Hidden. You watch the sun set slowly over the horizon of Charlotte. Beneath your apartment, you smell the crawfish stew your neighbour seems to cook every night for dinner. The only thing she seems to know to cook; at first it had sickened you but now it was delightful cause you know it meant you hadn’t disappeared behind your research, behind the maybes and ifs of histories.

Hungry gnaws at your stomach and for the first time of the day, you get up to get some food. You set a pot on the stove to boil, adding some stray noodles. You begin the clean the studio apartment, picking up the clothing you’d stripped off that morning. You pick up your purse and rummage for garbage, finding Smoke’s business card.

Annie’s, the front says in simple script and below the bar’s landline. You flip the back and see his scrawl. You stare at the number for a moment. Then two.

Then you go to your coffee table, which doubles as desk, and pick up the last letter you’d read. From Elijah to Annie. You stare at it. Really, truly stare.

Dropping them, you lock your front door and windows. Toss salt at them and hang cloves of garlic. You curse. You swear. You cry.

The handwriting was identical. Hauntingly. Like you’d copied it.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, going through copies of Annie’s notes. There was a bath recipe for clarity of mind. Maybe that would help. Yeah, that would fix you up. You had almost everything in your kitchen. Rosemary, cinnamon, and white candles. That was simple enough. Even you could try it.

You fill your bathtub of warm water, soak the rosemary, sprinkle cinnamon. You light white candles; seven as written. When you’re done, you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you? This wasn’t just basic protection work, you were doing a bath. A full-fledged one that might have serious consequences.

Filled up with fear, you sink yourself in, dunking your head and staying as still as you could. When you open your eyes; crimson greets you and a story that makes your skin crawl.

***

“I just thought you were passionate about this topic,” your Professor says as you sit across from her, back in New York are weeks out-of-state.

You shake your head. “It was a fool’s errand. I was in over my head. I think this new research will yield better data.”

“But you were getting good, honest to God data before.” She grouses. “We need more black stories. We need African American history written by African American scholars.”

“This will still be African American scholarship.” You remind, folding your hands.

She sighs, raising her hands. “Listen, you’re ahead of the curve. I’ll give you a week to just think about this and make a decision. How about that?”

Frustrated, you nod and leave her office. The campus trees have lost their greenery, brown and yellow coating the flooring. It was fall. The days had gotten darker and you – jumpier. You’d ran from Louisiana so fast you were sure you left skid marks in your tracks. You took a month off from classes and returned with a new research proposal and a reverence for leaving the past where it belonged. What you’d seen when you went under water changed you. Whether it was for the better or worse, you had yet to decide.

You find yourself back home, in your grandmother's brownstone she’d left you in her passing. Her Catholic mementos collecting dust on every shelf. Slivered cross hanging above her mantle. It feels hollow.

At around seven, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it was pizza, you go straight to it without looking out. The ten dollar bill you hold drops and so does your heart. Standing at your stoop, hands in the wool trench coat, was Smoke – his eyes crimson in the yellow stoop light.

“Hello Little Girl.”

You slam the door shut and press your back to it, eyes closed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Don’t be rude.” He says curtly, muffled through the door. “I’d hate to start knocking off yo’ neighbours. I think Imma start with that old lady across the road. Miss Shirley? Then, I’ll go to the family…”

You open it again.

“I don’t want any trouble.” You start. “I haven’t said a thing. I haven’t done shit to you and your brother.”

Smoke tsks. “Liar.”

“I’m not –”

“You stole from me.”

“She’s my family.”

“She was my wife.”

You shiver. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. Admit to being a monster. “I have it in a security deposit box. I got to have time – I can only get it in the day.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow evening then. Seven sharp.”

Smoke disappears as easily as his namesake, dusting in the air with the unnaturalness of his nature. You close the door and scrub your face. Your appetite disappears. In the following day, you take everything out of your box and prepare and wait.

When Smoke appears again, you toe the box out and jump back when he takes it. He takes his time inspecting it. The notes you’d stolen are in his hand. The box is tossed into your home.

His gaze rolls over you, he licks his teeth. “Was never gon’ kill you.”

You believe him. “You still one scary motherfucker.”

“You remind me too much of her.” He admits. “I’m gon’ be here for a few months. If you wanna learn ‘bout her, ‘bout your family, I can tell ya.”

“Where are you staying?”

He smirks. “Nah, little girl. You gon’ have to find me.”

***

Smoke looks like he’s waiting on you when you step into the foyer of the Cortez. He’s in the lounge, reading a newspaper with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Not one of those rolled ones you notice he smoked back in Charlotte, but a premade one with the brown tip.

When you enter his eyes look up, drawing over you from head to toe. From your knitted hat to thigh-high black boots. Smoke doesn’t say anything but stands at your entry, hand behind his back as you walk over to him.

“I didn’t think vampires stayed at hotels.”

He quirks a brow. “Where the fuck you think we stay?”

“Graveyards and mausoleums.”

His lips tremble but he doesn’t smile. The two of you find an alcove in the hotel’s restaurant, secluded. You order a malt and he orders a whiskey.

“You can still eat and drink?”

He hums.

You let a moment pass. “Was she allergic to shrimp?”

His brows furrow. “Made her vomit.”

You smile. “Me too. Hate the smell of catfish too.”

“Nah. She loved that. Made the best fried catfish in the county.”

“I read that she cooked.” You say, rubbing your forearms. “How did she die?”

Smoke blinks, clearing emotion from his throat. “The vampire that made me…tried to make her but she didn’t want it.”

You’d read their love, their care. Why wouldn’t she want that forever? “She kill herself?”

“I killed her.”

“Oh.”

The waitress brings your drinks. You take your malt, suddenly wishing you’d taken whiskey instead. “How long had she practiced Hoodoo?”

“Long as I knew her.”

“Did she tell you who taught her?”

He sips his whiskey. “Her Ma. Your Granny told you any stories ‘bout her? Annie told me she was mad as a hare but gifted. Did some bad root and it turned her over.”

You scoff. “My Granny didn’t talk about her Ma. She was ashamed of her. Of Hoodoo and her roots.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I think she was ashamed my Grandfather would leave her. See her as lesser.”

“That ain’t love.”

“Nah.”

“But is survival.”

You shake your head. “Yeah. It was.”

The two of you sit and talk, casual and cool, until the bar closes and Smoke invites you up to his room. You sit by the window and listen to him tell you all he knows. You ask if you can come back – if you can return tomorrow, the day after and the day after that. He lets you. By some miracle. You keep coming back for weeks. Until you memorise cinnamon on his skin. The two of you seem to listen to other, and hear, and wonder and want.

Smoke isn’t the kind of man who screams that he wants you. Or anyone. From his letters, you gleaned that he was the kind to observe you and consider how you might want him. How you might like to spoken to, listened to, kissed, touched, known. His style was to know you. To know you, then romance you. Though, you didn’t want to assume that’s what he was doing.

Maybe he was just being kind.

Maybe you were letting your want of him get ahead of yourself. You know you got dumb when you got wanting something. Oh. You did want him. You wanted him so much that you let Monica – a friend from your political science class talk you into going out with a group of other classmates to a party in Greenwich.

You wanted him so much you were going to will yourself to forget him.

The club was an abandoned factory about two bus rides from your brownstone. The air was filled with weed and good music pouring out of the walls. You could see long-haired fellas sorting lines of power off perky breasts. You turn your head and see Monica with a group of your classmates, giggling behind a bottle of beer. The two of you make four and she calls you over. Removing your jacket, you reveal the black tights, thigh-high heels and mini red dress you’d worn with long sleeves to your knuckles. The dress was snug and made you look like you stepped off of Jet Magazine; it was the ideal mood-lifter for tonight.

“Looking sexy, baby!” she hollers, pulling you into the group. You recognise some face but greet everyone with a smile.

Drinks begin to slowly come out, the drunker you all got, the easier conversation and dancing got. Diana Ross’ voice fills the air and you couldn’t help but drag Monica out, dancing with her to the hymn of love. Your hands went in the air as your hips roll in the air.

Hands that were too large to be hers settled on your waist; you ignored the shiver of want running down your spine and danced. You close your head, leaning against your new partner. When the song changes and he spins you to face him you open your eyes and gasp to see Smoke.

You try to move but he holds you close, settling his thigh between your legs, your skirt riding and he made you grind on his thigh. You open your mouth to say something but words fail you. Instead, you let him control the dance. Your hands on his shoulders as your hips roll against his thigh and his hands slide under your dress.

Smoke and you move like two slippery things, stuck to each other and synchronised as you moved. The song changes and you move from his leg, turning your back to him and dancing against him. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the way his hands seem to need to be on you; touching you, feeling you, as though you might slither away.

Monica calls your name; ripping through your moment. And when you turn, Smoke is gone.

You get home at around 3AM, feet sore as you stumble into your apartment. But you find energy to make it to your couch. All your layers too warm. Too much. You peel them off, huffing at the inconvenience of being clothes. When the layers are on the carpet, you try to mimic Smokes hands on your skin, try to imagine that club as your fingers find purchase between your thighs.

You try to think of his hands forcing your legs wider; index pressing onto your clit as he made circles on it, preparing you for him. You close your eyes so you can see his face; his red eyes and full lips. His want. His need. When you come on your fingers, you swear you hear his voice, growling your name in the wind.

There isn’t a next meeting because you don’t schedule it. Shame fills you at the sight of his name. At the sight of Annie’s name. You feel like you’ve betrayed her. Like you’re some low, evil slut.

Instead, for the next month you focus on your new research and get out ten chapters, though your Professor only starts making notes on their first two. Academia, you bemoan, a fickle bitch.

One night, when you’ve been cramming late at the library, you climb your stoop half-aware and find him sitting there. No cigarette in hand. Just his hat and his gaze straight; holding you in place.

“Hello.” You whisper, fiddling with your key.

“Hello.”

“I thought you left.”

“Did ya’ want me to?”

“No.” You climb up and open the door, looking behind you. “Come inside, Elijah.”

Your home feels different with him in it. You’re conscious of its smallness. Of his largeness. Of the Catholic figurines. Your half-opened books on every counter. You scramble to clean it but stop, feeling silly. Removing your coat, you hang it up and leave your bag on the ground beside your couch.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks in his sweet, deep drawl.

You almost laugh. “God, no.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“I felt bad.”

Smoke’s eyebrows raise.

“Fuck. You didn’t make me feel bad. I felt bad because of Annie.”

A look of realisation crosses his face, then understanding. He nods. “Annie was the best of women. I understand. But she’s also dead. Been dead for forty years. Ain’t no guilt there.”

“I didn’t want to force you either. Make you feel like you had to.”

At that, Smoke looks almost dying of laughter. He steps forward, grabbing your neck and kisses you deeply. His lips soft and mouth melting onto your own. His tongue, thick, cloying into you.

Your back hit the wall and the buttons of your dress pop was his hands travelled further. Your hands fell to his belt buckle, undoing it blindly so you could slip behind the waistband of his briefs to tug his member.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling his lips back for a moment, the word soft on your mouth when your lips reconnected. His hands went behind your back, unhooking your bra and rubbing along your skin till he cupped your buttocks.

You released him to let the bra slide, pulling away and pushing him against the wall. Fluttering your lashes at him, you tug his pants and boxers down, sinking to your knees. “Put your hands on the wall.”

Smoke obeys, watching you with desire-tinged eyes. You run your tongue along his length, opening your mouth along its base, over the long vein, spit coating. Your hand circles, tugging from root to base. You put your mouth on the tip, sucking.

Above you, you hear his honeyed voice muttering, moaning.

Beneath him, you command him. You make his knees buckle and made him murmur madness. For a moment you go groin deep and pull back, then again, then again, then again. A muffled, ‘Fuck’, dances in the air.

When you pull him from your mouth, you kiss his tip softly and tug at him faster, firmer. “Are you close?”

Smoke can’t speak but it isn’t hard to guess. You smile. Big bad vampire reduced to this by your mouth. How powerful you felt.

You keep tugging him, giving a languid lick to his sack, putting your mouth on it, sucking it. It doesn’t take long for his to coat your hand. Ensuring your gazes are met, you lick the sensitive tip and the essence on your hands, shivering at the salt in it.

Smoke bends to your level and lifts you up, unto his hips and walks with you until he plants you on the dining table. You hold a breath as he kisses you once more, before forcing you on your back, his mouth on your centre. His lips suctioning on your button for a moment before he licks you from the base of your slit to your nub, lathering you with his drool. It made you tingle, nerves alit by the saliva.

As if sensing your gaze, his red eyes flash up; dangerous.

That thick tongue that had licked your throat divided inside your, swirling around your cove, lapping at the growing dampness, lips pressing against your own as he moved against you, rubbing you along his mouth. Smoke doesn’t raise his head. He drags up onto your clit, kissing, sucking until you ride his face to completion.

You kiss. The taste of the others on your tongue, and mixing with the other. Hands everywhere and no enough places. It’s maddening. You feel a hunger you never have before; a need as if in this touch you would find air – salvation – damnation.

The blunt velvet of his member presses against your trembling centre, he kisses you softly, closed mouth, as if asking for permission. You stretch forward, biting his lip and slipping your tongue for a taste his mouth again.

Yes.

When he enters, you yelp into his mouth, wide and long, he burns for a moment before the giddiness of being filled thrills you. His hips nestle close to you, his breathe cool as it fans on your face. Smoke’s voice drops real low, he says, “You’re beautiful.”

Words don’t get to fall from your lips before he starts, building slow and holding you close, hips rolling against your own. He takes his time, like the sun isn’t rising to kill him, like you aren’t aging, like the two of you have forever.

It’s so delicious, it sends you screaming under him. Hips rolling back and nails digging into his skin like sliver.

“Been thinking about this pussy since I saw you,” he admits, teeth nipping the swell of your breast. “Feels like heaven. Like I came home.”

“You feel good,” you whimper. “You taking such good care of me, baby. God. You’re so sexy.”

“You want me, baby?” He teases, raising on of your legs over his shoulders. The depth of the new angle makes you mewl like a cat in heat. “Fuck, you do. Got me deep in this.”

The two of you lose your power for words and keep going until you become jello from a shuddering climax, and he stiffens in you, flooding you. When you part, you hold each other close and stare at your ceiling. Cooling down in the other’s hold.

His thumb strokes your shoulder, wiping at the cooling sweat.

“When do you go back to Louisiana?” You ask, taking the risk to ruin the moment. His thumb doesn’t stop, his cold body pressing close to you doesn’t try to inch away.

“We leaving there. Been too long. They gon’ notice us not aging.”

You hum, kissing his chest. “Where are you going next?”

“Been thinkin’ of setting a place up down in Harlem.”

You wonder if he hears your heart speeding up in excitement. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.” You whisper, the sounds of rain starting upon your roof, rolling louder into a storm. “That’s real good.”

Though he leaves before sunrise, you know when the sunsets in the evening, he’ll be in your house again, dragging that honey voice with each step.

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