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no-144444 · 1 month ago

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cruel- c.sainz

꩜summary: an argument means he says some things he doesn't mean. he's never gotten that cruel before though.

꩜pairing: carlos sainz x fem! fiancé reader

꩜a/n: kinda toxic relationship but like not really but like also so be aware :D

You two didn’t fight. It just… wasn’t like that. You argued. Calmly. Softly. Gently. He didn’t shout. You didn’t scream. Neither of you ever walked off without having the issue resolved.

It had never been like this. Just one slip of the tongue about him not being there for the important things, like your promotion, or Laura’s graduation, or those nights when you just needed your boyfriend a bit more than the other nights. That, and the mention of your new friend, Jamie, you knew him from work. He off-handedly got you a bunch of flowers for your promotion, just doing something nice. Carlos didn’t like it. You fought him on it, telling him he shouldn’t care since he’s never here. It wasn’t meant to be as snarky as it came out, you were just frustrated, you just wanted Carlos back for yourself, not constantly working or thinking about how he himself could improve the car. Carlos was tough, sure. Tough on himself, tough on Williams, tough on James. He was the kind of tough that didn’t really disappear, even in his gentlest moments. But he wasn’t tough on you. He was softer around the edges, reining it in so you wouldn’t run away. His voice was less gruff. His eyes were less hardened. He didn’t want to give you a reason to leave him, well, more than the ones you already had.

Tonight he was angry. The kind of anger that silences a room and makes everywhere his own. The kind of anger that puts you on edge for a few days, even if it’s passed. The apartment didn’t feel big enough, didn’t feel like a shared space, it felt suffocating as you sat on the couch, Carlos shouting his head off at you, screaming that you were inconsiderate, that you were trying to make him angry, that you weren’t thinking. “So what do you want me to do, huh?” he barked, his voice loud. You were sure the neighbours were confused. “Do you think I am just going to relax this whole season?! Williams is a place for learning- for growth. I cannot grow if I’m not putting in the work!” His voice was cutting through the tension in the air. He stared at you with pleading eyes, begging for an answer.

“I’m not asking you to stop racing Carlos, I’m asking you to spend some more of your free time with me-” you held your ground. You weren't being unreasonable. You wanted your boyfriend to be your boyfriend for more than 5 minutes a day. He sighed and spun on his heels, facing the other direction, head in his hands. “I’m sorry I said what I said about the Jamie thigh-”

He spun around again, wide eyes meeting yours. “So it’s a thing now? It’s a ‘Jamie thing’ now?” he demanded. “Dios mío, Y/n he’s a co-worker, he’s not in love with you,” he scoffed and you felt yourself recoil. What did that mean? ‘He’s not in love with you’ is he insinuating he’d have no reason to be in love with me? That I’m unlovable? That there’s no way anyone else would date me? You thought to yourself, emotion building in your chest. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. “He shouldn’t be giving my girlfriend flowers-”

“It was a nice thing to do!” you argued, your voice rising to meet his, as you stood from the couch. You couldn’t take this bullshit anymore, this ridiculous disrespect when both of you knew he was in the wrong. “I got promoted! 8 people sent me flowers and none of them were my boyfriend! How do you think that makes me feel, Carlos? Do you think it makes me feel cared for? Appreciated? Like you’re proud of me? Well, it doesn’t. It makes me feel like you don’t even care that I have a life outside of being your perfect little WAG.”

He rolled his eyes, his fists clenching. “You know I wanted to do something with you in person-”

“When was that going to happen?” you spat. “Winter break? Come on Carlos, just admit you knew nothing about it until I brought the flowers home, and you only started caring then. This isn’t about Jamie, or what my promotion is, it’s about you feeling like putting our relationship on the backburner isn’t a problem. I’m not asking for flowers or dates every week. I’m asking you to take an interest in my life again, and if you feel like you can;’t do that, then I don’t really know what we’re doing here,” you shrugged, the first of a few tears falling. “I can handle myself most of the time, I just need help sometimes. I need you-”

He scoffed. “Can you handle yourself? You’re crying to me about a fucking promotion and wanting to be congratulated on it.”

He realised he crossed a line. He saw the way your face hardened. He saw how you stiffened. You crossed your arms, willing yourself not to cry. Your voice was soft and fleeting. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.”

Then the silence. The suffocating, intoxicating, charged silence that made you want to run out of your own home and never come back. You couldn’t believe him. You knew he was stressed, but this was beyond stress. This was him being cruel. He had no right to speak to you like that. You could tell he wasn’t even listening to your side of the story and of course you hadn’t told him about the flowers because you knew how he’d react. You just didn’t think it’d be this bad. You didn’t think he’d belittle and dominish you so much. You didn’t think he’d cared so little. You turned your back on him, walking into your shared bedroom, needing time to think. You didn’t see it, but he reached out for you, but he stopped before he grabbed you, not knowing what to say.

The lock clicked into place and you finally let yourself break down, your hand flying over your mouth to stop yourself from sobbing. You tried to suck in a steadying breath, but all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and the weight of his words still pushed against your chest. You stared at the blue walls, your arms wrapped around yourself like it might somehow hold you together from falling apart. Your throat burned from the tears falling down your face, but you made no effort to grab the bottle of water on your bedside table, not when you knew Carlos had made it for you that morning. Fuck, how could so much change in one stupid fucking morning?

This was uncharted territory. He could be sharp, frustrating, downright rude sometimes, but he wasn’t cruel, not to you. He could fight people on track like it didn’t matter if they lived or died, but he’d always hop out of that car with a soft kiss for you. Even in the beginning of your relationship, when it consisted of heavy and wanting glances where you cautiously tiptoed around each other, to something tangible, something steady, something real- Carlos had always been there for you. Maybe not physically, but he was there. He’d always text at the right times, call just when you needed him, say the right thing, always. He was passionate, sure. Sometimes he got it wrong, but he was never cruel. He never wanted you to feel like you needed to hide from him.

You pressed your back up against the door, trying desperately to will the tears away, will that sinking feeling in your chest away, make everything alright again, forget today and all the horrible things he said. You couldn’t. You knew it wasn’t totally fair to pin all the blame on him. This fight wasn’t just about Jamie. It wasn’t just about him not giving you enough attention. It was both of you realising that if you didn’t work on it, your relationship was bound to break apart.

And that scared the shit out of you.

Carlos was protective, he always had been. But he was never possessive. He didn’t ask you to change. He didn’t ask you to not have guy friends. He didn’t feel intimidated by your male co-workers. Then Jamie rolled up with his bouquet of your favourite flowers, and he felt threatened. Then he panicked that he felt threatened, and he took it out on you. At first it was sweet, quiet mumbled in Spanish about how he shouldn’t be doing that knowing you have a boyfriend at home. Somewhere between then and now, it turned into a screaming match where Carlos insulted your very being.

You let out a shaky breath, your mind rushing at a thousand miles an hour. The diamond ring on your finger weighed down your hand. You felt it more than you ever had before. Every negative thought your brain could muster brought itself to the surface as you looked over it. He gave it to you just to shut you up. He hates you. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t care that you’re pulling away. He doesn’t care about you. You groaned, pouting as you looked at it. It was so beautiful. A proposal down by the harbour. Private. Small. Gentle. Carlos in front of you, tears in his eyes, asking you to choose him, because he already chose you. You sighed.

Ding!

Your calendar app sent you a notification.

Carlos and Y/n’s Engagement Celebration Dinner!

You scoffed at your phone, wiping your eyes. Worst timing ever.

Meanwhile, Carlos stood in the living room, going over every horrible thing he’d said. He ran his hands through his hair repeatedly, something he did when he needed to think- or when he was pissed off. He knew you were upset, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to notice the way your eyes welled up with tears when he said what he did. He also knew his reaction was totally out of line, he was pushing you too hard without having a real reason, and the guilt of that settled in his stomach like an ulcer he couldn’t get rid of. This was the first time he’d directed everything at you. He was wrong, he knew that. But that anger persisted, burning in his chest like a fire that just wouldn't go out. He wasn’t angry with you, he was mad at the situation. Hell, he wasn’t even mad at the situation- he was fucking terrified he was on the brink of losing you. He was more terrified that that argument might’ve been the last nail in the coffin.

He ran a hand through his hair again, scoffing out a heavy sigh as he walked out to the balcony, dropping down onto the chair he’d sat not 8 hours ago, having breakfast with you. He kept replaying it, over and over again, like a corner he couldn’t get quiet right, or a chicane he’d fucked up one too many times. His words were sharp. Cutting. Cruel.

He contemplated trying to talk to you again. Trying to apologise, admit he was scared of losing you. But even he knew you needed space. His jaw and fists clenched as he stayed put on the balcony, watching over the roads he knew so well, wishing he’d done so many things differently.

Ding!

He opened his phone as fast as he could, hoping it was a message from you. It wasn’t.

Carlos and Y/n’s Engagement Celebration Dinner!

Fuck’s sake. He swiped a hand over his face and groaned. Of course he picked a fight on the one day you two needed to be a happy couple.

You stepped out of the bedroom wearing a long white dress, something simple and plain. Just silk. Your hair up. A bag in hand.

You were breathtaking. He stared. He’d gone with a white linen shirt and some white trousers, not really knowing what to wear since he had assumed you would’ve guided him. You didn’t. You also didn’t look up at him. The various keys stayed on the counter, untouched. If you left it any later, you’d be late to your own reservation.

He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold you, promise you he didn’t mean anything he said, and apologise. You sat on the bench beside the door, lacing up your heels like they’d offended you in some way. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He didn’t want to. Your movements were sharp, jerky, and your mouth was set in a flat line. You looked up at him, your mouth opening like you had something to say. It closed again. You weren't sure if it was frustration or guilt, or anger written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in twists. “Which car do you want to take?” he asked, clearing his throat. He wanted this to be about you, about the way you two loved each other, about how good the good times were, even in the midst of a bad time.

“Whatever you want, Carlos,” your voice was airy, lacking of its usual conviction. He gulped. You walked out the front door without so much as a glance over your shoulder. He cringed.

The Monaco air seemed much too cold for May. Sharp, like it was taking after your argument,the universe working to remind you of just how shit you already felt. Carlos locked the door behind the two of you, and you didn’t wait up for him so that you could take his hand. He didn’t open your car door. He just sat into his own seat, hands gripping the wheel so hard they turned white. He placed the keys into the ignition without so much as a look your way. The radio switched on, filling the strained silence between the two of you.

The drive loomed over your head like a cruel punishment. You couldn’t cancel on everyone now. You couldn’t drive separately. You couldn't blow up. You just had to stay calm. That became increasingly difficult as you felt the emotions of the day overcome you, no matter how hard you tried to regulate yourself, the tears just kept burning your throat, that anxiety never left the place in your chest where it had settled over an hour ago. You focused your gaze out the window, watching as the streets of Monaco whipped by. You weren’t really paying attention to it, just trying to count and calm yourself down and your mind whizzed, focused on everything he did, and didn’t say.

He’d been louder than usual. Harsher. Crueler. His mouth worked before his brain could realise the hurt he was causing. Like he couldn’t stop it. But you knew he could’ve, if he really tried. You knew him. He had to control everything at 300 miles an hour, so he could definitely stop himself from saying the shittiest things he could think of to you.

But he didn’t. Knowing that hurt more.

The silence was deafening, growing unbearable. You just kept telling yourself you weren’t going to break, then thought about those times you promised yourself you’d never make yourself smaller for a man, all those times Carlos promised you that you’d never have to. You spared him a glance. Gone was that sweet boy who was too shy to speak to you the first time. His jaw was clenched. His eyes stayed on the road. His shoulders were hunched like he was trying to hide himself. But you saw past that. You saw the way his expression didn’t reach his eyes. The way his shoulder sagged. The way he was tired in a way he’d never admit. Drained. Emotionally drained.

You didn’t realise you were crying until the tear slipped down your face. Thank god you’d decided to pack your makeup bag just in case this very scenario occurred. You brushed it away quickly, knowing he hadn’t seen it. He couldn’t look your way. That just made your cry harder. More tears falling down, that sick feeling in your stomach, that weight on your chest, that burn in your throat.

You sniffled as you watched the countryside whip past you, hues of pinks and purples painting the sky. You pretended that small ache in your heart wasn’t a call for comfort, for reassurance, for him, but you knew it was. You wanted him to turn to you and apologise. Promise you he loved you. Promise he’d do anything to not lose you. But you didn’t want to have to be the one to reach out. You wanted him to. You wanted him to care.

Your hands were trembling in your lap. You hadn’t noticed. He did.

He pulled over the car on the side of the road, not caring that his Ferrari 812 Competizione was in the dirt on a countryside road. You barely noticed you’d stopped. “Cariño,” his voice was soft, gentle. He reached over. He held your hands like they were the most fragile thing on the planet.

You broke, tears falling. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, loud in the silence of the car. “I just miss you.”

He let out a heavy sigh, he squeezed your hands before he let them go, opening his door and rounding the front of the car. He was at your side before you could ever ask what he was doing.

“Come here,” He opened your door, the cool air rushing in as he offered a hand out to you. His tone was soft. So soft. So much softer than before. You took his hand without thinking much about it.

He pulled you into his arms. His chest was warm and solid. Grounding. He squeezed you like you’d run away if he didn’t, and maybe you would. It made you feel safer. Cared for. Like someone was there for you.

“I’m sorry Cariño,” he huffed out against your ear, you pretended not to notice the way his voice broke. “I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry too-” you tried, but he shushed you.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he shook his head as you let out yet another shaky breath. “I was a dick, and I was just scared of losing you. You’re just too nice to me, aren’t you?” he cooed, his thumb brushed against the side of your face as he looked down at your face. Your mascara was smudged. Tear lines down your face. He felt the splotchy heat on your chest and it pulled at his heart strings. “We’re going to be okay?”

You sighed, closing your eyes as your emotions took over again. You leaned your forehead against his chest. “What did you mean?” you whispered.

“What do you mean, my love?” he asked, a hand smoothing down your back.

“He’s just your co-worker, he’s not in love with you,” you repeated. “As if no one would ever love me?” you let out a sad chuckle. “I just want to know what you mean.”

He let out a shaky breath, internally kicking himself for saying such ridiculous things. He wanted to smack himself. “No my love,” he shook his head, your small sniffles twisting his heart strings as he tried to not let his emotion overtake his senses. “No. You’re wonderful and I was being stupid. Please don’t believe anything I said. You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you. You’re a genius. YOu deserve to be celebrated, and I’m sorry I couldn’t see that.”

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah, you are stupid,” you agreed, a sad smile on your lips. He chuckled against your hair. “We’re going to be okay?” you asked.

“I’m going to fight for you everyday,” he said it like it was a promise. An inevitable. A truth. You both felt that release of anxiety, though guilt lingered. You’d be alright. You’d fight for each other. You’d do what it takes to make it work. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment. Instead of pulling back completely, his lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek. His hands circled your waist, his breath on your cheek. You sniffled again, realising how much of a mess you must look. He didn’t care. He leaned in closer and your hands tightened on his shirt as he stopped, hesitating. He was dangerously close as an unspoken ache settled between you two. He held himself back as best he could, but all he wanted was to kiss you. “Carlos,” your voice was just above a whimper, and he only leaned in closer, cradling your face with a hand as his lips found yours. He kissed you like he needed to, passionate but slow. Careful and cautious, like your first. Like he couldn’t get close enough. Like it’d never be enough, no matter how many times he kissed you. You pulled back, breathing out with a small smile on your lips. He could’ve sworn he’d gone to heaven and died when you looked up at him. “We’re going to be okay,” you spoke the words like you meant it, and he felt his stomach twist in the best way.

He smiled. “You’re something else,” he shook his head, his voice low, a depth behind his words you couldn’t name. You chuckled, your cheeks heating. You pressed one last lingering kiss to the edge of his mouth and sent him a small smile.

“We’ll be late,’ you reminded him, stepping back into the car and getting your makeup bag out to start fixing your makeup. He shook his head, chuckling as he slid into the driver’s seat. His hand found your thigh, holding tightly.

It felt like he would never let go. You didn’t want him to.

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motorsportbarbie13 · 28 days ago

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One New Voicemail (Oscar's Version)

your relationship with oscar through voicemails

(no warnings. this one was fun. credit to @lestapiastrisgirl for the 'accidental voicemail' idea. hope this one was worth waiting for!! wc: 2.6k)

Oscar Piastri has a crush

“Hi. This is uh…” Oscar had actually just forgotten his own name.

“This is Oscar Piastri. We met today on that tour?”

He’d been asked to do a Q&A session with a class of kids that day, visiting from the local primary school. You’d been there, a chaperone for your son’s class.

Oscar had briefly forgotten how to breathe.

“Yeah, I hope this isn’t weird or anything but...”

Pause. Now that he was about to say this out loud, it sounded super weird. He was going to murder Lando for talking him into this.

“Okay this is probably pretty weird but in my defense, Lando said this is what he’d do.” Another pause, heavy with the weight of regret at listening to Lando Norris of all people.

“Which was probably my first mistake, listening to chaos personified. Anyway…”

Now, where was he?

Fuck.

“Fuck. Sorry. So.” Oh God, this was going so so very bad “This is Oscar from earlier today. I had my PR manager find your number because…this is so embarrassing.”

Oscar’s chest feels like it might crack apart with how heavy this moment feels.

“I’ve just never seen someone so pretty as you are and it’s to the point where I have to just, suck it up and shoot my shot because I might just go insane if I lose out on a chance at even one single date with you.”

The confession tumbles from his lips, quick and thick with his accent.

“So. If I haven’t totally terrified you yet, call me back? I’d like to take you out.”

Click.

He kisses you

“Hi.” He’s breathless, chest rising and falling quickly. Oscar is distracted momentarily by the memory of the way you’d pressed your lips to his just moments before.

“Uh…Hi.” He stumbles.

“I hope that was okay to do. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to kiss you all night long.” He flushes in to the darkness, thankful no one from the garage was around to see him absolutely fold for this woman.

“Every time you bite your bottom lip when you’re concentrating is so fucking distracting, I could barely remember how to blink.”

The confession hangs quietly in the air, thick and warm like woolen blanket.

“Woman, you have ruined me and I am so thankful for that. I don’t think I’ll ever fucking recover from that kiss, my love.” His voice is rich, husky in a way that made your stomach twist.

“When can I see you next?” A pause, as if something pings in his memory.

“I know you have Jack full-time and I want to be respectful of that. So, you tell me when and that’s what we’ll do.”

He makes it sound so easy. You know it’s not. But if he’s willing to try, so are you.

“You’re in control here.”

Music to your ears.

“Okay. Call me when you get a minute. I just want to hear your voice.”

Click

He Meets Your Son

“I am in awe of you, woman.” Oscar’s voice is misty, airy in a way that tells of his admiration of you.

“The way you mother Jack is…God.” He chuckles, sighs and shakes his head.

“It was a sight to see. That little boy is so loved by you.” Your heart stalls at his words, at the sincerity in his tone.

“I cannot believe how good he was at that miniature golf today!” Oscar huffs a laugh, light and genuine.

“Lando is going to be so excited to have a potential golfing buddy in the future.”

Oh, he was making plans plans now? He was so down bad.

“You know how some people are just built to be a parent? That’s you, my love.” The compliments spill from his lips, as easy as breathing.

“Watching you and Jack together today, getting to meet him…” The awe in his voice. Like he knew how big of a deal it was for you to allow someone else in your son’s life.

You didn’t bring people around that weren’t going to stay. You had extended that trust to Oscar and he had accepted that responsibility without question.

Knew it was a privilege.

“You are raising one hell of a kid. I hope you know that.” He pauses, dragging in a shaky breath. The emotion of what he wanted to say, what he needed you to know sat heavy on his chest.

“How good you are. How well you’re doing. I know you know this,”

A pause.

“But in case you need a reminder allow me to be the voice of reason, sweet girl.”

Tears slip down your face, fast and free as you choke on a sob.

“You are a good mom and Jack is such a good kid. Call me after his bedtime.”

Click.

He babysits

“Okay, don’t panic.”

You do, in fact, panic.

“Everyone’s fine. For the most part.”

Somehow, you doubted that by the way Oscar was panting and breathless on the other end.

“No one is at the hospital. Yet.”

You were going to kill him. And Lando.

“I feel like I’m babysitting Jack AND Lando right now. Oh God, they’re causing a scene.” You hear the distinct wail of your six year old followed by Lando’s muffled British accent.

“Why’d I let him talk me into taking Jack karting is beyond me.” He shakes his head.

“Not entirely sure how I managed to get you to agree to this.” He muses.

He was going to be in so much trouble.

“Jack’s only gone into the barriers twice, which is only once more than Lando funnily enough.”

It was not funny.

“Don’t tell Lando I told you that.” Oscar says quickly and you chuckle.

“We just finished our third race, Jack finished P1 all three of them.” Oscar sounds truly impressed.

“That kid is good, babe! If you want, we can go to a proper track next time!” He knows he might be getting ahead of himself but the way Jack looked taking those corners as fast as he could push the little go-kart reminded Oscar a lot of himself at that age.

He shakes his head, dislodging those kinds of feelings from his head. The dangerous ones. The ones that lead to slow Sunday mornings and quiet Thursday dinners.

“Maybe Jack will race at Silverstone one day.” His voice goes wistful. Sentimental. Something Oscar generally doesn’t allow himself the luxury of doing.

But he’s begun to, with you. Little by little. Piece by piece.

“Anyway. We’re having fun. Miss you.” He almost says two other words, but catches himself.

“Say bye to your mom, Jack.” He calls quickly.

“BYE MOM.” Your boy yells gleefully.

“BYE MOM!” Shouts Lando.

Oscar groans.

Click.

An Accidental Voicemail

The TV plays softly in the background. Everything is muffled. It takes you a moment to realize but this wasn’t meant to be recorded.

“So, your middle name is Jack? Just like my first name?” Jack asked skeptically.

You’ve been sent to the spa that Saturday morning, one of Oscar’s rare weekends home during the season. Jack was thrilled to get alone time with your boyfriend.

“Exactly.” Oscar confirms.

“Did she pick you on purpose then?” Jack asks, voice small.

Oscar tilts his head. Turns down the volume on the TV.

“What do you mean, bud?”

“Well, she already knows my name so did she pick you because your middle name is Jack. I know she forgets things a lot so maybe she picked you so she’d have one less name she’d have to remember.”

The laugh that Oscar lets out is genuine and warm. He ruffles your son’s dark brown curls. They’re so similar to his, it’s almost spooky.

“I don’t think that’s quite how it works, kiddo.” He says gently, but there’s laughter at the edge of his voice.

“No, I think it is.” Jack says, all six year old confidence and bravado.

“I think it means you two should get married one day too.”

Oscar is quiet for a beat. Like he doesn’t quite know how to react to that little declaration.

“Yeah, that’s the goal for one day, little man. Would you like that? Your mom and I getting married one day?”

This was certainly not the conversation Oscar thought he’d be having today. He hoped he wasn’t overstepping but it wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t already discussed it. In vague terms, in ‘one day’, abstract conversations about quiet wishes whispered late at night in the darkness.

Jack thinks for a moment and then nods. “Yeah, I think that would be cool.”

Something tightens in Oscar’s chest.

“Well, now we just have to get your mom on board, huh?” Oscar says conspiratorially. “Hopefully she says yes.”

“She already told me she would.” He says it so casually, so off-handedly that Oscar’s heart nearly stops.

And then he glances at his phone. “Oh…sh…”

Click.

Thanks, Dad

“Hi. We have a problem.” He stops. Silence.

“Problem? No, that’s not the right word.” He reconsiders.

Oscar is always very careful with his words.

“A…situation? That sounds bad. Maybe it is? I’m kind of spiraling.”

Clearly.

“When Jack got into the car today after school pickup, he told me how his friends didn’t believe his dad was Oscar Piastri.” Your stomach lurches.

“Dad.”

The word hangs in the air. Heavy. Meaningful. Everything.

“He…seemed to catch what he had just said and got a little shy.”

Jack had shrunk back in his seat, realizing his embarrassing slip of the tongue.

��But then in the tiniest voice I’ve ever heard him use, asked me if it would be okay if he called me dad.”

Oscar had nearly driven off the road.

“I panicked. Should I have told him no?”

A pause. He swallows around the stone of emotion that’s blocking his windpipe.

“I told him he could.” He confesses.

It had been an easy decision. As easy as falling in love with you. He just hoped you wouldn’t be mad.

“I told him that he could call me whatever he wanted and if he wanted to call me dad he could.” Oscar paused.

“I should have asked you though? Maybe?” His voice was tight. Thin. Like he was second guessing everything coming out of his mouth.

“Oh, I am freaking out here.” He blew out a breath.

“Did I just ruin everything? Jack was super happy when I dropped him at your moms. All smiley and chatty about his homework.”

The words come quickly, like he’s trying to convince himself that this is okay. That he’s not seeing his very much desired future unfolding right in front of him.

“Then he gave me a hug and said ‘Thanks for picking me up from school, Dad.’”

Emotion chokes him

“Babe. I. What?” He lets out a breath of disbelief. Like he can’t figure out how he stumbled his way into such happiness.

“Can I? Can we…”

A sob concealed as a cough.

“Be a family? Please?

Click.

Interview Blunder

“Um. Hi. Quick reminder that I love you…” Oscar was away for the weekend, somewhere in the Middle East, for a race.

“But hopefully you listen to this before you watch the post-race presser.”

Oscar had finished P2 that weekend, the tail end of a brutal triple header. You hadn’t seen him in what felt like weeks. The sound of his voice was a balm.

“I just…” He drags in a shaky breath.

“A reporter asked me if I was excited to have a few weeks off and without thinking I said that I couldn’t wait to get back home to my family.” That wasn’t unusual. Oscar was known throughout the paddock to be family oriented.

“I said that I missed my son and was looking forward to doing school drop-off so you could have your slow mornings back.”

Silence. Oscar has never publicly claimed Jack like that. It was known in your circle that you two were serious. That Jack called Oscar Dad. That you three were a family.

But to the general public? No one knew fully grasped how serious it was.

“I didn’t mean to talk about Jack so publicly. I know you don’t want him in the spotlight.” His breath catches, like he can’t fully take in a lungful of air.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be claimed by Oscar. You saw the kind of relationship he had with your son, the way he carefully considered Jack in everything he did. You were scared of the public scrutiny, the way people always had an opinion on everything. All you wanted was to protect what was yours.

“Fuck, please don’t be mad at me.” The anxiety in his voice has your stomach twisting painfully.

You weren’t mad.

“He calls me dad and I think of him as my own, baby. You and Jack are my family and I slipped.” He hadn’t meant it. It hadn’t truly clicked, what he’d said, until he saw the look on Lando’s face beside him. The shock. The awe. The cheeky grin.

“I thought Sophie was going to have an actual anxiety attack. Crofty nearly went feral. Lando choked on air.” He chuckled. The reactions in the room had been priceless, even if he’d fully panicked as soon as the weight of what he’d said settled in his chest.

“I think Max even smiled a little.” Anything that got Max Verstappen to show emotion was a big deal.

“Anyway. Fuck.” He paused, his train of thought stalling.

“My point is that I’m sorry, I just love that kid so much. And you. I love you.” He says it as easily as if he’s reading the day’s weather forecast. Matter of factly. Casually.

“And you’re both my family and one day we’re all going to have the same last name and he’s always going to be my son and I just hope you’re not mad.”

Another pause. Like he’s trying to figure out if he needs to do more damage control.

“I love you.” He says again.

Deep breath.

“Okay. Call me. Tell Jack I’ll be home soon.”

Click.

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #formula 1 #f1 #f1 x reader

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drchucktingle · 6 months ago

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how are you human?

so many interesting comments and thoughts on my post saying buds should consider not coming up to strangers in marginalized groups and saying 'how are you a real person that actually exists?'. i will point out this: despite my VERY gentle tone a few buds said i was having a 'meltdown' for even mentioning it

others said i was being too serious for someone who is ‘not a real person’. so if you would any more evidence of what it is like to be a buckaroo like myself there it is. every day, autistic folks who may seem ‘weird’ are bombarded with messages and comments and implications that they are fundamentally not human beings

sometimes it is outright and blatant like the comments on last post saying ‘well why are you getting mad? you are not even real’ and sometimes it is in the very subtle ways that folks use language when they talk to us. there is huge difference between ‘how do you exist?’ and ‘i am glad you exist.’

anyway, something that i think many people who have not lived this experience dont seem to understand is i KNOW the poster who said ‘how are you a real person that actually exists’ probably meant it as a compliment. that is THE POINT of why i am taking a moment out of my trot to gently and anonymously let them know how it might feel to be on other end of something like this as a queer or autistic or otherwise marginalized buckaroo. it is obviously not their intent to actually hurt someone, so i am letting them know

maybe because queerness and autism are not physically apparent it is hard to explain, but imagine going up to very tall or very short person and saying ‘cant BELIEVE you are real’ as a compliment. not a great way to treat others. on my original post, an indigenous author chimed in with their own experience and feelings similar to my own. a woman who said she was very tall told her story. point is, while i do not have their experience, what i am saying has a universal thread for 'othered' folks

point is: i UNDERSTAND there is this sort of exaggerated or ironic (or maybe even sometimes very literal) language around fandom to say things like ‘how are you a human?’ to creators, but since it is not your intent to hurt, i think you might want to know how that feels to marginalized buckaroos sometimes.

obviously you can say anything you want. i do not hold it against you. also, if you think ‘oh no, did i say something like this to chuck at a convention? i am so embarrassed' then DO NOT WORRY i promise you buckaroo you are just fine. i present myself in a way that is unusual by definition, so i have pretty thick skin about this type of thing and a lot of patience. MANY buds start off thinking i am ‘a joke’ and then become fans over time and i am glad to trot beside them and prove love is real.

however there are other autistic or queer or marginalized buckaroos with smaller platforms who hear this just as much as me, so i think it is important to say it loudly and maybe together we can work on making a very slight shift in the way we speak to the ‘others’ in our lives

we do not NEED to let subtle dehumanization slip into our language. in some cases it has been called ‘micro aggressions’ but i think buds dont often consider what that means for COMPLIMENTS. ultimately, telling marginalized people YOU ARE SO AMAZING YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY EXIST may seem very fun and silly on the surface and for some folks it probably feels that way, but for others it can feel like a reminder of the broader doubt about their humanity. you can just say ‘YOU ARE AMAZING’ without the reminder of the many times autistic or queer or marginalized folks are told in a very serious and pointed way (like comments on the last post) ‘YOU ARE SO WEIRD THAT I HAVE DECIDED YOU ARE NOT REAL’

buckaroos can take this information and apply it to their interactions, or they can ignore it, that is totally fine. we are all trotting our own trots and proving love in our own way and thats okay bud, HOWEVER i feel like it is important to at least let folks know, even if that means getting told i am having a ‘meltdown’. i think it is important to have complex or difficult conversations if it will prove a little more love in the long run. THANK YOU FOR READING BUCKAROOS. i am honored to trot forward with you can tackle this kind of thing with you, and honored you buckaroos have created such an amazing space with me to pull apart these kind of feelings. THIS IS PROOF THAT LOVE IS REAL LETS TROT

#buckaroo lifestyle #love is real

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 3 months ago

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Proposal Headcanons for Task Force 141 + Graves

Soap

Soap cannot play it cool. The man tries, but the moment he realizes he wants to marry you, it takes approximately 36 hours before he blurts it out mid-date, mid-bite, mid-everything.

“I love you. You love me. Let’s just do it, yeah? Marry me. Right now. I’ll steal a ring if I have to.”

You think he’s joking—until he pulls out an actual ring box from his cargo pocket. It’s dented. A little dirty. But the ring inside? Stunning. Soap actually planned ahead but couldn’t contain himself long enough for the ‘perfect moment.’

He kisses you before you even say yes, whispering, “You’re gonna be the death of me… but what a way to go.”

He doesn’t even make it to the bedroom.

The moment you say yes, he tackles you onto the couch, hands everywhere, breathless laughter between frantic kisses. His mouth is on your neck, mumbling, “You said yes—you said yes, I’m gonna ruin you for the next three days.”

He gets downright feral. Clothes ripped off, ring glinting as he grips your hips and mutters filthy praise in your ear. “Say it again. C’mon, sweetheart, say you’re gonna be my wife—while I’m deep inside you.”

You’re so sore the next morning you can barely stand. He carries you to the shower, grinning the entire time.

Gaz

Gaz puts in work. He’s low-key about it, but he plans the proposal down to the smallest detail: your favorite place, the perfect playlist, the exact time the light hits just right.

He gives a small speech about all the things he loves about you—your laugh, your stubbornness, how you make coffee wrong but he drinks it anyway—and then casually drops to one knee like he’s done it in his head a thousand times.

“You don’t make sense with anyone else. You make sense with me. And I want that for the rest of my life.”

You’re a mess. He’s a mess. Even the waiter cries.

He starts slow. Intense eye contact. Whispering thank you against your lips as he slips the ring on your finger and lays you down like you’re sacred.

But once his lips are on your skin? He loses control.

Gaz eats you out like he’s starved, murmuring, “My fiancée tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” between strokes of his tongue. You’re trembling before he even gets his pants off.

And when he finally pushes inside? It’s deep. Slow. A claim.

“I’m gonna make you feel me for days,” he breathes, forehead to yours, hips rolling with purpose. “This is how your husband loves you.”

Ghost

Ghost doesn’t plan to propose. Not because he doesn’t want to—it’s because he’s terrified. Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of messing it up.

But then one night, he wakes up after a nightmare and sees you asleep, soft and peaceful beside him… and it hits him. He needs to make sure you never leave.

Next morning? He slips a ring onto your finger while you’re still sleeping. Sits beside the bed, just watching.

You wake up to him staring at your hand, expression unreadable.

“Hope that’s alright,” he says softly. “Didn’t think I could get through asking without losin’ my nerve.”

It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him—and the most sure he’s ever been.

You see a side of Ghost no one else ever has.

Once you say yes, the mask comes off—literally and figuratively. He holds your face, kisses you like he’s drowning, and when he lays you down, it’s pure worship.

But when he’s inside you? All that control breaks.

Rough thrusts. Low growls. Hands gripping your thighs like he needs you to anchor him.

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, voice cracking. “Gonna fuck you until that ring rattles on your finger.”

After? He buries his face in your neck and whispers, “My wife. Mine. Mine.” Over and over like a prayer.

Price

Price goes traditional—old-school, respectful, completely heart-melting. He asks your parents (imagine his old ass asking your parents LMAO (he's only 37)), he wears a suit, he brings you somewhere meaningful.

He drops to one knee with total conviction. Eyes steady. Hands only slightly shaking.

“You’ve stood by me through everything. And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything I’ve got left.”

It’s not flashy. It’s intimate. He looks you in the eye like a man who already sees your whole life together—and you say yes before he even opens the box.

Bonus: He tears up. Silently. And tries to hide it with a “Might be dusty out here.”

He pours a glass of champagne, gives a toast to Mrs. Price-to-be, and then takes you to bed like a gentleman…

…until he’s got you pinned under him, writhing, one hand wrapped around your throat just enough to make you whimper.

“This is what forever looks like,” he growls, sliding in with maddening control. “You wanna be mine? You better be ready to take every fuckin’ inch of me.”

He makes love like a man with something to prove—and he proves it again. And again. And again.

After? He smokes a cigar with your head on his chest, murmuring, “Next time, I’m bending you over the vows.”

Phillip Graves

Graves turns the proposal into a production. Champagne, string quartet, five-star dinner, and probably a drone flying a banner overhead.

He gives a speech in front of everyone. A loud one. “This woman right here? She’s the best thing I ever got my hands on—and I’m damn sure not letting her go.”

He definitely drops to one knee in slow motion. Probably has a photographer hiding in a bush. Maybe two.

The ring? Custom-made. Probably with your initials engraved inside. He flashes that smug grin and says, “You didn’t think I was gonna do this halfway, did you?”

After you say yes, he yells “She said YES!” like it’s a victory and kisses you like he just won a Super Bowl.

Graves worships you that night like a man obsessed. Pours champagne over your chest just so he can lick it off. Tells you exactly what he’s gonna do with his wife in every room of the house.

“Gonna fuck you in silk sheets and marble floors, darlin’,” he purrs. “You think the ring’s nice? Wait till you see what I do with this body.”

Takes his time ruining you. Bent over the bed. Face down on the counter. On your knees in the living room.

Every time he makes you come, he taps the ring and says, “Mine now. And I’m never lettin’ go.”

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swtheartz · 3 months ago

Note

i loved your little drabble of the “breaking up with mark doesn’t work” post and i’d really like to hear your thoughts on how that would go down with some of his variants if you have the time pretty please🫶✨

ohh of course dear !! been thinking abt it and this req inspired me even more info : obsessive behavior, mentions and acts of murder, stalking, he’s crazy in every universe. gn!reader a / n : this is a gift to you guys for 348 followers. i’m soo grateful n happy <33

SINISTER MARK

he thinks it’s a joke at first. you’ve no real reason to actually want to leave him, right? he’s utterly convinced that there was nothing wrong with the relationship. and to be fair, there wasn’t. other than the fact he was possessive as shit and always had tabs on you. would scare off your friends and constantly linger around you whenever he wasn’t terrorizing the masses. the second he realizes that you’re serious? he doesn’t take it very well. you won’t ever find someone better than him. he won’t let you. just what human could ever be better than him?

“You’re not very good at jokes,” Mark says—voice and expression both hauntingly blank. It sends chills down your spine for the simple fact he’s never had such an empty tone. The way he looks at you is something that you can’t exactly put into words. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s annoyed, or expectant, or some other emotion that you cannot be bothered to decipher. Not when there’s blood staining your clothes and his, the floor, your cheeks and his hands. Whatever ‘friend’ you were hanging out with was dead before they’d hit the ground. It’s been twelve days since you had gathered the courage to tell Mark you wanted a break, and it took him this long to take you seriously. Thought, it hadn’t taken much effort for him to take a life. “I don’t know why you thought this was a good idea. . .” He hummed, tilting his head as he crouched down in front of you, watching you tremble like a deer in front of an incomprehensible creature. ”But let’s not do this again, hm?”

OMNI MARK

calm. at least, he seems calm. but he also doesn’t take you very seriously. acts as he usually does, even asks you when the next date night is. as if he’ll even be able to make it with his schedule and how often he cancels on you. looks at you as though you’ve said something ludicrous when you answer that there isn’t a date night—you’re not together anymore. surely, you don’t know what you’re talking about. if you wanted him to plan the next date, you could have just told him. he’s usually the one that does all the thinking, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. honestly, what made you think you could walk away from him? the one human he cares for, and you’ve the nerve to try and separate from him? funny.

“We’re not dating, Mark.” The way the two of you stare at each other for a few tense moments is a little awkward, though he doesn’t seem to care. He holds eye contact with you before sighing—like you’re a child who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Like you’ve garnered the nerve to tell some dry joke. “If you have a problem,” Mark starts, arms crossed against his chest as he ignores your exasperated expression, “we talk it out. Like a couple is supposed to do.” “But we’re not a couple anymore. That is what I’m telling you.” You’re attempting to be reasonable, you really are, but you swear up and down he’s making you feel like the crazy one. This has got to be the third time you’ve had this conversation with him, and it hasn’t even been a week. There isn’t any way you can get through to him and you just don’t understand why. Mark scoffs, again, ignoring you. “I’ll make sure I’m not busy. Crime’s been going down, so it should be fine. They’ll manage without me.” “Just kill me already.” You mutter to yourself, unable to decide whether or not you’ll be able to ever get your point across. . . . You’ll just try again tomorrow.

FULL MASK MARK

more pathetic than mainstream mark. this man is like a wet cat in the rain. tries to maintain distance, but ends up following you everyday, texts you without thinking about it while he attempts to reason that it’s okay. you just need some distance and time, and maybe you’ll both get better. ends up outside your window after a particularly bad fight with a villain he had. he didn’t do it on purpose, he just sort of ended up here. call it muscle memory if you will. all he knows is that he’s a mess without you—needs you like oxygen, can barely think or focus on anything without you. probably the only one that tries to be the best he can be for you outside of the main universe. and probably the only one you didn’t really want to break up with.

“ ‘m sorry.”

“Markus.”

“ ‘m sorry,” Mark sniffles, face tucked into your neck as he clings to you. You’d think of it as pathetic if it were anyone but him, honestly. He’d shown up with your favorite candy and drink, bloody and looking like a stray abandoned on the side of the street. You practically had to drag him through the window when he tried to turn back around. It took a bit of insisting and a med-kit to get him cleaned and patched up, despite him reminding you that he technically didn’t need it. You snapped at him to shut up before inevitably pulling him to your room again—letting him stay the night was an easy decision, almost too easy. As of right now, he was simply listening to the sound of your heartbeat, your soft breathing, enjoying the way your gentle fingers tangled in his hair. It was sweet. Familiar. Something Mark had missed so much it made his heart ache and hurt, to the point felt as though it was being ripped apart. Though, if it were done by your hands, he wouldn’t mind.

a / n : i liked writing this, i might make a part two to this and i’m gonna make the healer reader thing a series if you guys are up to reading that. mwah mwahhhh

taglist : @lxkoluvsu // @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha // @tokoyamisstuff

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aajjks · 1 year ago

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tw/ hórny èx bf, hè ís à crèèp, nôncôn, èxplïcït ând nsfw thèmès.

It’s hard to break up with someone like him because he doesn’t get the hint- it’s been barely 6 days and he finds himself right in front of your door.

Really horny. And quite frankly messed up.

He bangs on your door- at first he’s gentle, but then he finds himself losing his patience when you don’t open up after a few bangs at your door, even with the bell It’s not working.

He just might have to be a little bit more aggressive with it. See now, he doesn’t like being aggressive with you. He knows that you hate this side of him. That’s why you broke up with him in the first place.

It’s not really a break up to him though because you’re just trying to break and he thinks that this break has lasted way longer than it should have in the first place. So he takes deep breath, and he starts banging at it like a maniac.

“Yn! YN OPEN UP!” But you don’t. You’re really trying to test his patience and then you try to lecture him on his aggressive nature.

His pupils are dilated at this point, he’s feeling so crazy right now, it’s aching and his pants, and he has missed you like crazy-staring at your pictures is not enough anymore. Not at all.

It’s your fault, you know.

It’s your fault that you’re so beautiful and that you have his heart in your hands… he closes his eyes for a moment, and then he takes out the spare keys he had to your apartment-of course, you don’t know about them, but he had a locksmith make them for him.

Without any rational thinking- he unlocks your apartment with ease.

And soon the familiar scent of your home hits him and your ex boyfriend finds himself relaxing, his head feels a little better now. “Yn!~~~” he calls out your name with affection but you still don’t respond.

Weird.

So he decides to check if you’re home. He really hopes that you are because he needs to talk to you and… a lot of other other things.

First to fall of course it’s gonna be your bedroom, his feet, take him to the familiar room so easily, because he remembers every single room in your home, like the back of his hand.

And to his surprise? He hears the shower running. A Cheshire Cat smile spreads across his lips. But before he can think anything else, the shower drops sounds come to a halt.

Oh, so you must be done..

He waits- by sitting on your bed and waiting for you to come out, and he doesn’t have to wait long, so he unzips his pants, creepy? He doesn’t give a fuck.

He needs to fuck you and get you back. He has everything you ever want. Quite frankly, you can be ungrateful. Anyone would kill to be in your place… but too bad he wants you.

And there you are, in all your wet glory-with a towel loosely wrapped around your body, you gasp, expected, in surprised to see him, he smirks.

Your eyes widen and you open your mouth to scream at him, he doesn’t mind you can because he’s missed your voice a lot.

“Hi baby.” He greets you. Licking his lips, because he feels himself getting harder when he stares at your soaked, freshly washed body.

You look so sexy like this I can’t help but remember all the times he would fuck you senselessly in the shower or sometimes when you were done with it.

You’re just so irresistible. You get him so horny for no reason at all. It’s your fault and now you’re going to have to help him out.

“W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” You finally say something to him, even though you’re screaming at him like a maniac, he doesn’t mind.

“I can’t help it baby you know I love you and I can’t live without you-and I’m so horny right now.” He licks his lips again, getting up from your bed to walk towards you.

He needs to touch you right now.

“I told you you couldn’t break up with me but you thought you could.. so I just wanted to give you a little break, but I think it has lasted enough now I need you back.” He groans. You smell so good even his muscles are pulsing.

His eyes are you like a predator and You should know that you cannot escape.

He is way too strong for you.

“Come on now- look at me? I’m so fucking hard because I was thinking about you- and look at you.. fuck…” he breathes out, taking you by your waist.. but then he gets another idea.

So instead of holding you, he drops to his knees.

This is gonna get you so weak for him.

“Let me eat your pussy. Missed it so much.” He looks into your eyes when he grabs your legs. You barely manage to hold onto your towel, which was about to fall. And something switches in your eyes.

You have missed him too.

He smiles. “I bet you missed me too. Fuck- baby let me have a taste please- I’m doing this to make it up to you. I know I pissed you off, so let me make it up.” He breathes, slowly, removing the towel and he starts to tease you by rubbing his hands over to your clit.

You whimper, you’ve always been so weak for him.

He knows you need him-equally as bad as he needs you. And he’s going to make you realize it tonight. He leans his face closer to your cunt, and you grab his wide shoulders for support.

“Oh look at you baby- you’ve already started to get wet.” He coos, pressing a kiss to your thigh, and then his kisses get closer to your heat, “f-fuck. You’re so fucking bad for this.” You moan out. He knows that you’re trying to reject him still even though he knows what your heart and body really want.

Him.

“I know yn.. but fuck- you’re my bad habit.” He replies before he takes one of his fingers out of your pussy and he smashes his mouth into it- his tongue starting to eat you out.

“Nghhh fuck.” You moan as he starts to tease you again with his teeth- he’s so messy right now, all sloppy as he pushes his tongue in deeper and deeper.

That’s how you like it.

His mind is in a frenzy because the noises you’re making are purely sinful- your towel gals to the ground and your back arches.

He won’t let you fall.

He will make you cum in his tongue.

“Ugh fuck..” he groans as he eagerly laps at your juices, you’re giving him so much.

And he knows you’re already going to cum.

“A-Agh fuck don’t stop- don’t fuckin stop.” You command him and grab on his locks- that arouses him anymore- you taste so fuckin good.

He can kill anyone for you.

“O-Oh fuck- baby cum on my tongue- you can do it.” He praises you- his hands on your ass as he squeezes it, you pull on his hair.

His teeth graze your clit.

“Should I fuckin bite? Since you’re so *pants* fuckin mean to me? Nah.. I love you..” he barely manages to speak because you’re suffocating him and you’re going to cum.

“You can *pants* only cum if you come back to *pants* m-me.”

BNHA- hawks, aizawa, bakugo, deku

JJK- gojo, geto, toji, sukuna

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prlite · 22 days ago

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how i went from waiting weeks for results to getting instant results

(WARNING!!!! this isn't a method, don't expect a method.)

though i had been listening to subliminals since i was 10, i never really knew what they did until i hit 12 (i originally thought they were just lucky videos that give you superpowers) & started joining the community once i had realised what they were. when i first got into it, i was hit with so many rules that it confused me ‐ "drink water for this to work", "listen 5x" etc but i decided why not believe in these rules since everyone else does and eventually i started getting results.

the issue was it would take me AGES and it would also take a long time to convince myself that they were actual results (& it didnt help that i had a friend who i joyfully told about manifestation and they revealed after 3 years??? that they found it stupid and thought i was insane for believing in it...not a great time) and it annoyed me because half of the subliminals i'd use would say INSTANT RESULTS but i'd have to wait a month for anything that seemed like a result.

it wasn't until manifestation & subliminals started to take off on tiktok when i realised my problem. once manifestation started getting popular, i'd see all of these weird rules again that made zero sense to me...like how you'd have to say you're grateful every single day or else your manifestations wont occur...it confused me because i had gotten results without all of that.

and that's when i realised. oh these rules aren't rules, they're more like...advice? they can work for some people but not all people, i can manifest stuff how i want to...if i just want what i want.

there's always this focus of the key of manifestation or the key of law of assumption, the perfect way to gain all the things in the world but all you need is intention and even that is easy and once i realised that, it was like my world flipped upside down.

i remember the first time i tried to just set an intention and just leave behind logic, pressure or circumstances, i wanted a bunch of snacks cuz i was craving some but i had no money so i just sat there hoping for snacks and setting the intention that somehow i'll get snacks. within an hour, there was a knock at the door and it was a huge gift box with expensive chocolates from my brother's workplace (this was the first time and also the last time they ever did this btw & it was not like a scheduled thing, they dropped it out of nowhere) and every. single. thing. there was something that i liked which is uncommon as i'm very picky with my snacks.

and i even remember telling people in a discord server that i got an instant manifestation and what happened and someone tried to say i was lying because i didn't listen to subliminals and i didn't write it down or "verbally" set the intention which made me realise that a lot of people in the community believe that their rules are set in stone. "if they can only manifest through meditation, then anyone else who manifests without meditation is either lucky or lying" ‐ its a flawed way of thinking but they think it's valid because these rules are presented as if they are rules that cannot be broken.

manifestation works in many ways and in a way, everyone has a different perspective/understanding of it. my definition of manifestation won't be the same as your definition & my rules won't be the same as your rules. people treat it like an academic subject where there are rules & grades and set ways to do things but it's not an academic subject. if you think you manifested a snack because you found change in your pocket and went to the store and the snack was there...then you manifested it.

it's your game, your playbook, your rules. for some, every single moment in life is viewed as a manifestation and for others, it's a lot more technical and depends on specifics but the point is...you're the one choosing. you can have your own vocab, your own structure, your own routine...if you want to manifest through songs, then that's your way of manifestation.

there is no wrong or right way to manifest, there is no learning curve or studying to manifestation. if you want to study and learn about manifestation and it's origins, that's perfectly fine but you don't need to. the second you let go of the idea that manifestation is this strict way of living with rules, you'll realise how easy it is. it's all how you perceive things no matter how big or "impossible" they seem, if you think you can manifest it within a day...you can. so just go do it. no matter how, no matter why, no matter when or where, you will get what you manifest the second you set an intention so instead of worrying about the logic...just set the intention and let the rest happen.

since then i've been instantly manifesting, whether it's food or money or clothes...really anything. i haven't looked back once, it's that easy like you don't need to have it all planned out. just set an intention and let it sail off until the manifestation comes to you and if you want it instantly than it will come instantly !

prl ✶⋆.˚

#prlite #𓂃 🖊 advice #affirmations #desired reality #loassumption #manifesting #neville goddard #shiftblr #loablr #law of assumption #shifting antis dni #success story #manifestation #finally made a post who cheered

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rafeslittlepup · 2 months ago

Note

How did sexist!rafe and reader meet?

AHHHH i love this ask because i have a whole timeline for them in my head!! <33

rafe and !reader have known each other since reader was 4-5 and rafe 7-8, both of their families are very wealthy and move in the same figure eight circles. think yacht club barbecues, charity events, garden parties. reader adores rafe from the moment she sees him. little reader in her smocked dresses and tiny sandals chasing him around at family barbecues like "wafe! wafe!” with sticky fingers and a cupcake in hand :( rafe thinks she’s annoying but in the way boys his age think. there’s a running joke at parties, “careful rafe, she’s gonna marry you one day!”

when rafe turns 15-16 and reader is 11-13, they drift apart a bit. rafe’s getting into teen boy stuff (starting to become a menace) while she’s still just a tiny pink bow with no clue. at family events, he starts getting weirdly protective over her for no reason??? but she’s still obsessed with ponies and hello kitty.

rafe aged 18-20 is fully spiraling into drugs, anger issues territory… meanwhile reader aged 15-17 is growing up into the exact kind of girl rafe cannot handle seeing other guys look at. pink skirts, lip gloss, always batting her lashes.

she’s at the yacht club pool parties now, wearing those frilly bikinis, and rafe is noticing. in a way that makes him feel sick and furious and possessive all at once. he starts lurking around her at events again. calling her "kid" even though she's literally only a few years younger.

and it all happens messy and fast. after some party, she's drunk and lost her friends, and rafe finds her. he drives her home, lecturing her about "trusting the wrong people" and how "nobody would take care of her like he would."

and somewhere in that heated, possessive rant, he kisses her. she’s dizzy and flustered but she wants it so bad she almost cries…

months later, she is fully “his girl”. he picks out her outfits. she rides around the island in his truck with his hand permanently resting on her thigh. he is obsessed with molding her into the perfect little doll, matcha mornings, pilates, diamonds and not a single thought in her brain. they’re basically engaged without ever talking about it.

last year of college, when rafe’s bored of playing house, he fully leans into the "start a family now" arc… tells her it's time to "make it permanent." soooo… wife era, she’s 20-21 but couldn’t be more happy with his mean awful sexy husband

#𝜗𝜚 anons #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron x female reader #sexist!rafe

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misswynters · 8 months ago

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Broken and whole

pairing | Viktor x gn!reader

no warnings just passionate kissing

a short drabble until we wait for the next three episodes with jesus viktor <3 (he’s always been so fine)

– let me know if you would like to get tagged in arcane fics

[note | pls don’t just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned <3

In the night sky as the moonlight shines through the windows, the lab was filled with the low hum of machinery. It had a faint metallic scent of Viktor’s latest work. You leaned against the wall, watching him from across the room as he worked, utterly engrossed in his latest project. He had changed so much recently, both in body and spirit. The hextech augmentation now coursing through his leg gave him a powerful, refined look, yet you sensed a hidden struggle behind his carefully guarded gaze. You knew how he was. His mind was only half here, the other was lost somewhere between ambition and uncertainty.

He hadn’t noticed your arrival yet, too focused on the delicate mechanisms of the device in front of him. You admired him, his steady hand, his unwavering concentration, the way his golden eyes seemed to burn with a fire that was part passion, part burden. Yet you could see the toll it took, even if he would never admit it.

“Viktor,” you spoke softly, not wanting to startle him.

His head lifted, and his intense gaze softened slightly as he saw you. “Ah,” he said, letting out a breath, “I didn’t realize you were here.” There was a hint of relief in his voice, as if your presence offered him a reprieve from the depths of his mind.

You approached him slowly, your fingers brushing the edge of the table. “I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself,” you said, giving him a gentle smile. “It’s been days, Viktor. You need to rest.”

A flicker of defensiveness crossed his face, but it melted quickly, replaced by something almost vulnerable. “Rest,” he echoed, his voice laced with exhaustion. “It feels like a luxury I cannot afford.”

You stepped closer, your heart aching at the sight of him so worn down, so caught between his dreams and the demands of his body. “Even visionaries need a break,” you murmured, reaching up to gently place a hand on his shoulder. He was warmer than you expected, his skin cool to the touch from the metal but still unmistakably him.

Viktor looked down at your hand, as if surprised by the intimacy of the gesture. His gaze softened, and he let out a soft, reluctant sigh. “Perhaps… perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, a slight smile breaking through the intensity of his features. “You always have been, haven’t you?”

There was a warmth in his voice that pulled you closer, and for a moment, you forgot the cold metal and complex machinery that surrounded you. You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders under your touch.

“Viktor…” you murmured, your voice almost trembling with the unspoken words you had held back for so long. He looked at you, truly looked, his golden eyes reflecting something vulnerable, something raw that he rarely let show. “Yes?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your fingers tracing along his jawline, feeling the softness of his skin against the hardness of his prosthetic. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he tilted his head toward you, his gaze focused solely on your face, as if you were the only thing grounding him in this moment.

“I worry about you,” you whispered, your voice almost lost in the quiet hum of the lab. “You give so much of yourself, but you leave so little room for…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “For someone to care for you.”

Viktor’s expression softened, his hand lifting slowly to touch yours, his fingers tentative but warm. “I… I hadn’t realized,” he murmured, his gaze dropping for a moment before he met your eyes again. “But with you, it feels… different.”

A moment of silence passed between you, and in that silence, the unspoken words lingered, the weight of everything you had both held back coming to the surface. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Viktor leaned forward, his face mere inches from yours.

“Different how?” you asked, your heart pounding as you felt his breath against your lips.

“Like I could… lose myself in you,” he whispered, a vulnerability in his voice that shook you to your core.

Before you could respond, his lips brushed yours, soft at first, testing, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into him, your hands moving to cup his face as he deepened the kiss, his fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer. There was a hunger in his kiss, a desperation that spoke of the weeks, months, maybe even years he had spent holding back, afraid to want this, to want you.

The passion between you ignited, his lips pressing against yours with a fervor that surprised you both. Viktor’s hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as if he needed to feel every inch of you, as if he were afraid you might vanish. His breath was ragged, each exhale a confession of how long he had kept himself from this moment.

He pulled back, only slightly, his golden eyes searching yours, his face open in a way you had never seen. “You…” he whispered, as if the words failed him, his hand brushing against your cheek. “You are the one thing that makes me feel whole.”

You could see the storm of emotions in his gaze. Desire and hope. They were all woven together, vulnerable and unguarded. You wrapped your arms around him, letting yourself sink into the feeling of him holding you, his heartbeat quickening against yours.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, Viktor,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, your fingers trailing down his arm, feeling the cool metal beneath your fingertips. “I’m here. Let me carry some of it with you.”

He closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath as he held you close, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangled in your hair. “I never thought…” His voice cracked, and he took a moment to steady himself. “I never thought anyone could love someone like me.”

Your heart ached at the words, at the quiet self-doubt that he kept buried so deep. You tilted his chin up, meeting his gaze with all the strength you could muster. “I don’t love you despite anything, Viktor,” you said, your voice steady. “I love you because of who you are, all of you.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you, his eyes wide and vulnerable, and then he kissed you again, harder this time, as if pouring everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you even closer, his fingers pressing into you as though you were his anchor, the one steady point in the storm that was his mind.

The two of you stayed like that, tangled together in the quiet of the lab, lost in each other. Viktor’s hand traced gentle patterns along your back, his touch tender, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing every detail of this moment. And in that embrace, in the warmth of his kiss, you felt him let go of the weight he carried, just a little, as he allowed himself to surrender to you, even if only for this fleeting, stolen moment.

banner by. @cafekitsune

#arcane spoilers #viktor arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane #viktor league of legends #viktor x reader #arcane viktor #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane s2 #jinx x reader

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meiru-sama · 7 days ago

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Yandere!loser x fem!reader

This story contains: Masochistic yandere, submissive yandere, mean/bully reader, masturbation, bullying, psychological abuse, toxic relationship, sexual themes, NSFW

He always noticed how you would always look at him--- though it wasn't filled with admiration and love. It was filled with disgust and judgement. You would lean on your locker, surrounded by your friends while you all stare at him as he pass. His breath hitched, his palms sweaty while you laughed at him.

Any normal person would consider this as an act of psychological abuse but to him it was psychological pleasure. He loves it, everything about you.

The way your lips would lift into a grin everytime you would make fun of him.

The way you would wrap your fingers around his messy hair, pulling it everytime you sit behind him.

The way you would look down at him everytime you would 'accidently' spill water all over his work.

The way you would constantly push him out of your way while you glare at him.

The way you would force him to kneel infront of you behind the school with your friends. Slapping him, hitting him and sometimes giving him a 'sorry' peck on the cheeks.

It was making him go crazy, he could feel his pants tightening everytime you speak to him with your low and taunting voice.

He loves having your attention, he loves kneeling infront of you, he loves being humiliated by you.

Though he would hide it behind a facade, he would beg for you to stop, he would fight back and act like he doesn't like it. But all he wants is for you to push him on the ground. Break him until he can't take it anymore.

One day, you invited him to a party in your house. Words cannot express how glad he was, he can't stop thinking about the thought of you wearing a tight dress.

"Wear something nice, kay?"

"If i don't see you tonight, i'll go rough with you for the following weeks."

He almost screamed, he was contemplating if he should go or not. He wanted you rough but he also wanted to see you in your party dress in a freaky setting.

He sighed, as he stared up at your house. It was huge and he could hearoud music inside.

Upon entering the door, he was almost blinded by the colorful lights. He was nervous but luckily you greeted him the moment he entered. He was right, you were wearing a tight dress.

You led him to an empty room, far from the heated crowd and oh-- he loved how it reeked of your expensive perfume.

You forced him to sit in your bed before rummaging through your drawer to grab a three page of crippled paper.

You told him that you had some plans next week so you wouldn't be able to do your essay project. You sat on the ground, laying your head on his lap. Looking up at him, playfully.

He have always thought about how smart you were---effortlessly always top of the class, reciting without struggles, high scores. It shocked him that you were asking him for help, someone who is second to you.

He nodded, painfully and you noticed it. You smiled when you thought of an idea.

"Maybe you should have something in return."

You stood up, towering over him who looked at you, eyes wide in shock.

"Tell me, what do you want? I'll give it to you."

He couldn't belive what he was hearing. YOU giving him the chance to choose? Wow. He paused for a minute before he finally opened his mouth to speak.

"Kiss me." Those words slipped out of his mouth like a crime, though it felt good. It held commitment and desire.

You frowned before chuckling. You pushed him in the bed, sliding a knee between his thighs. You could feel his boner.

"You're a freaky one, aren't ya?"

You muttered before kissing him, your hand roaming around his belt thought you had no intention to remove it. You liked teasing him.

The whole makeout session lasted for a good 30 minutes. He was practically moaning between the kiss, panting and grinding on your knee.

"You'll get more when you give me a good essay."

You said before standing up, you then gave him one last smile before leaving him on the bed--- hard and needy.

When you finally left, he quickly stood up and went to the bathroom where he finished your job. He wished it was your hand stroking it right now. He imagined you kneeling infront of him, sucking his soul out like a good girl you are.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #male yandere #male yandere x reader #fem reader #yandere headcanons #yandere stalking #sub yandere #dom reader #masochist yandere #yandere smut

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keirareidss · 11 days ago

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a fitting punishment - s.r

♡ summary: after spencer gets injured in the field, you find the perfect punishment for his negligence pairing: spencer reid x mean!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, p in v wc: 3.6k request here

"I cannot believe you did that! What were you thinking?" You smacked your boyfriend's arm.

"I- I was thinking that I might do something heroic and my girlfriend would think I'm awesome." Spencer chuckled through his sentence.

"You cheeky little fucker." You shoved him by the shoulders, gently, and a laugh slipped out of you. He giggled, tugging you closer on his hospital bed until you were nearly on top of him. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on his lips, grinning against him. He wasn't terribly injured, just a little banged up and in need of some bed rest and special treatment from his girlfriend, but he'd still nearly given you a heart attack with what he did.

On your most recent case, Spencer had decided to attempt to take down the unsub all by himself, like the big boy he is, and got himself all bruised up in the fight. Though he had successfully taken him down, he still had to face the wrath of his girlfriend when he got back.

"Your cheeky little... fucker." He always hesitated to curse, the sound of it unnatural coming out of his mouth. It was adorable. You smiled, pulling back from his lips. He was to be discharged from the hospital tonight and you'd bring him back to your apartment where he'd stay for the duration of his time off from work.

"Mmm. Mine." You hummed, leaning in to kiss him again. The door opened, interrupting your sweet moment as your boss walked in the room.

"Reid. You okay?" He asked, abandoning his boss voice in favor of his work-dad voice.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Spencer squeezed his lips together in that cute pursed smile of his.

"Good. You have four weeks paid leave."

"Thank you, Hotch." Your boyfriend says and Aaron leaves the room with a curt nod to the both of you.

"Two weeks off. Whatever will you do?" You teased.

"I dunno. Pick through your bookshelf again, maybe. Knit you a blanket. Take up cooking."

"If you step anywhere near my stove, I will hit you over the head with the heaviest book you have." He chuckled, ducking his head to hide his blush.

"So a lot of takeout then?"

"Sounds like a plan."

A warm comforter, a full belly, the weight of you on top of him, and maybe a few orgasms was all Spencer needed in this moment. And he only had half of it. He gazed longingly at the desk in the corner of your room where you were currently sat doing your files. You'd requested a few days off from Hotch to take care of Spencer, and he'd given you an armload of files to work on from home.

"Angel? Can you come here?" You spun around in your chair, you eyes finding your boyfriend, sprawled on your bed.

"What do you need Spencer? Are you hurting?" Your eyes held a look of concern as you tilted your head.

"No, I'm fine, I just... I need you."

"Oh?" You stood from your chair, sauntering over to the bed. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you put yourself in harm's way." You teased with a grin. Spencer's face grew red and he buried it in the pillow next to him. You climbed on the bed, kneeling next to him. "No, no, come back out." You pulled him out of the pillow, looking him in the eye.

"Please? I need you."

"So you've said. But you know what? I think you deserve some punishment."

"Punishment?"

"Yeah! You put your life in danger, Spencer! You nearly died!"

"That's not-"

"Don't talk back." You covered his mouth with your hand and he shut right up. "You took a stupid risk, without thinking, and that deserves discipline." You thought for a few moments before a wicked smile grew on your face. Here he was, your boyfriend, laying underneath you, needy and begging for you. The perfect punishment had fallen right into your hands.

You moved your hand from his mouth and leaned down, brushing your lips against his. He tried to lean up to seal the kiss but you pushed him down by the shoulder.

"I am not going to touch you for the next month."

"What?" He asked, his eyes snapping open.

"Sex, Spencer. That's the punishment. I'm withholding sex for the next month."

"What? That- that's not- you can't-"

"I can and I will. Sorry baby. That's karma." You stamp a kiss on his lips before climbing off the bed and sitting back at your desk, continuing to work on your files while Spencer's punishment really sinks in.

It's been a week. A long, torturous, need-filled week since you gave Spencer his ruling. And he was miserable. With all he newfound spare time, he was expecting sex to take up some if not most of it, especially because you elected to take a few days off, but now? He found himself constantly bored, unable to do anything other than lay around, reading his books or taking naps or... well, that's about it. He'd tried to take care of himself a few times but it just wasn't as good and he never ended up finishing.

"Spence? Are you awake?" You shuck the curtains open, shocking the room with the brightness of the mid-noon sun. A groan sounds from the middle of the bed and you glanced over your shoulder to find your boyfriend pushing his face further into the pillow. "You gotta get up, honey." You put a knee on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss at his exposed skin.

"Why?" He griped and you chuckled, mussing his hair and pushing off the bed to open the next set of curtains.

"Because it's nearly 12:30. The Spencer Reid I know has never slept past ten."

"The Spencer you know is gone." He grumbles, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"Is he? Then who's this?" You ask, plopping down next to him.

"No one."

"Oh no. Well if my boyfriend's gone, who's gonna keep me up at night with his outlandish little tidbits?" He responds with a grunt, his eyes still closed. "Hmm. I guess this strange man in my bed won't get any kisses then." You shrugged. Spencer cracked an eye open, perking up a bit.

"Strange man?"

"Yeah. The Spencer I know is gone apparently."

"Well... maybe not totally." He murmurs, tilting his face out of the pillow slightly.

"No? Is he here?" You poke him in the side and he jolts.

"Will he gets a kiss?" You couldn't help the smile, spreading on your face, wide and toothy.

"I dunno. He'll have to come out and see." You poke him again, scrambling your fingers across his side this time and he lets out a small giggle, squirming away. He turns fully out of the pillow, laying on his back and looking up at you.

"Okay, fine. It's me, can I have a kiss now?"

"Not when you're asking like that." You teased.

"Can you kiss me, please?" He asks, giving you his big wide puppy dog eyes. You hummed in approval, leaning down over him to slot your lips against his. He leans up, pushing further against you, but you pull back. "What-"

"Remember what I said?" He sighed, falling back down to the pillow with a huff.

"Please, please, I've been good. I'm so- I need you, angel, please." He begged as you sat back on your knees, further from him.

"One month Spencer. You've got three weeks to go, you can take it."

"No, I can't, I can't please." He takes your wrist, tugging gently. When you don't move, he sits up, shifting onto his knees. "I need you. It hurts." He whined, his hand moving to his lap where his erection was straining against his sweatpants.

"I'm sorry baby." You cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. "But this is your punishment." You planted a firm kiss on his cheek before slipping off the bed. Spencer sighed, letting himself fall back to the bed, defeated. This was going to be a long month.

He'd barely hit his two week mark when he resorted to all out, no-shame, begging. I'm talking on his knees, whining and pleading.

"Spence,"

"Please, I can't take it." His head was in your lap, on his knees in front of your chair as you sat at your desk, attempting to get work done. You didn't know what would kill you first, your boss because you didn't finish your files in time, or your boyfriend with his horniness. You'd never realized a grown man could be filled with so much of it.

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just let me cum. Please." Your leg ended up between his legs and he'd started grinding himself against it, looking up at you with teary eyes.

"Can't do that, baby." You brushed his hair behind his ear before standing, depriving him of the ability to cum. He stood, following you to the kitchen, stopping you before you reached the fridge with his arms around your waist.

"Angel, please." He buried his face in your neck, holding your tight.

"I don't know what else to tell you. This is your punishment. If you didn't want to deal with the consequences, you shouldn't have tried to get yourself killed."

"It's too much. I can't do it."

"You'll have to figure something out." You step out of his arms, moving to the fridge. Spencer dejectedly slinks back to the bedroom, flopping onto the bed, his cock aching with need. He lays on his back, reaching down to palm himself through his sweatpants. He whimpered, needing more. His hand slid into his pants, grasping his hard length and stroking. His hips jerked and he winced at the stimulation.

He let out a low whine, moving his hand faster. It was almost painful how much he needed to cum but no matter what, no matter how fast his hand moved or how hard he was, he couldn't release.

He groaned in frustration, yanking his hand back and tossing his arm over his eyes. Why couldn't he just have this? It was bad enough he didn't get to fuck you for an entire month but not being able to cum was a different story. He cursed himself for not being the type to keep dirty videos or pictures but even if he did have them, he didn't know if it'd be enough to get him there.

He needed to get his mind off of this. He needed a cold shower and a nap. No, no, not a nap. Sleeping would give him dreams that would make his dick stand at attention all over again. He needed to read a long book or... or watch a scary movie or something. Yeah, that's what he'll do. Get his mind off of it.

Three and a half weeks. Four days left and you'd gone back to work three days ago. Spencer was losing his mind. He'd almost read every goddamned book on your shelf and watched most of your DVD's (you didn't have very many) and now he was flat out bored.

He went on the occasional walk but lately it had been raining a lot so he'd been stuck inside. Sometimes he went to the coffee shop down the street to get some different scenery but 13 dollars for a drink was outrageous, even for him.

You called him during your lunch break and that was probably his favorite time of the day, getting to hear your voice. It was also the worst part of the day because just the sound of your voice make his cock stand up and reminded him of what he couldn't have.

"Spencer, I'm home!" You called, dropping your keys in the dish by the door and peeling out of your coat.

"In the bedroom!" He shouted back. You trailed through the apartment to find him laying on the bed. You were surprised he hadn't melted into it by now with how much time he spent there. It was a wonder he hadn't messed up his sleep schedule.

"Hi, baby. How was your day?" You bent down, intending for just a peck to his lips, but a hand on the back of your neck kept you close. Spencer tugged you onto his lap, instinctively rutting up into you. Your hands found his hips, stilling him against the bed. You pulled yourself from him, glaring down at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I- I-"

"You what?"

"I'm sorry, I just want- I need-"

"Do you want another month?"

"No! No, no, no, please, please, I'll be good, I'm sorry, I'll be good."

"Will you?"

"Yes, yes, I promise, I will. I can wait."

"Good. Now how was your day?" You climbed off his lap, sitting next to him on the bed. He shuffled into a sitting position, knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, face flushed red with embarrassment.

"It was fine. Boring."

"It probably sucks having nothing to do all day, huh?" You asked, acting as if you hadn't just deprived him of the thing he'd been needing all month.

"Yeah." He hummed. "How was work?"

"Fine. Pretty normal." You rolled off the bed, pulling your shirt over your head as you headed to the closet. Spencer felt like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time when he spotted your bare skin. "Derek spilled coffee all down his front. That was funny, I guess." You recalled as you changed.

"Oh, really?" Spencer was barely half-listening, the image of you replaying in his head. Great, now he was hard again. He flopped back onto the pillows, pressing him palms over his eyes.

"Yeah. And JJ showed us some new baby photos of little Henry. He's so adorable." You shuffled out of the closet, now in your pajamas and flopped back down onto the bed next to him. "Hey, come back out." You pulled at his wrists and he dropped his hands, turning his head. "What do you want for dinner? We can get takeout, maybe. I could order a pizza?"

"Sure. That's fine."

"Great. I'll be right back, then." You bounded out of the bedroom and Spencer was once again, left in a haze of horniness, desperate for even a breath of you on his cock.

It was over. It was finally over. His month of torture has come to an end. It has been over 31 days since he'd cum and he could hardly contain himself. He'd woken up this morning with your ass pressed against his crotch and he'd nearly cum right there but he couldn't. He wanted the first time to be inside you.

He had to suffer through breakfast with you in just a shirt and panties but after that, he'd do absolutely anything to get you to touch him. You were doing the dishes when he snapped, wrapping himself around you, his cock aching, precum staining his boxers.

"Hi, baby. Do you need something?"

"Angel... I need you. It's been a month, please, please, I need-"

"Has it been?" You check the calendar and, sure enough, exactly 31 days since your punishment started. Exactly 31 days since the torture began. "Well, what are we doing here, then?" You turn off the sink, turning around in his arms and wrapping yours around his neck. You lean up to kiss him, taking his bottom lip between your teeth. He pushes you against the counter, his hips rutting against yours and this time, you don't stop him. Your tongue slips into his mouth, tracing his teeth languidly. He moans brokenly, hips stuttering.

"Please, please, please, I need you. I need to- I want-" His lips barely leave yours to beg and plead.

"Come on, then. Let's go to the bed." You nip at his lips before pulling away, tugging him quickly to the bedroom. You push him onto his back over the sheets and quickly climb onto his lap. "How do you want it?"

"What?" Spencer's eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he stared up at you.

"Do you want my mouth? Or my pussy?" He shuddered, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

"I- I don't-"

"Both, then?" Spencer was going to have a heart attack. He was going to absolutely combust, but not before he came at least twice. You slink down, pulling his plaid red sleep pants down his legs and tossing them aside before doing the same with his boxers. You kiss his chest, around his happy trail, his hips, leaving marks along the way, before you make it to the exact place he's needed you.

"God- please, please- I-"

"Shh. It's okay. I'll take care of you." You caress his thighs lovingly as you slowly lower his mouth to his angry red tip. He gasps when you take him into your mouth, jerking and shuddering. He's immediately whining at the stimulation as you slowly take more and more of him past your lips. His babbling fills your ears, pathetic nonsense that he doesn't even know the meaning of.

You bob your head up and down, swirling your tongue as he gasps and shivers. His hands grasp at your hair, fisting tightly. You let out a soft moan and the vibration makes Spencer tremble.

"I'm so c-close, I'm so close." He whimpers. You hum against him and he jolts, his hips thrusting upward. You nearly gag around him, pressing an arm over his waist to hold him down. He finishes in your mouth when you don't pull off, his body quivering underneath you. You swallow him up dutifully as he cums, long and hard.

You sit up, wiping your chin and licking off the residue. Spencer lets out a shaky breath as his eyes open. You crawl over him, pressing a kiss to his lips, slipping your tongue into his mouth again and letting him taste himself.

"Ready for round two, pretty boy?"You asked and he couldn't do anything but nod. You pulled your panties to the side, sinking onto him. You didn't need any lube, wet enough already at the sight of your pathetic boyfriend. He let out a loud moan as you sheathed him fully inside you. "Shh, honey, don't want the neighbors complaining." You lifted yourself off of him, smiling at the whine he let out as you pulled your underwear all the way off. "Open." He obeyed immediately and you stuffed them in his mouth.

He said something that was muffled by the fabric and you grinned, centering yourself over top of him again. You sank down onto him again, with less of a sting this time, and started moving your hips. Spencer bucked and whined at the overstimulation to his already tortured cock.

"I can't, I can't-" You barely caught what he was saying through his gag.

"You can't? This is what you've been begging for all month, isn't it? You wanted to cum. I'll make you cum." You rolled your hips faster, rolling your head back so your neck was exposed. Pulling your shirt over your head, and tossing it aside, you let out a breathy moan. Spencer whimpered at the sight of you bare above him, twitching and shuddering underneath you.

"I'm so close. I'm close. Mmph." Spencer said through your panties and you chuckled.

"Cum for me, Spencer. Come on." You thrusted faster, reaching a hand down to rub at your clit to get yourself there quicker. Spencer moaned as he came for the second time inside you, exactly what he wanted. But you didn't stop, rolling your hips more and more. Spencer whined and squirmed, the overstimulation becoming too much for him.

"Please, please." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm almost there. Hold on." You planted a hand on his chest, arching your back as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You slowly came to a stop, pausing for a moment, feeling him inside of you, before you climbed off of him. He twitched but his eyes didn't open. You smiled softly, brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. "Spencer? You with me?" You heard a small hum from behind the gag and you chuckled, pulling it out of his mouth, a trail of saliva following that you gently wiped off his chin. "Can you open your eyes?"

Teary, hazel eyes peeled open to look up at you. You gave him a soft smile, letting your thumb trail across his face, down his cheekbone, across his jawline, down to the pulse point in his neck. You bend down, kiss, kiss, kissing his swollen pink lips.

"Are you okay?" You whisper against him. He hums, nodding slowly, his eyes falling shut again.

"Please... don't do that again."

"I won't have to, as long as you don't put your life in danger like that ever again." You kiss him again, gently, lingering. He shuffled closer to you across the bed as you laid down next to him. You kept brushing through his hair, gently untangling the knots. You pull your boyfriend into your arms, holding him tight to your body. He's asleep within the minute and you're not far behind, the morning sunlight painting over your bodies as you slept.

Spencer's rest was filled with dreams of you, not wet dreams as he'd been having consistently for the past month, but domestic, sweet dreams. Because his month of torture was over. His punishment was complete. He finally had you.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

#criminal minds #♡ keira's fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut

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ceeaann · 3 months ago

Text

Opposite Attract !? — Being the Total Opposite of Them

Characters - Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Content - 2k words, hcs, contrasting personality pairings, light angst, possessiveness & protectiveness, established & developing relationships, tender moments, playful banter, mutual (and one-sided) yearning, conflicting morals & values, opposites-attract themes, soft/domestic interactions, power struggles, emotional vulnerability, implied past trauma, affectionate teasing, mild language.

A/N - hi im back haha... this one is a rlly short one cuz im writing smth amazing right now huehue (its sooo good trust ill be posting it in a few days)

— Vi

-You met Vi by accident—wrong place, wrong time, and before you even realized what was happening, she had already handled it.

-"You wouldn’t last a damn second down here, sweetheart."

-At first, she thought you were just another fragile little thing that needed protecting. And at first, you thought she was dangerous.

-(You were right. But not to you.)

-Vi teases you constantly.

-"You’re just so soft, babe. It’s unreal."

-"You say that like it’s a bad thing."

-She grins. "Nah. I like it."

-You try to keep her out of trouble. It never works.

-"Vi, maybe we should think this through."

-"Uh-huh. Lemme know how that goes while I punch this guy."

-"VI—"

-Dating Vi is terrifying.

-"Hey, babe, funny story—I may have started a bar fight." "Vi." "Before you say anything, I won."

-She lives to fluster you.

-"You always get so shy when I call you babe. S’cute." "I—I do not!"

-Vi leans in. "Oh yeah? So if I called you sweetheart right now, you wouldn’t get all shy on me?"

-"...Shut up."

-"That’s what I thought."

-You’ve seen her throw herself into fights for you without a second thought.

-"Vi, stop, you’re bleeding!"

-"They started it."

-"That doesn’t mean you have to finish it!"

-She smirks, wiping blood from her lip. "Sweetheart, that’s exactly what it means."

-But then, one time, you actually hit someone.

-Vi had the guy handled—had him cornered, already mid-swing—until he lunged at you.

-And you punched him.

-The guy went down.

-You stood there, wide-eyed, clutching your fist like you couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

-Vi just stared.

-Then, slowly, she grinned.

-"Well, damn, babe."

-"I—"

-She grabbed your wrist, turning it over to check for damage.

-"You throw a punch like that again, and I might just marry you."

-You turned scarlet.

-Vi never let you live it down.

-"Hey, babe, remember that time you punched a guy?"

-"Vi, stop."

-"Nah, seriously, you were terrifying. I was quaking."

-"I am never doing that again."

-She grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Talk to me after your second punch."

-You keep her grounded. She keeps you wild.

-Balance.

— Caitlyn

-Caitlyn despises rule-breakers. So naturally, she fell in love with you.

-You flirted while she was cuffing you, calling her “Officer Cutie.” She pretended not to care, but her ears were so red.

-You broke out of jail just to see her again.

-"You're breaking the law."

-"You're breaking my heart."

-You treat laws like suggestions. Caitlyn treats them like the word of God.

-"No, you cannot bribe an officer, that’s illegal."

-"Then why do they take the money?"

-"YOU’RE MISSING THE POINT."

-Caitlyn has arrested you multiple times, but at this point, it’s just flirting.

-"Back again, officer?"

-"Maybe if you stopped committing crimes, I wouldn’t have to keep arresting you."

-She gets so flustered when you flirt with her.

-"I swear, you’ll be the death of me."

-"Aw, Cait, don’t be dramatic. You’d look so good in mourning black, though."

-You show up at crime scenes just to mess with her.

-"Fancy meeting you here, Sheriff."

-"WHY are you here?"

-"Moral support. Also, I may or may not have stolen some evidence. Oops."

-First kiss? During a heated argument about morality. You kissed her just to shut her up, and she froze.

-“You—you can’t just do that!”

-“Why not? Worked, didn’t it?”

-Caitlyn is constantly exasperated with you, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

-She scolds you like a mother but spoils you like a lover.

-“One day, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

-“Yeah? But at least I’ll look hot doing it.”

-She has never sighed so much in her life.

-You love making her break the rules. One time, you convinced her to steal a single piece of candy from a store.

-She acted like she personally had doomed Piltover.

-"I CAN NEVER SHOW MY FACE HERE AGAIN."

-"Cait, it was literally a mint."

-"A stolen mint."

-She once caught you doing something very illegal and instead of arresting you, she sighed and went, "Just… don’t do it again."

-That’s when you knew she was doomed.

— Jinx

-You the embodiment of "calm down."

-Jinx the embodiment of "I will not calm down."

-The moment Jinx met you, she immediately decided you were her favorite person.

-You did not agree.

-"So, you’re all serious and broody, huh? Like, all ‘I have a tragic backstory, don’t talk to me’?"

-"No, I just don’t enjoy explosions."

-"Pfft, sounds like a tragic backstory to me."

-Jinx tests your patience daily.

-She steals your things just so you’ll chase her.

-"Jinx, give me back my book."

-"Make me, serious-face."

-You tackle her.

-You are the ONLY person who can calm her down.

-You’re incredibly patient with her. No matter how chaotic she gets, you never push her away.

-That scares her. She’s used to people getting tired of her. But you never do.

-The first time she has a breakdown in front of you, she expects you to leave.

-Instead, you just wrap your arms around her and hold her. No words, no judgment.

-Jinx never admits it, but that’s the moment she realized she’s completely in love with you.

-You always pull her out of danger, even when she insists she doesn’t need help.

"Baaabe, I totally had it handled." "Jinx, you were literally on fire." "Okay, but—" "No."

-Jinx is determined to break through your stoic exterior.

-“C’mooon, just smile for me once, yeah? Bet you’d be real pretty when you do.”

-The first time you genuinely laughed at her joke, she melted.

-She was obsessed with making you laugh after that.

-First kiss? She literally caught you off guard mid-sentence and ran away laughing.

-“You should see your face, babe! Priceless.”

-You are the definition of opposites attract.

-You keep her sane, and she keeps you... un-boring.

— Sevika

-Sevika thought you were too soft for the world she lived in.

-“People like you? They don’t last long down here.”

-“Then I guess you’ll just have to protect me.”

-You weren’t scared of her. That pissed her off.

-But she couldn’t ignore the way you made her feel—like maybe, just maybe, not everything in the world was awful.

-You tended to her wounds without question, never expecting anything in return. That scared her more than anything.

-"I can do it myself."

-"Yeah, well, you weren’t, so sit still."

-Sevika would kill for you.

-You’re the only person she’s soft with, and everyone notices.

-“She’s different when she’s with you.”

-“Nah, she’s just scary in public.”

-You make her believe in something more than survival.

-And damn it, she loves you for that.

-If anyone even breathes wrong near you, Sevika is already cracking her knuckles.

-You're basically her emotional support human, and she has no idea how she ended up this soft.

— Viktor

-Viktor never thought he had time for love. He had science. That was all that mattered.

-And then you came along.

-At first, he brushes off your romantic nature as a distraction.

-But then he catches himself listening to you.

-You talk about dreams, about passion, about things beyond logic, and—damn it—he likes it.

"You’re ridiculous," he murmurs, watching you twirl around his lab with a dreamy expression. "And yet, you keep me around." "...Yes. A mistake, clearly."

-It’s not a mistake. He’s doomed.

-You force him to take breaks, dragging him away from his work despite his protests.

"Viktor, have you eaten today?" "I consumed knowledge." "That’s not food." "It is intellectually nourishing." "You’re ridiculous."

-You leave little notes on his desk when he’s too busy to talk. "Reminder: You’re brilliant and I love you." "Reminder: You need sleep, you absolute workaholic." "Reminder: I’m kissing you later, whether you like it or not."

-He pretends they’re a nuisance, but he keeps every single one.

-The first time you kiss him, he’s so flustered he forgets how to speak.

-"I—uh—hmm—well—" "Oh my god, Viktor, just kiss me back."

-He does. And once he starts? He doesn’t stop.

-Viktor is completely enchanted by you. He never knew love could feel this… effortless.

-"You’re a distraction," he mutters one night, watching you ramble about constellations.

-"A good one?"

-"The only one."

— Jayce

-Jayce is used to people either admiring him or challenging him outright. He’s not used to you.

-You don’t hang on his every word.

-You don’t take his charm at face value.

-You argue. You push back. You challenge him.

-And damn it, you’re good at it.

-"You know, most people find me charming."

-"Most people have low standards."

-"Wow. Remind me why I keep you around?"

-"Because you love the abuse."

-He swears you’ve made it your life’s mission to challenge every idea he has. And worse? You’re smart. He can’t even dismiss you because you actually make good points.

-"This is the best approach."

-"No, it’s the most convenient approach."

-"Oh, I’m sorry, do you have a breakthrough invention?"

-"No, but I have common sense."

-"...Touché."

-He swears he hates debating with you, but the way his eyes light up every time you challenge him? Yeah. He loves it.

-At some point, your arguments stop being about proving each other wrong and start being about understanding each other.

-You’re not impressed by his title, his status, or the way people look up to him. You’re only impressed when he actually earns it.

-That makes him work for it. Not because he has anything to prove, but because he likes knowing he can meet you at your level.

-Jayce flirts like it’s second nature. With most people, it’s effortless. With you? It’s a goddamn battlefield.

-"Come on, admit it. You like me."

-"I tolerate you."

-"You love me."

-"I love watching you struggle."

-"Same thing."

-He’s never had to work so hard for someone’s attention, and it kills him. But the first time you actually soften toward him? It’s over for him. Completely.

-He’s never wanted something so badly in his life. And it’s not just because of the chase. It’s because you make him better.

-You don’t just challenge his ego—you challenge his ideals. You make him think. You make him question things he’s taken for granted.

-And despite all the teasing, all the stubborn back-and-forth, all the arguments? He’s never felt more alive than when he’s with you.

-The first time he kisses you, it’s because you’ve finally pushed him past his breaking point.

-"You’re so—"

-"I swear, Jayce, if you—"

-And then he’s kissing you. Hard.

#arcane x reader #arcane #arcane x y/n #wlw #arcane headcanon #arcane imagines #arcane x you #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #jayce x reader #viktor x reader #caitlyn kirraman x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #jinx x reader #sevika x reader

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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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