cvpiddszn - Tumblr blog

cvpiddszn · 2 months

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secretly pining over someone is never fun—even less so when they’re your childhood best friend, and dating someone else.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 —all the angst, jealousy, thoughts of inferiority, cursing, big sadness from reader over here, not proofread i got better things to do

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x fem!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — my valentine’s day jhughes special (albeit a day late ☹️), as promised! sorry it took me so long. couldn’t figure out how to end it. this is unapologetically self-indulgent. also not a wip, but i HAD to do it to em. i’m sorry if your name is brooke or bianca. i love you. promise. maybe we’ll make a part two, if yall like it enough!

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey3, @bellstwd, @kashee-h, @crazycat-ladys-blog, @brucewaynegfreal, @love4dlr, @jackhughesily, @leavethemonsteralive, @loveforaugust, @43hughes, @nathandoe, @choppedlamphandscowboy, @bunting58, @angelayse, @ru-kru, @sleepretreat, @nonsensical-nonsence, @maih23 (if your name is white, i couldn’t tag you!)

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Everyone knows the saying you never know what you have until you lose it. Truth was, you knew exactly what you had—you’d just never imagined you’d lose it.

You never imagined you’d lose him.

A shared childhood and mothers’ who found friendship with each other had brought you and Jack Hughes together, kept you glued even as skin stretched and futures diverged—where he’d gone on to be a star hockey player, you’d quietly came into adulthood, trekking through the difficulties of college.

In your younger years, Jack had always been there. Life of the party, a mirrorball everyone gravitated to for its decadent shine—you, contrastingly, felt like a sore thumb at parties, attending them only to see the smile on Jack’s face. Differing personalities and life routes aside, Jack was your person. The first person you called whenever you were sad, or happy, or bored. The one who knew all of your test scores first, who took hours long flights just to visit you during breaks in the season.

Distance nor time had left a lasting mark on your friendship, kept together by constant phone calls and texts. Whilst you remained imbedded in the hustle of Toronto, Jack was trapped in New Jersey—a gap that you closed every summer, when mutual desire to see one another (as well as his brothers) brought you and him to Michigan for a few months.

From childhood, to high school, to now—it had always been you two. Jokes passed in the years, swirling around with assumptions of the two of you ending up together, finally realizing it after years of proclaimed friendship. For Jack, it’d never been romantic. Loving and caring, a relationship he’d never trade for the world, but the intimacy ended there. Memories of him outwardly flirting with girls in front of you at bars or parties flashed in your mind any time you figured maybe; he’d never given any indicator that you were or would ever be more to him than his best friend.

For you? It was an embarrassingly different story.

College had stolen much of your time—left none for a love life. But truthfully, that didn’t much phase you.

Hookups, flings, boyfriends—all of them paled in comparison to Jack. A childhood crush perpetuated by maturation without loss of contact, Jack had just… always been there. Always a best friend, never a lover; the hanging axe of rejection was too dire a outcome for you to ever consider telling him. Killing a friendship you’d grown with would kill you. And maybe he felt the same way, maybe the kisses he reserved for the crown of your head and the guiding hand he kept on the small of your back meant something, but you couldn’t continue existing if they didn’t.

So, a dutiful friend, you kept quiet, spared the connection and suffered in unrequited love.

And it hadn’t really changed until Jack had gotten a girlfriend. In all your years of knowing him, he’d had a few—though they rarely lasted more than a handful of months, and a selfish and bitter part of you liked that. Sometimes they overstepped, viewed themselves above you in the ranking of Jack’s life; he made painfully clear they never would be.

And it felt good, to be that cherished. But then you remembered he didn’t actually love you and it felt a whole lot less impactful.

Not Brooke.

Brooke, a box-dye blonde with a less-than-stellar reaction to your friendship with her boyfriend, was unarguably beautiful—unapproachably so, someone you’d picture whenever thinking of the girl Jack would end up with. You knew it would never be you, but you hated that it was her, hated that it was finally cemented, the coffin wheeled out.

A friendship you’d cherished for years had been weathered down by the abrasive actions of his girlfriend. It left a bitter taste in your mouth; Jack never seemed privy to Brooke’s nonverbal dislike of you, and you never made comment of it. If Jack was happy, what did it matter? If you said anything, all you’d appear to be was a child throwing a tantrum, the attention torn from them. You refused to jeopardize Jack’s happiness, even if it meant shredding your own.

Brooke tolerated you; that was the best word you could think of. There was surely no excess of love, but you didn’t think she flat out despised you, either. Passive aggressive to the point of just being aggressive, snide looks whenever she didn’t think you could see, intentionally separating you from Jack whenever the two of you were talking—it all made you hate being around her, and by extension, him.

So when he’d invited you to dinner with him—and some of his teammates, a monthly ritual at his house—the knee jerk reaction had been to decline, lie, run while you were still free from the piercing glare of Brooke; because you knew she’d be there, clung to his side, as if you had any intention of taking him away.

… Well, you’d did have the intention. Never the will, so then again maybe she was right to hate you. Feelings you’d never act on, words you’d never say—none of it mattered. She had him. Not you. Never you.

You should’ve said no.

Pouting eyes and pleading lips caved you. As soon as you’d agreed, you’d regretted it—knew in your bones it would only serve to wedge the knife in your heart deeper, solidify the loss of a what you thought would be a lifelong partnership. Your platonic soulmate, twin flame pinched out by hateful fingers.

Getting ready for the dinner felt like preparing for a cage fight, where all night you’d have do endure blow after blow—them kissing, them touching, him loving her in a way you wished he’d love you.

Night blanketed the sky by the time you’d arrived to Jack’s home, shadows slipping by the window, shapes of people telling you that you were likely late—the stone in your stomach had slowed you monumentally. The torture was self-inflicted, you knew. There would be no pity when your heart finally gave out.

She did this to herself, they’d say. Hearts can only endure so much before they break.

Voices coalesced into one as you pushed open the door, welcomed by the familiar atmosphere of friendship and loud laughter. You’d completely forgotten to text Jack that you’d gotten here—and for some reason, as you crossed the threshold into the gaping space of his living room, you felt like an outsider. Sudden eyes landed on you like bullets, and all you saw was Jack—his side taken dutifully by Brooke, always beautiful, striking in a way you didn’t think you’d ever been.

Looking at her, it made sense why she was the one Jack chose. Why you hadn’t been. A best friend. Childhood acquaintance. Faded t-shirt he’d strung along for too many years, even as the design weathered away and the fabric weakened. He’d gotten a shiny new one, the novelty still in tact, yet he hadn’t let you go.

Some part of you, deep in the caves of your wounded heart, wished Brooke would ban him from your presence. Maybe then your hurt would lessen. You knew you’d never be able to let go on your own.

Jack’s eyes caught you, stood awkwardly in the mouth of the hallway. He attempted to stand, only for Brooke to tug him down by his t-shirt—the shirt you’d bought him for his birthday last year, impressed with two hearts holding hands. She said something to him, something low and hissed between clenched teeth. Before you could see his reaction, Nico was invading your space, arms winding around you.

“There she is!” he announced, the ground leaving your feet as he lifted you playfully. “We were waiting on you to eat. Sure do like to take your time.”

Residual bitterness faded at Nico’s words—Jack may have been your best friend, but years of being attached to him introduced you to his teammates; they were always kind, if a little overbearing. A big brother that toed the line of overprotective and well-wishing.

Grateful for the attention distractor, you allowed your shoulders to relax and lungs to decompress. The first cut at seeing Jack, still happily in love with Brooke, was already dealt; you just needed to get through the dinner, and not look like a hostage while doing so.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laughed, shoving Nico’s shoulder as he brought you towards where the others were gathered in the living room. “Make fun of me for driving like a grandma all you want, at least I’m safe.”

Not looking at Jack took more self control than you’d care to admit. Blurring in your peripheral, a mess of colors stacked atop one another, you knew if you glanced—saw the claim Brooke was staking for all to see—it would only make you want to leave. So you didn’t.

Luke was next to greet you, offering a pity-imbued smile. Despite never mentioning your affections for his older brother, you knew he knew; saw it in the way he would look at you, the frowns offered. In times when Brooke inadvertently talked you down, it was Luke who told her off, put balm on the wound.

A side hug and a soft smile—you barely were able to muster one yourself. “How have classes been?”

You graced Luke with an exasperated groan. “Terrible, thanks for reminding me. Economics is kicking my ass.”

Luke sat. You remained standing. A loose thread peeking from your sweatshirt seemed far more intriguing than eyes you were trying desperately not to meet.

“Tough luck,” remarked Luke, conversations reviving after the novelty of your arrival wore off. You recognized a couple of faces around you—Dawson, Jesper, Alexander, and John. Faces you’d become acquainted with in your years of being Jack’s friend.

The title felt a bitter reminder of your ceiling, never surpassing Jack’s best friend. Loved and cherished, a desired presence, just not how you wanted. Who were you to complain? It was better to be his friend than nothing at all; to have a little piece of him, proof that at one point, you’d mattered enough to get it.

You just weren’t sure if you did anymore.

Where once Jack’s name was a regular occurrence, flashing on your phone screen—texts, calls, FaceTimes, they all faded once Brooke came into his life. Movie nights on his couch, reruns of old films that you could quote down to the last line, stopped. You knew Jack cared enough to extend invites, but at this point, you figured it was more out of pity and shame than actual want of your company.

Beggars really couldn’t be choosers.

Eventually, everyone made their way into the dining room. Chairs lined a large wooden table, one chosen and haphazardly assembled by you and Jack when he’d first bought this house. Scratches imbedded in the finish sent flashes of dropped hammers and clumsy feet into your mind, memories that felt too far to touch.

Mind far afield, you sat down—somewhere between Luke and Nico, far enough from Jack to be inconspicuous but close enough to feel the sharp burn of his eyes. It was petty, you knew, to have still not greeted him. Not that Brooke would’ve likely even let you. A sadistic part of you wanted him to feel even a modicum of the agony that rattled you whenever you were forced to watch him and Brooke, wanted to wonder and question why you were so cold.

Then again, maybe he didn’t care.

Body detached from your mind, the last thing you expected was to be spoken to—least of all by Brooke. But there her grating voice was, verging on overuse, but you knew that was just how she talked. Chafing and annoying and awful—

“Still no boyfriend?” A venomous smile curled her lips; friendly to the untrained eye. You knew better.

Your fingers twitched. The food in front of you spoiled, appetite evaporated. Of course she asked that—both a jab and a reassurance; if you had a boyfriend, her relationship with Jack would be safe. Not that it wasn’t, regardless.

You wished you could scream at her, leap across the table and force her to hear your words: you’d never have Jack. Want him, yes. Spend years pining over a boy who looked to you like the sister he never had, absolutely. But actually have him, feel his love in every touch and kiss? No. That wasn’t on the cards for you; you’d folded long ago.

“Nope,” you drawled. The pressure of Jack’s stare caved you—you caught his eyes, eyebrows creased, the wrinkle of his forehead that made itself prominent whenever he was annoyed.

What did he possibly have to be annoyed about?

Catching Luke’s gaze only irked you further, alit the urge to push out of your chair and flee Jack’s home. Pity swelled in his eyes, the beginnings of a frown quirking down his lips. You didn’t want pity; didn’t want to feel like the entire world was in on some inside joke you’d never understand. Everyone saw it, your love for Jack. Saw the lovestruck comedy that was your life—girl loves boy, boy isn’t even aware of it, hilarity ensues.

Everyone but Jack. And honestly, that was for the best.

You didn’t think you’d be able to handle the frown when he found out. Jack Hughes, always kind, never malignant, searching for a way to politely turn down his best friend without taking an axe to the connection. Really, there would be no bloodless way to let it die—so you lived in moments between, where nothing felt impactful or important or real.

When Jack was without Brooke, you could almost imagine he was your Jack—the one who turned down every girl so that he’d be free to go to prom with you, the one who got banned from a restaurant for life for pouring a drink over your cheating ex-boyfriend’s head. The Jack who always protected you, always cared, even when all of his friends couldn’t understand it.

That Jack who currently hand his arm around the back of Brooke’s chair, shoulders touching—a casual thing, something you’d done with countless strangers, yet it felt impactful enough to make bile swim in your throat.

“Probably for the best,” Luke interjected after the conversation—if it even was that—between you and Brooke came to an awkward stalemate. “Guys are dicks.”

A tension somehow always existed whenever you were in a room with Brooke. One you never wanted, never fed into. Like a shadow, the morning mist, it hung thick as smog. Choking you, nearly forcing you from the room.

“You’re a guy,” you laughed weakly, offering Luke a pointed look.

“No one at college, then?” Nico piped up. You felt bad for not looking at him, but he was too close to Jack and Brooke—you didn’t want to see them.

Cozy, warm in a way you thought only you’d ever be with Jack. Familiar, united. Their relationship didn’t seem as superficial as his past ones had, woven together under the pretense of good sex and no real connection. Watching Jack love his new, perfect girlfriend made you physically ill; and maybe that was dramatic, maybe it made you a backwards person with failing morals—you couldn’t care anymore.

Years of hiding your love, months of watching his own be poured into a girl that wanted you out of his life—it wore you down to your bones, dangerously close to burning to ash.

“Most of them are… strange, to say the least,” you responded with a wince. And that was true; your major seemed to just attract men whose one quality was making women uncomfortable. “Plus, having a boyfriend would just distract me. Finals are coming up and I’m already worried about how I’m going to do on them.”

Luke scoffed. “Hookups exist.”

A wince followed Luke’s words. Eyes fell to where Jessica was rubbing her hand—Jack apologized, albeit half-heartedly. Confusion overcame you; had he squeezed her hand too tightly?

In the past, you’d had boyfriends. Not that they lasted very long. Somehow, there was always something wrong with them—something only Jack could see; he’d endlessly nitpick, nag, explain why your newest boyfriend wasn’t good enough for you.

They were too old, too uptight, not nice enough. Always something. And without fail, Jack was right—scarcely did they make it past the first date before some measly excuse fell from their lips. But maybe it wasn’t them; maybe it was you. So, with an aching heart refusing to connect with any other but Jack’s, you gave up. Delved headfirst into college work and stayed below the waves, even as they began to drown you.

All you offered in response to Luke was a shrug.

Conversation picked up then, thankfully fell away from you. Limelight sufficiently dimmed, you allowed yourself to watch Jack; a habit you’d never quite shaken, even in the embarrassing moments when he caught your peering gaze.

You weren’t sure exactly when you’d fallen in love with Jack—just that you had, and now you couldn’t touch the bottom of him. Water filled your lungs, suffocated you, but if drowning meant being near him, you’d happily do it. Dying in his platonic embrace seemed better than dying all alone.

Ruffled brown hair, the sort of charm that every boy-next-door seemed to possess, and clear blue eyes that shone every emotion like a transparent window to his soul—all of it made Jack Jack, the boy you loved, would admire even in moments he didn’t think he deserved reverence.

You’d seen it all: the self-deprecation after his failure of a rookie year, dwindling confidence, tears imbued with hurt and disappointment, frustration of someone who knew they were better. It was you who’d been by his side, proved an anchor to a person you couldn’t live without.

Yet he’d still chosen Brooke.

For most people, that would be the last step off the cliff, boneless body breaking against the canyon. Not you—so full of hope and dreams, undeterred by every sign the universe gave you. You weren’t his only, but at least you were one.

Jack’s lips parted into a smile, one you could tell was real—his kissed Brooke’s temple, pinched her on the side. An intimate moment in a crowded room. You felt almost as if you were trespassing, a stranger watching two people in love. Part of you didn’t even associate that boy as Jack, because you couldn’t understand how he could love someone so averse to you, so… mean. But then again, it wasn’t about you.

It was about him. Accommodations had been made for years—leaving parties early because you were uncomfortable, blowing off his guy friends to comfort you after a bad date, scrapping his wants and his plans because of something to do with you.

He was probably sick of it. Sick of you, dictating what he could and couldn’t do. Who he could and couldn’t date. Because who cared if Brooke hated you; Jack loved her, despite it all. And that was what made dread swirl into a storm in your heart, ribs nearly cracking under the rate it was thundering at.

Abruptly, you stood. Felt the chair nearly topple. Eyes came to you—Jack’s friends. Yours, yes, but Jack’s foremost. You were just intruding, butting into a life that no longer fit you. Time had passed, the wishful minds of children grown into adulthood. He didn’t owe you anything anymore, especially when all you were was a storm cloud over his parade.

Just as soon as you had, Jack stood, concern clear in his gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Your tongue felt like lead. “Nothing—nothing, sorry. I’m—I need to use the restroom.”

You didn’t wait much longer before leaving the room.

Air felt scarce, lungs punctured and deflating quicker than you could patch the holes. Clumsily, you pushed open the door to the bathroom, steadied your shaking hands on the edge of the sink. Looking at yourself, reflection marred by the onset of tears, all you could do was compare—compare to Brooke, to every girl Jack had ever wanted, ever liked, ever loved.

Was it their features, doughy lips that worshipped him in a way you didn’t? Was it their bodies, womanly and free in a way you didn’t like to be? Or was it deeper, were their souls crafted from the same light, in a way you’d always thought your own had been with Jack’s?

Idiot, fool, dreamer—you were all of it. Like a lap dog, bird in its teeth, you always returned, remained dutifully at Jack’s side for the moment he might open the screen door and finally let you in.

Brooke had every right to hate you. Perceptive in a way Jack wasn’t, she saw what everyone else did—the lovesick eyes, foolish faith chaining you to him, an unrealized desire that would never be acted on. Had you been in Brooke’s place, you would’ve hated yourself as well.

Water poured from the faucet, gathered in your cupped palms. Attempting to desecrate any evidence of tears, you gently splashed the water in your face—went to dry it when you heard the sound of the front door creaking open.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Bee.”

Cold crept up your spine. Eavesdropping was wrong—you knew that, yet still found yourself leaning against the bathroom door to catch Brooke’s words.

“What’s going on?” came the response, likely the voice of Bianca, Brooke’s best friend. You’d met her once at a game (met was a loose word; she’d given you a snide look and taken to ignoring you the entire time).

Brooke’s voice lowered to the point where you were forced to strain to hear her speak. “You know Jack’s little pet?”

A lapse. Your heart seized, taken by some concoction of shame and surprise.

“No.”

“Yes!” responded Brooke. “She’s fucking everywhere. I asked Jack not to invite her tonight, and lo and behold—”

“Wait, I thought you talked to Jack?”

“I did.” Vexation laced every letter. “I told him it made me uncomfortable how close they were, how she was always around, blah blah. He got defensive, but he said he’d talk to her.”

“Clearly not,” Bianca muttered. “Look, I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re childhood friends, yeah? He probably feels like he has to stay her friend, or something. I mean, Jack’s a good guy, he wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone; if he dropped her, he’d look like a douche. I’m sure she’ll get the hint eventually.”

Footsteps began, voices fading along with them. “I fucking hope. It’s honestly pathetic.”

Blood roared in your ears, drowned out the sound of your beating heart—if it was even beating anymore. Something bitter and hot invaded your airways, lashed like whips against your flesh. It was no secret Brooke disliked you, disliked the closeness of you and Jack, but to hear it, the vicious way it fell from her lips—it made your gut twist and constrict, pushing bile towards your throat.

Pathetic. They thought you were pathetic, hopelessly waiting, like a dead plant praying for flowers that would never come. Lovelorn, seeking affection that only came by way of friendship and never more; they were right, and it became evident with a strike of lightning to your body.

Is that truly how Jack felt? Was he waiting for you to give up, so to spare you the hurt of being let down? Had you become baggage? Chained to him, the memory of childhood the only thing keeping you relevant, when times were less impactful and his life didn’t center around being a professional athlete. The stain of youth, remaining only for its joyful memory; that’s all you were now—a memory.

Just like your love, it seemed everyone saw Jack’s hints but you. Rose-colored lenses blurred everything but what you wished to see; of course you missed them, ignored them so your narrative remained intact.

God, you were an idiot. A fucking idiot.

Head pounding, the squeeze of an oncoming migraine rattling your brain, you opened the bathroom door. Felt like a trapped bird all the way back to the table—you just had to get through dinner, only an hour or two, so as to not raise any suspicion, and then you could fade from Jack’s life.

Not that he’d notice. He hadn’t even spoken to you tonight, though no fault of his own; Brooke kept her claws deep, and it was clear he didn’t want to risk an argument. Not that you could blame him—she was his girlfriend. Her. Not you. He didn’t owe you anything.

Conversations filled your ears, ostracized you—every time you had opened your mouth before, it had felt wrong, the scratch on a vinyl everyone skipped over. You saw him first—noticeably tense, chair a bit further away from Brooke that it had been earlier. Tensed forehead, hands balled on the table; you longed to ask what was wrong, as you were used to doing. But you imagined talking to him, and it somehow felt wrong, a peasant addressing a king.

Then, your eyes fell to your seat.

No longer empty, occupied now by Bianca, who was talking casually with Brooke, as if her actions hadn’t changed your entire perception of the situation. There were no more seats. No more room. The metaphor wasn’t lost on you, hit with the same sting of antiseptic on a wound—there wasn’t any more room for you at the table, just as there was no room for you in Jack’s life.

Maybe this was always meant to happen. Childhood didn’t remain forever, and it seemed, neither was your friendship. You’d always wondered why Jack had chosen you, someone so dissimilar to himself and his friends. Eventually, you made peace with it. His friendship was a balm to everything negative. Now… here you were again, more ostracized than ever.

What were you supposed to do? The long haul wasn’t meant to have an end.

Everyone was looking at you now. Stage fright, you lost your speech, thousands of eyes from a crowd looking at you, spotlight centered on your face, and you couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t—

Blue eyes found you, stood stonily at the entrance of the dining room. Jack’s eyebrows knitted, confused as to why you were still stood. When he saw Bianca, his lip curled. Frustration sparked, bemusement painted over. Once more that protective streak flared, something you were so used to—it had once felt the greatest trophy, proof that the Jack Hughes cared enough to stand up for you. It felt a sore consolation now, a reminder that, as always, you’d be the meek girl from his childhood he was forced to drag along, defend, shield from his new life that he fit into perfectly, that you spilled out from.

“Get up.”

Then, the attention went to him.

Brooke glanced at her boyfriend, annoyance flashing on her face. Their conversation paused. “What?”

Jack nodded towards Bianca. “She took her seat,” he explained in a clipped voice. “Get up.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Jack, it’s not a big—”

“It is,” he interrupted. Tension sparked in the air like a misfired firework. “She needs to sit and Bianca took her place, so—”

“It’s fine!” The words spilled out before you could second guess them. They came out raw and pained and everything you didn’t want to appear as; pity pooled from everyone, that sort of second-hand pity you saw on strangers faces when you’d lose your footing and fall.

It was too much. Pins dug into your skin, all of a sudden too tight. You needed to leave. Now, before your bones crumbled and heart gave out and finally everything burst.

“I—um, I should probably get going, anyway,” you said, nodding as if trying to be convincing. “With finals comin’ up I should get in as much studying as I can.”

Determination was something you’d always admired about Jack; it only irked you now. He stood, shrugged off Brooke’s outstretched hand and came to stand before you, and God—it was a disservice to not admire him, even as annoyance creased his eyes and drew inwards his lips. Beauty, in such a raw form, it startled you. Growing up, he’d always been the center of everyones attention. The hockey prodigy, the first overall draft pick, the franchise player for the Devils.

You? You’d been nothing special. Yet he’d still chosen you. And here he was, apparently doing it again—but why? Why when he had a beautiful girlfriend and a perfect life and fun friends did he always come back, when clearly you were no more than a burden?

You tried not to seem spiteful. You did. But it was so hard to hide your wounds and ignore their pain. He may not have seen them, but they were unfortunately still there. And it seemed they always would be.

“You can’t,” he said, searched your gaze—he’d always been able to see straight through you, with such simplicity it frightened you. You tried to shuttered your expression, hide your pain. It wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. “Dinner’s just started—”

“Really, J, it’s fine.” Heat bored into your face where you knew Brooke was staring, daring you to express any deeper connection with Jack past the sheltered friendliness you were currently forcing.

You weren’t going to budge. Jack saw that, and so he sighed and glanced out the window. “I’ll drive you home.”

Oh, God. Nothing was ever easy. Pushing and pushing and pushing until you weren’t sure you even wanted to get up anymore, to even try. Every time you did, right back down you went, encapsulated by everything Jack.

Freedom felt a forgotten thing. You couldn’t remember a time when you didn’t love Jack, when he wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, main star of the play.

And honestly, you were tired. Tired of wishing for something that would never happen. Tired of being viewed as the shackle around Jack’s wrist. Just tired.

“No need,” you muttered noncommittally, saw the way Jack’s face twisted with concern and confusion and everything you didn’t want to see. “It’s your dinner, J. With my grandma driving, I’ll get home safe.”

The attempt at a joke didn’t land. Smile didn’t even begin to twitch his lips. “It’s dark outside,” he stated, an obvious fact that held no weight for anyone but you and him. “I always drive you when it’s dark.”

That was true enough; your inability to see properly at night meant Jack became your chauffeur, not that he ever complained—even still, it was another thing he did for you, time sacrificed to accommodate you. Prepared to leave his own dinner, his own girlfriend, just to make sure you didn’t have to do something you were uncomfortable with. Conceptually, it was sweet, a sort of gesture that would’ve normally made your heart soar. Now? It made you feel like a burden, an incapable little girl still hiding in the shadow of her protector, afraid of the sting of daylight.

No more.

“I’m going to be fine,” you reassured. Jack didn’t appear convinced—he never was satisfied when it came to you, to your safety, unless he was directly involved. “Stay and have fun.”

“What if—”

“Let her go, babe.”

Brooke’s voice proved the nail in the coffin; a part of you heard the undertone of excitement shot through her words, the possibility of your leave alleviating any annoyance your presence had brought. Without you, Jack’s attention would be fully on her. Without you, he wouldn’t have to concern himself on whether you were having fun and if you were okay.

You. You. You.

You’d considered yourself Jack’s anchor, the grounding of his mind—unfortunately, you’d forgotten an anchor also keeps a thing in place, forcing inactivity.

Let her go.

It rang like a death knell, struck sharp as a poisoned dart, invisible but so unmistakably fatal.

Gathering what remained of your dignity, you grabbed your purse off of your—Bianca’s—chair, caught the commiseration shining in Luke’s eyes like a tarnished trophy. It only stung, reminded you that you needed pity.

Before you could flee the room like a scolded dog, Jack caught your wrist. Heat bloomed, a fever rushing to your head—his simple touch made you sick with want and need and something deeper that would never be realized or fostered. Something you had to let die.

“Text me when you’re home,” he said softly. Fingers gently squeezed your wrist. Where once you’d feel comforted, you just felt trapped. “Please.”

Not trusting your words, all you did was nod.

Honestly, you’d expected some dark cloud to cover you when finally you decided to move on. A procession of funeral goers flocking like crows, unable to understand why you’d abandoned a years-long friendship over something insignificant. Over words spewed from hateful lips.

But it wasn’t what you’d overheard. Deeper, a more sharp knowledge that even if Jack loved you, held you closer than anyone in his circle of friends, he’d never want you in the way you desired. And for a while, that was okay. Because he existed separate of everything—and then came Brooke, and it all crumbled.

You could handle him not loving you. You couldn’t, however, handle him loving someone else so openly.

Street lights blurred behind tears, a mess of streaky lights like a watercolor canvas. Flashes of nights when Jack would drive you home, insisting on taking the wheel so that you didn’t have to toe out of your comfort zone, they haunted you like a inescapable film reel on repeat in your mind. Memories fogged by lost youth, angry words from Jack’s lips as he’d stand up for you—never a party person, denounced for draining the fun. Jack never let those insults slip lip before he was barking at whoever said it.

A responsibility. A burden. The lines had become blurred in recent years.

The latter seemed more fitting.

Through a barrier of tears, you were able to send Jack a text as your car rolled to a stop in the parking lot.

at my dorm

j :)

ok good. u ok? u seemed off @ dinner

Fingers hovered over your screen. Make movements to draft a text. Nothing seemed sufficient.

You let the text stale. Sit stagnant on your phone. Jack would likely worry, eventually call—you just wanted to fall into a void and never return. Not after the mess you’d made of dinner.

The mess you’d made of your life.

Making a ghost of yourself was far more difficult than you’d thought it would be.

Incessantly, Jack had texted you, called you—you didn’t answer any of them. Silence felt a balm to your shame. Selfish, you knew, to just ghost Jack without offering any explanation, but nothing would be sufficient, not without souring the connection you were hoping would die without pain.

Cowardice, craven, pathetic—you knew you were all of it. To you, you were giving Jack a chance to pull back, to fizzle the friendship of his own accord. Maybe then it would’ve stung less, if the desire of its end was reciprocated, mutual. As it were, it was not.

Even with your withdrawal, Jack still tried. Shot texts, called and punctuated them with voicemails, sent you TikToks and Snaps and everything he would normally do if everything was fine; but it wasn’t. And you knew he knew, could sense the urgency in his attempts at communication.

You felt dirty, filthy with shame and guilt.

Despite your best efforts, you didn’t appear as unaffected as you hoped. While your insides were shredding themselves, you tried valiantly to paint over your visage with the normal happy-go-lucky smile you always wore. Most people, if they noticed, didn’t comment on it.

Unfortunately, Kaylen did notice.

Since your freshman year of college, Kaylen had been your roommate—low maintenance, intelligent to the point of making you stupid without even trying. As such, she was far more perceptive than you gave her credit for.

There’d been times you confided in her about your feeling for Jack, sought out advice that never seemed good enough. Because no one but yourself could fix the valley that had split between Jack and you. You could seek outward help all you wanted, but nothing would change unless you did something—and, really, you weren’t sure that was even a good idea anymore.

Two days of moping resulted in Kaylen’s intervention.

“Get up.”

Sunlight bled through your shut eyes, forced a wince. Hands rolled you onto your back, the somewhat stiff mattress of your bed providing a measly cushion. Sleep intruded on, your hands extended, attempted to push away the figure you knew what trying to rile you.

“Go away,” you grunted, throat thickened by sleep and other terrible emotions.

“No,” Kaylen hissed. When finally you opened your eyes, her squinted expression invaded your vision. “Look, I’ve let you be miserable for two days, but it’s getting ridiculous. What the hell happened with you and loverboy?”

A jolt nearly paused your heart mid-beat. Thinking about Jack stung in a way you didn’t like to admit, mainly due to the fact that it was painfully embarrassing that he had such a control over you.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered, bit your tongue to stop anything else from spilling out.

Kaylen’s eyebrows quirked. “So it is about him?”

Nails scraped your lungs. “No—yes—fuck,” you moaned, sitting up and balancing your forehead on bent knees. “It’s… all fucked up, K. I don’t know what to do.”

A sigh left her lips. You felt the bed dip as she climbed beside you. “I can help if you tell me.”

And so you did, started at the beginning of dinner to the end, as you left like a dog defeating in a cage match, heart crying blood. Comforting circles were rubbed into your thigh, but all they did was remind you how Jack used to trace shapes onto your leg, or arm, or back—how he touched you, just to know you were there, with him. He said it placated him.

It was shameful, how bile teased your throat even imagining it.

Rationally, you knew everything was your doing. Loving Jack, torturing yourself by being in his presence whilst he focused his attention on his girlfriend. Expecting any semblance of affection or intimacy even as another held his heart, branded her name over your own. It was always going to happen—knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.

When finally you finished, the conclusion of your mournful, self-pitying tale followed by the sting of unwanted tears, Kaylen’s thoughtful silence waned. Her lips pursed, fingers twitching. You expected her to berate you; what had you expected, stupid girl? He has a girlfriend!

Instead, Kaylen hugged you. “Shit, babe, I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulled back with that pitiful smile you’d seen one too many times—one you’d be fine with if you never saw again. “He cares about you—”

“Not how I care about him, though,” you finished, and Kaylen gave a weak nod.

“I mean, if you told him what Brooke and her little bitch of a friend said, I’m sure he’d leave her. He’s done more for less.” That much was true. Regardless of whose lips it came from, Jack didn’t tolerate disrespect towards you—cut long time friends off for assuming they had any authority to speak poorly of you.

And you knew—knew with the same certainty that you knew your own name—that Jack would break up with Brooke if he knew how she’d spoken of you.

That should’ve made you giddy. Bursted bright light in your chest at the prospect of having Jack to yourself once more. Instead, it made you feel heavy, sand packed into your bones. Who were you to invade his happiness? If he’d chosen Brooke, so be it.

Sure, she’d disparaged you, but Jack’s life wasn’t yours to dictate anymore. If he wanted Brooke, he’d have her, until he decided to leave—not because you decided for him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Eyelids heavy, the residue of late-night tears remaining on the skin, you felt the fight leave you. Kaylen frowned. “I just want it all to be over.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Seriously? You’re giving up on an eight year friendship because of something some dickface said about you? I thought Jack meant more to you than that.”

Kaylen’s words stung. Made you defensive, because she was right—you were giving up and you did care about Jack, but the pain had become too much. “It’s not—it’s harder to explain than that. He’s outgrown me, K. Everyone can see it but him. I’m an obligation, a burden, and yeah, maybe he loves me as a friend and maybe he wants me around, but his friends never have—his fucking girlfriend doesn’t. And at this point, I just want it to end, I want him to be happy without the conditions of making me happy.”

Silence followed. Contemplation showed clear on Kaylen’s face. You could tell, even without her words, that she didn’t agree—but, she didn’t comment on that. Rather, she placed a hand on your leg and squeezed.

Just like Jack always did.

“It’s your life, babe,” she conceded. “And if you want to do this, I’m not going to stop you—but you have to be content with it.” She gestured to you, the nest of blankets and red-rimmed eyes. “Because this? This isn’t happiness over a good choice. You’re miserable without him, and it’s been barely two days. Think about what you’re doing before it’s irreversible.”

With that, Kaylen got up and went to her own bed, and neither of you made comment of it for the rest of the day.

Her words came again and again like a fractured turntable. Of course you were miserable—Jack had been a constant in your life for eight years, consistently preserving your peace, including you when you’d never felt more like an outsider. Happiness was synonymous with Jack, his smile, his presence, him.

Did you regret your decision? Yes, and no. You regretted the way you’d gone about it. The petty silence, ignoring a person who’d made your younger years bearable. Your friendship deserved a better death than that, a reason rather than just… fading from existence, as if it never mattered in the first place.

That wasn’t the message you wanted conveyed, and so with fingers unsteadied by aftershocks, you texted Jack.

You weren’t sure how you’d explain, if you could tiptoe around the actual reason. Maybe you couldn’t, and maybe that was okay.

i’m so sorry for everything. i’ll explain in person. can we meet up?

Your response came half a second later. As if he were waiting. That selfish part of you prayed he had been.

j :)

ofc. my place tn?

yeah. that’s good. brooke won’t be upset?

Asking after her made you want to puke, but you knew it was necessary—she didn’t like Jack even breathing near you, having an entire sit down conversation with him was certainly out of the question.

Thrice, the little text bubble appeared and disappeared on your phone screen. You could sense the apprehension without any background knowledge.

j :)

not a problem. we broke up.

It was shameful, the backwards type of pleasure that brought you.

Maybe you were a terrible person. A terrible friend. You tried to reason that it wasn’t wrong to love someone, to wish they were yours.

shit j. i’m sorry

j :)

i’m not. i’ll see u tn. 7:30 work? have dinner w the guys.

yeah, that’s fine. see you soon, j.

j :)

be safe. i’ll text you when i’m home.

The hard part wasn’t even over, and your heart was already breaking in two.

Sweat beaded at your palms, the cold claws of apprehension raking down your spine. Countless times you’d been stood here, facing the lifeless beige of Jack’s apartment door. This time, however, you stood here knowing it was the last time. A silent farewell to familiarity, the ties finally cut. Jack would fight, you would cry, and maybe he’d be able to change your mind—it seemed such an unlikely outcome that it calcified every inhale in your throat.

Shaking hands rapped the wooden door, where behind would come the execution of a friendship you’d held like a crutch for years upon years. Your childhood had died, and maybe it would’ve been better had it been left there as well, so as to spare you this heart-rending pain.

Even still, you wouldn’t have traded those years for the world—everything they taught you, through pain and happiness. It made you who you were, brought you to his doorstep with melancholy eyes and a failing heart.

Footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, urgent in a way that picked up your heart rate. The next moments you imagined with brutal clarity—Jack’s hopeful gaze, blue in a way no one else’s ever had been, the soft slope of his nose you teased him for, scrunched whenever he was particularly concerned. How he’d usher you in, hear your words, plead for a moment to explain, and then admit his love for you.

That was how you dreamt it. Unsurprisingly, it was not how it went.

Instead of the door opening to reveal the man you’d love for a lifetime, the squealing hinges were followed by a face that nearly knocked you backwards. Previous indifference smeared into flat-out disdain as Brooke’s eyes caught your figure, engulfed in one of Jack’s faded hoodies and likely disheveled in a way she’d never experienced herself.

Arrows punctured your lungs, sole your breath and defaulted your barely beating heart. Brooke was here. At Jack’s apartment. After they’d supposedly broken up. Had he lied? Was he tricking you, making you the fool? He never would, you knew that, but your wounded mind spun falsities to perpetuate your pain, as if punishment for trusting him in the first place.

“What do you want?” Brooke grunted, leant against the doorframe. Lips twitched into a smirk, the smile of the victorious.

You’d never considered yourself a violent person, but the urge to punch her in the teeth itched your fists. “Is Jack here?”

Her face fell. Something dark flashed in her face—she hesitated a moment, tossed a look over her shoulder. “Yes.”

The curt response was better than nothing, you supposed. “Right, well, can you tell—”

Brooke ran a hand through her hair. Adjusted the clasp of her necklace. “We were kind of in the middle of something. Come back later?”

The axe struck down.

Gravel filled your throat. Suffocated you. If Brooke knew the affect of her words, for once it didn’t show on her face. Years of life had taught you many things, drug you through agonies you wouldn’t relive for anything, yet somehow, this was the worst pain.

To be betrayed, trust snapped by a single action, it stung. Wormed venom in your veins and contaminated your bloodstream, poisoning your heart. Realistically, Jack hadn’t actually done anything wrong. He was allowed to hook up with other girls, to love them—he had, for years.

That wasn’t the issue.

No, it was the fact that he’d set a time, invited you over, and somehow forgot? Or had he set it all up, just to rub it in your face, get his lick-back for your prolonged silence towards him? Either way, it hurt, hurt like a bitch.

Made stone, all you did for a moment was blink at Brooke before a voice called from the background, “Who is it?”

Jack.

Fright found you then, broke away your shell of stone. You couldn’t let him see you, the dog wishing once more to come in from the cold. If he’d planned it, and saw you, he knew he’d won. If he hadn’t planned it, then he realized that—irrecoverably—he fucked up. Both choices felt like a criminal trial you didn’t want any part of.

“I—um—have a good night,” you rushed out, feet stumbling over themselves as you practically ran away from Jack’s door.

So much for closure.

So much for being broken up.

Maybe this was your sign. The one you needed to finally pull away.

Because Jack Hughes didn’t love you. Not past platonic soulmates—a relationship stained with past memories, ones that made both of you incapable of letting go, even as you outgrew it.

You were done being second best. Done trying to squeeze into a place you didn’t fit anymore.

If Brooke was Jack’s choice, so be it. You didn’t want any part of it anymore.

1K notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

I Know Places

inspired by i know places by taylor swift <3

pairing: quinn hughes x tkachuk! reader

word count: 2.4k

warnings: drinking, use of y/n, mentions of throwing up (not actually done), fade to black smut

MASTERLIST

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

Maybe it wasn't the best idea you've ever had, but it wasn't like you planned this! You didn't plan to fall for one of your brother's best friends, someone that was a groomsman at his wedding, it just happened.

You and Quinn kept sharing looks during the start of the wedding reception. It was a dangerous game and you both knew it. Quinn and Brady were best friends, and both of your families were friends— you were terrified that too much was at risk with this relationship.

There wasn't a fear that your families wouldn't be happy about the relationship, because there was no doubt in your mind that everyone would be thrilled, it was the fear that your relationship would no longer be just yours.

It would be theirs, too. It would belong to your parents, Quinn's parents, Brady, Matthew, Taryn, Jack, Luke, and eventually all of the fans.

Your relationship would be under the scrutiny of the public eye. You'd be subjected to hate from Quinn's "fans," and probably your brothers's as well. You knew that some girls online tended to take every single blink as a chance to over analyze a relationship from a player they obsess over. Many fans were supportive of the various WAGS, but there were a few that would be sobbing over the fact that Quinn is taken. These fans are the hunters, and you're a fox trying not to be caged.

Your relationship was fairly new, only a couple weeks old, and it started back when the Devils were still in the playoffs. There was a gap between one of Matthew's games and one of Jack and Luke's, so you hopped on a plane to go see one of them before Quinn got his wisdom teeth out. Quinn drove you back to your hotel at the end of the night and well... things spiraled from there.

Love was fragile. It could burn out. And in your experience, especially new love.

The more alcohol that you put into your system, the less careful you and Quinn were being. There were cameras everywhere, but it slipped your mind for just a moment. You two had been friends for a long time and an innocent touch surely wouldn't be enough for everyone's heads to turn, so you let it happen.

Quinn stood behind you with his hands on your waistline as you moved your hips to the music. You knew they were his hands before you even turned around, you were familiar with his touch at this point. It wasn't until you heard Luke whisper to Jack, "look!" that you had any concern.

"Let go, Quinn," you whispered to him. "Luke is looking suspicious."

"So let him," Quinn whispered back.

"Quinn," you groaned.

Quinn obliged to your concerns and took his hands off of you. He extended his hand towards you instead and lifted it up when you took it, a subtle motion signaling you to spin under his arm. You laughed as he did this, and to play it off like you were just two friends dancing, he called out to Luke to catch you as he spun you outward.

You fell into Luke laughing before you turned back to face Luke and threw your arms around his neck to dance to the beat with him.

"What was that about?" Luke asked you. You internally panicked, but outwardly remained calm.

"What was what about?" you laughed it off.

"Quinn's hands on you," Luke said, as if it were obvious. In his defense... it was.

"We were just dancing, Luke. I've known him forever! I've known you forever and now we're dancing! Is there something wrong with that?" you turned it all on him.

"No, no, nothing wrong with that," he said calmly. He was too smart for his own good and you knew it, but he was also respectful enough to not call you on your bluff.

Luckily, keeping an eye on you was the last thing on Brady and Matthew's minds with everything that's going on around them. As the night went on, Jack was getting drunker and Luke was on Jack duty, so Quinn's brothers were finally less of a problem.

All you wanted was to be with Quinn. If you two were further along in your relationship and unworried about your families, you two would be attached at the hip and having a good time. But everyone in your family was around. Grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles. Everyone. Hell, even Josh kept eyeing you and Quinn. But the wine running through your veins was making you crave Quinn's touch even more.

All the happy couples surrounding you certainly weren't helping. Every kiss you caught a glimpse of made you think of Quinn's lips. His soft lips. You felt your face begin to heat up as your mind wandered too deep into memories of your last time with Quinn.

"I know that look," Quinn said as he walked up to stand beside you.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you feigned innocence. Your thoughts were nowhere near innocent.

Quinn stepped in front of you, dangerously close, "Yeah, you do. You've got that look on your face that you have while we're..." He leaned in close to whisper the rest of his sentence in your ear, "...alone."

You closed your eyes and gulped. He has you in the palm of his hand, and right now was not the best time to be feeling such things.

Quinn's hands found your hips and pulled you closer to be pressed up against him, "I don't think anyone's watching."

"Quinn..."

"Just one kiss," he proposed. "To get it out of our system."

You looked around and discovered that your boyfriend was right. Everyone was too wrapped up with the party to pay any mind to you two. You gave into him and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him softly.

Quinn brought a hand up to your cheek and cupped your face when you pulled away, "I love how red you get every time I kiss you."

Then it happened.

A flash. A camera flash to be exact.

You began to panic. Once Brady and Emma get all the wedding photos, your secret would be out. There was no chance that you could play off whatever the camera caught as something just between friends!

"Shit!" you said, a little too loudly.

Your big brother was more keen to you than you thought, because you saw Matthew spin around in search of you. Those stupid protective tendencies never shut off for him. He was the oldest. He felt responsible for his siblings. His protectiveness is normally your saving grace, but it was your number one enemy right now.

"I know a place where we won't be found," Quinn hurried out. You grabbed his hand, "Let's go."

You two dashed out of the reception hall, not too fast as to make a scene, but you weren't moving slowly.

You two were practically sprinting through the hotel towards the elevators once you escaped the reception hall.

"Quinn, your hotel room would be too obvious!"

"That's why we're going to Matthew's," he said as if it was obvious.

"What?!"

"He gave me his key to watch because he tends to lose things," Quinn explained. "Your brother's hotel room is the last place people would think to look. I don't even think Matthew knows which room he's in."

Quinn had a point. You were pretty sure if anyone actually saw anything it would be Matty, and his own hotel room was not going to be his first idea of places to look. You immediately pulled Quinn closer to you the second he got the door open. You kissed him hungrily as you walked backwards, only parting when he gently laid you down on the couch.

Quinn climbed on top of you and started to kiss you again. His tongue slipped into your mouth as his hands gripped your hips, wrinkling your bridesmaids dress between his fingers. You moaned into his mouth when he bit your lip, which only made him bite harder before he tugged and pulled away. He then trailed his lips across your jaw and down your neck. You gasped and gripped your hands onto the ends of his hair, feeling the oxytocin flood through your body now that you finally get to feel his touch.

His left hand found its way under your dress. He traveled up your thigh slowly, making you shudder. His fingers lightly grazed across your silk panties, teasing you as he snapped the top edge against your skin.

"Please," you whimpered. It's been so long since he was last able to touch you— really touch you. Long distance is hard, but a secret long distance relationship? It's hell. "I need you."

"We don't plan on going back down to the party, do we?" Quinn asked you low. You hummed a no, pursing your lips as you tried to keep it together. "Good," he smirked.

Your heartbeat quickened when he reached up a hand to caress your cheek, something he does when he wants you to look at him. You opened your eyes to stare into his greens, completely mesmerized by the hold this man has on you. Just with one touch he can get you to do what he wants and he knows it.

"I want you to beg," he instructed. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows expectantly, and did so subtly.

"Please," you whined.

Quinn tutted in disapproval. He wanted more than that from you. He leaned down close to your ear as he slid his hand up your body to your tit and softly squeezed, "I'm going to need more than that, baby."

"Please, fuck me," you said with more urgency. He was driving you insane.

"Please, fuck me, what?" he smirked.

"Please, fuck me, Daddy."

Quinn gave you a sly smile, "Well... since you asked so nicely.”

– – –

Your naked frame laid atop of Quinn’s, your head against his chest, as the two of you fought to catch your breath. If you were home, at either of your homes, the notion of having to get up and get dressed wouldn’t even have even crossed your minds. And if it did, you would’ve laughed it off. You don’t get that luxury when you decide to sneak off during your brother’s wedding to your other brother’s hotel room.

“Q–”

“Don’t,” Quinn cut you off. He brought a hand up and ran it up and down through your hair, “Not yet. We have time.”

“How do you know?” you whispered.

“Because the world can’t be that cruel to me,” he mumbled, holding you tighter.

Turns out, the world could be that cruel to him. To both of you. Because the loud and rowdy voices of Matthew, Jack, and Luke were coming closer and closer.

You practically dived off of Quinn and started to put your dress back on. Quinn was frantically looking for his jacket before giving up entirely and going without it.

“Act drunk!” Quinn whisper shouted at you.

“What?!”

“Act drunk! Go sit by the toilet and act like you’ve been throwing up!”

You finally caught on to what Quinn was saying. There was no way you two could escape out of Matthew’s hotel room, but you could act like you intended to be in here. Quinn grabbed a hand towel and got it wet. He rubbed it across your face so it seemed like he had cleaned your face off post you throwing up. You then threw open the toilet lid and flushed it, hoping that the boys were close enough to have heard it. Quinn sat down on the bathroom floor with his back against the wall and his legs straight out, and you curled up into a ball and laid your head on his thigh. You weren’t drunk by any means, but you were pretty inebriated, so forcing yourself to cry like you normally do post throwing up wasn’t that hard.

You guess they went to the front desk to get another key to Matthew’s room, because instead of a knock, you heard the door click open. Matthew immediately heard your sniffles and rushed into the bathroom, “What’s wrong?!”

“Y/N got super drunk, and your room was closer than mine, sorry,” Quinn said softly, rubbing your back up and down.

“I didn’t see her drinking a lot,” Luke said suspiciously.

“She can be a lightweight if she doesn’t eat enough,” Matthew said, completely oblivious to what Luke was insinuating. He was crouched down on the ground trying to tend to you. He looked at Quinn, “I got her.”

Quinn helped move you into a position where Matthew could pick you up and carry you to the bed.

“I don’t feel good, Matty,” you fake cried.

“I know, Y/N/N,” Matthew shushed you. “I’m here, it’s okay.”

Matthew told Quinn to unmake the bed so that he could put you in it. Matthew gently laid you down and Quinn covered you up. Matthew left to get you some water and Advil and told Quinn to watch you.

“Next time, I’m picking the place,” you mouthed. Quinn silently chuckled and sent you a wink before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“You got this?” Jack asked his brother.

“I had it before you got here, so…” Quinn trailed off.

“Alright, alright,” Jack said. “No need for sass!”

Jack left, but before Luke followed him, he stopped to look at you and Quinn. He looked out the door and when Jack was far enough away, he spoke.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Luke started.

“Yes! Oh my god, yes! Happy?” you shouted out, not lifting your head to look at him.

Luke smiled and looked back at Quinn, who sheepishly ran his fingers through his hair and nodded.

“I knew it!”

Quinn came back to you once Luke had left and knelt on the ground to be eye level with you.

“You put on quite the show just to cave and tell Luke,” he said.

“Yeah, well, your little brother is relentless,” you pouted.

“That he is,” Quinn laughed lightly.

“My brothers will make a big deal of it. I want the beginning of this relationship to be us figuring us out, not them telling us what our relationship is,” you told Quinn. Quinn grabbed your hands in his and kissed them, “Just as long as you know better places we can hide.”

“Trust me, Q, I know a lot of better places than my brother’s hotel room.”

751 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

okay but if they trade trevor would that mean dixie and him officially end because like?????

#cvpiddszn thoughts #trevor zegras #nhl

8 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — the fourth part of breakable heaven; dealing with the fallout of luke discovering your secret relationship with his older brother, you find yourself pouring over the memories of what was—and trying your hardest to hold onto what is, even as summer rapidly approaches and nothing is certain. based loosely on the very first night by taylor swift.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — angst, dumb people in love who are ass at communicating, references to smut (conversations/arguments about it), crying and regretting, arguments, insecurities and thoughts of self-doubt, cursing, jack being a minor asshole, no happy ending (YET!)

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x fem!reader ; best friend!luke hughes x fem!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — you guys asked for it, i had to do it. this will likely be the second to last installment (i may do some blurbs or one-shots depending on what y’all’s want!). while we don’t quite get our happy ending yet, we are close! enjoy my loves <3 this has to be the longest one i’m so sorry omg.

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey , @bellstwd , @Kashee-H , @crazycat-ladys-blog , @brucewaynegfreal , @love4dlr , @jackhughesily , @leavethemonsteralive , @loveforaugust , @43hughes , @nathandoe , @choppedlamphandscowboy ( if your name is in white, i couldn’t tag you! )

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Losing something wasn’t rooted in reality until you searched for it in your mundane routine—only for it to be gone, a shadow and a thought remaining, the the weight of untouchable moments darkening the air around it. Memories polluted by retrospect, a spill of ink that tarnished a painting. Where once flashes of storm-blue eyes and love-imbued touches hung as the centerpiece of your heart, polished and clean, there now hung a layer of dust—obscuring the moments behind mistakes and missteps, all of your own making.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Silence.

Every normalcy you’d built around two boys crumbled like ancient paths, destroyed in a single night, a single instant. Still, there remained those footprints beaten into the ground, a reminder that once, people had been there. Had cherished it. Gaps formed, their shadows gone. You weren’t sure who incited the isolation; perhaps it was self-imposed. Every moment since that night, you’d felt a criminal awaiting trial, repeatedly banging their head on the concrete walls, hoping it would change reality.

It never did.

Shadow hung like asphyxiating smoke, unperturbed by what would have been the flash of bright light—your nightstand illuminated, the buzz of a text reverberating through the wood underneath your phone. Goodnight, it would say, reassuring you that even after all this time, you hadn’t become an ill-fitting shirt to the man you loved, incapable of being removed without first being torn to shreds.

Now, the darkness remained. Untouched, quiet. Just as it had been for two weeks.

In your peripheral vision, you sometimes saw the twinkle of glitter catching the light. Stains on wooden floors. Blood making home between the cracks of concrete. Leaving the house, walking blocks and blocks until you finally called an Uber. Red-ringed eyes made wet by the collapse of a castle you’d spent years building.

Spite and pettiness made home in the distance between yourself and Luke—fingers on a hair-pin trigger, yet never quite able to let bullets fly. It was easy to avoid. It was not as easy to forget.

You could spend hours explaining yourself, finding the perfect shield to nest behind and deflect any questions that tried to worm their way into your heart. Defenses, excuses, fallacies—nothing would ever take away from the fundamental truth that you’d deceived your best friend, carried on a secret relationship with his older brother, and began the earthquake that split into a cavern between them.

Guilt was a funny thing, you realized. In the moment, you hadn’t felt it—or, maybe you had, but not for your actions; rather the way Luke found out about them. Now, it was all you felt. A slow-working poison that served to remind you of your faults at every turn. Sweaters that smelled faintly of them, the dent in your wall Luke had made from accidentally kicking it, the damned infinity necklace. Gleaming in the mirror, the inexorable understanding that you and Jack clearly hadn’t been forever, regardless of the future and visions you’d crafted in your head.

Delusion was a sweet liquor. The after-burn reminded you why people stayed away.

Three days following, Jack had texted you. The little white heart beside his contact name a sickening sight. I need time, he’d said. And after that? Nothing.

To you, Jack had always been the sun. Everything revolved around him, an obnoxious gravitational pull that ruined your plans of moving on. Warm touches on your flesh, ripening it to a burning red—bright and homely and everything you’d ever wanted. So blinding you’d forgotten the sun was deadly. Cursed, dragging people below its rays to burn them, spurn them as Icarus once was. Destructive, painful, cruel—all things you’d ignored in favor of allowing him to awaken your heat.

But your wings were made of wax. Flying then falling, shoved back into reality by the bone crush.

You took the pain. It was deserved, a reminder that you—like almost every girl Jack had ever touched, graced with his invaluable presence—that you were disposable. A warm body, blank canvas to paint over and hide away in a closet once the paint dried.

You’d lost both of them. And for what? Jack didn’t want you—you weren’t sure he ever even did. If those golden-laced I love you’s were just as Luke had claimed them: transactional, a stepping stone to your bed and body, the master key that gave access to every girl’s heart, unfortunately even your own. A stone thrown through glass walls. You weren’t sure how to pick up the pieces, how to fit them together and make it stay. You’d always had Luke, guiding your hands. Now, your pieces cut him. Shunned him.

One simple push, and your house of cards tumbled.

Strength of mind had been something you’d once prided yourself on. You didn’t feel strong. You felt stupid, holding onto the shattered maybe like a grudge, squeezing any remaining life out of it.

Because you weren’t the love of Jack Hughes life. A passing fad, a fashion trend he’d try and then allow dust to collect on the clothes. Diminished, you’d return to what you once were—the ghost dancing around his heels, the thorn wedged in his skin he couldn’t quite remove. Because now, you weren’t just Luke’s best friend.

You were his former… well—you didn’t even know. Girlfriend? That felt too formal a word, too passionate for a man who took to ignoring you after one mistake. No word felt right, none but maybe.

Now, you were Jack Hughes’s formal maybe. A possibility. One that he’d ruined.

You would like to say you hated him. That you didn’t think about him. It’d be a lie—practically your brand now, devolved into a child who played up their life through fantastical fabrications.

Two weeks after, they’d advanced to the Conference Finals. Two weeks after, Jack had scored his first hat-trick in the playoffs. Two weeks after, they were currently up two games to one against the Florida Panthers.

Watching their achievements through the buzz of the TV screen; where once you would’ve been seated beside Ellen and Jim, the roar of the crowd cushioning you. Pictures and headlines, the occasional interview. You hated to look at Jack, captured in the moment of a game. Hated that you knew what his lips tasted like, the way he took his coffee, how his chest rose and fell in perfect silence as he slept. You hated that you knew a ghost so well, reduced to a medium he refused to speak with.

You knew you were torturing yourself—what else did you have to focus on? College and work seemed a minuscule issue compared to the burning of your hopes and wants on a funeral pyre.

Like a childhood toy, you never could quite let go.

Hopes of distracting yourself with work worked out, but only for a short time. The gentle ebb of people coming in and out of the restaurant would soon end—the Devils had just put themselves up three one, at home, meaning a torrent of people were sure to come in to eat and celebrate. There were ups to working at one of the best sports bars in Newark; the rush of hyped hockey fans was not one of them.

Through the massive drop-down screen taking up one wall of the restaurant, you’d watched the game—forgotten to refill a customer’s drink at one point because you were so involved. Feet as slick as his lies, Jack had scored—twice. Made first star. Foolish pride made home in your heart. You were glad he was getting what he wanted.

You surely weren’t.

Fitted with a retro interior, old-fashioned in a way that just barely escaped the outdated design that came with trying too hard, your place of work was always jam-packed with sports fans trying to glimpse their favorite teams playing while also enjoying bar food and drinks. Close proximity with New York meant that Jets fans often haunted the booths and bar, and an odd Eagles or Flyers fan would sometimes request a channel change. With the Devils so deep in the playoffs, a sea of red transformed the floor into a mockery of you.

A rip-current that dragged you deeper with every attempt to escape.

Even worse? The Devils’ win-streak meant that your manager had required the staff to switch from the regular black shirt to a jersey. With two names on the do not interact list, you’d chosen Nico. Most of your coworkers were unfortunately sporting a massive 86 on their backs. Passing them made your heart rate pick up, foot on the gas—you hated how a number could affect you.

Pathetic, idiotic, ignorant. You knew you were all of it. At least the fallout wasn’t really changing your everyday life; college and work. Visits and secrets rendezvous had been plucked out, but really, you’d just gone back to your life before Jack admitted he loved you.

The only disappearance that stung was Luke’s. From a pillar to ash, he hadn’t even texted you; Jack at least had. But how could you blame him? You’d betrayed his trust. Held his hand and stabbed him in the back with your other. No matter how hard you scrubbed, the stain never lessened, even two weeks past.

Voices and laughter overlapped, filling the space. Customers lined almost every booth, overflowed at the bar. Plates and trays balanced on your coworkers’ arms, every TV hung high showing after-game analyzation of the Devils’ game that had ended mere hours before. Night bled through the front windows, headlights of passing cars splitting the warm atmosphere with LED brights. With bodies clamored together, the restaurant felt a few degrees above a hundred—a thin layer of sweat coated your back, the long-sleeved jersey marked Hischier feeling pounds heavier than it was.

Pen scribbling, short-handing the orders spewed at you by unfocused patrons, you made your way back to the kitchen. Stress formed wrinkles in your four coworkers foreheads—your party tables had put you leagues ahead of them in rotation, forcing every knew table into their hands. A part of you felt bad, but you’d much rather be sweaty and slow than sweaty and stressed.

As you were ringing in food on the tablet, a gentle tap on your back made you turn. Fiery red hair belonging to your coworker, Gillian, was put up in a haphazard bun—she’d begun the shift with it down, which clearly hadn’t worked out in her favor. Desperation bled through her eyes like water damage, a pleading smile on her painted lips.

You sighed. “What do you need?”

“Amber just sat a party of five in my section,” Gillian began, eyes flitting towards the back of the restaurant, near the bar—halfway across the floor from your own section. “I’m swamped. I really can’t take them, and everyone else said no. Can you, please?”

Weighing your options, you decided to accept the money rather than have her hate you for the rest of the shift—and probably beyond.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, watched her eyes gleam with appreciation. “I’m not busy, but I may ask you to run their drinks. Your section’s far from mine.”

“Thank you!” Hands squeezing yours, and she scampered off, disappearing behind the swinging doors leading to the kitchen.

After a swift survey of your tables—all of whom seemed completely fine and slightly intoxicated—you trekked over to Gillian’s section, tucked in the back of the restaurant and just beside the bar. Framed jerseys bearing the names Brodeur, and two Hughes, separated by numbers, lined the walls—black marker scribbled into a signature on each. Gut twisting, you remembered asking Luke and Jack to sign them, with the complete intention of giving them to your manager to hang up.

Even your escape held reminders. You were cursed, you were sure.

Head down, digging your server’s book from your apron, you approached the table and began your repeated opener—so often said you felt like a broken record.

“Welcome in, you guys. My name’s—”

You looked up.

You have got to be fucking kidding.

Peering up at you from the table were five Devils’ players. And of course, because luck liked to shove you over trip wires, two of them happened to be the two people you were absolutely dreading having to interact with again.

Poisoned arrows deflated your lungs. Pinched out your spark. It had been a good day. Mind barely wandered to the what-ifs and the whys. Now here your mistakes were, dragging themselves to the forefront of your mind like beaten bodies barely hanging on.

Blue eyes you’d learned the individual flecks of in illicit moments flickered to you. Widened with something you couldn’t detect. Lashes you’d envied fluttered, as if unable to hold you gaze any longer. You weren’t sure why you’d expected Jack to look any different—it had only been two weeks, yet it spanned like an unending cycle, trapped in time, punished for your misdeeds. Brown hair unobstructed by a baseball cap, you could see the ends curled slightly, damp from what you assumed to be a shower.

Even now, when you tried to paint over the love with hate, Jack was still so beautiful. It hurt. Hurt to look at him and know he’d left, hadn’t even said goodbye. You couldn’t blame him for choosing to cherish family, but it was allowed to hurt, even if you’d sliced your heart yourself.

Sucking in a breath, magnetized by the pull of Luke’s gaze—desperate and hoping, the silent slip of a message to look at him!—you met his eyes. Surprise glittered like a dying star, before it blinked out entirely, replaced by something heavier and imbued with a darkness you didn’t want to discern.

Jesper and Dawson sat beside Luke; Nico on the same side of the booth as Jack. You weren’t aware if they knew of the fallout. Part of you hoped, so as to save yourself from any awkwardness, but then again, did you really want them knowing Jack and Luke came to blows because you fucked Jack?

Forcing down every human emotion that currently ripped your heart to shreds, you forced a smile on your face and tried to pretend they were any other patrons.

A pathological pretender, it wasn’t too difficult.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” you focused your eyes on your notepad. Fingers trembled around your pen. “I’m going to be your server tonight. Can I get you guys started with anything to drink?”

Tension made every word pass like molasses through the air. Before Jack even opened his mouth to respond, you knew what he was going to say—a simple Old Fashioned, three shakes of bitters. The taste it left on your tongue still tasted like Jack, bitter and burning.

Once you’d written down all of their drinks—and promised to bring by a round of waters—you tucked your notepad back in your apron and smiled, felt the hooks sink deeper in your gut. Just when you can’t believe anything could get worse, of course it does. Life had a funny way of shoving the things you fumbled right back in your face—the dangling of a possibility just out of reach, hands swinging through metal bars.

You couldn’t help but glance at Jack briefly as you walked away; shadows overcame his airy expression, laser sight gaze focused on your back. Branded by the name of another man, sporting a number that wasn’t his. The right to be angry and jealous didn’t belong to him anymore, even if you’d never officially ended it with the boy. Like holding onto a fraying rope, dangling above a ravine, you didn’t think you could let go if you tried, to be met with the undeniable and final fact that it was over with him. That you’d lost him—or he’d lost you.

Everything felt uncertain now, the draft of a great story. You hoped the powers had mercy on you. Prayed they chose love, instead of tearing it up.

You just wanted your before. A do-over, but no one had the power to reverse time. If losing them both was the lesson the world thought you needed, you’d take it in stride—or, try to.

Returning to the table with their waters (drinks already on the table thanks to Gillian), Nico gave you a soft smile—imbued with pity. You knew then he knew, and even if he didn’t, the lasting and suffocating silence between you and someone who had once been your best friend would’ve been sign enough.

Clearing your throat, you didn’t look up. Couldn’t. If you did, the tears you’d been holding back would fall. Until then, your emotions were manageable, a boogeyman that was only powerful if you named it.

“What can I get you guys to eat?” was what you managed, voice cracking at the end.

And they’d answered. You’d written. But had anyone asked you to repeat it, you wouldn’t have remembered. All you felt was the shadow of a predator looming over you, hummingbird heart nearly shattering your ribs and tearing straight through your chest, landing in the palms of the boy you’d loved for six goddamn years.

And you’d had him. For a short time, felt his love and his promises and everything every other woman in the world had wanted. Everything his lips had likely shaped for other women. You weren’t special. Never had been. A Midas touch could make even manacles golden. Didn’t take away from the fact that you were trapped, and the only person capable of freeing you refused to speak with you.

Space. Time. What did it matter? Like a jury deliberating on punishment, you awaited the verdict for your crime. Forgiveness or incarceration, torn from everything you’d known and cherished?

Jack’s voice, even speaking an order to you, still felt the softest comfort. The familiar tick of his jaw, hands tightening around his glass whenever you raised your arm to push hair out of your face, displaying the 13 on your sleeve with petty pride.

Their food arrived. They ate. You avoided, just as you’d always done. It was easier like that—confrontation had to possibility of drawing blood, shattering hopes. Pain never was your friend. Thin skin easily bruised, littered in scars. You’d avoided telling Luke because you feared losing him. And you’d lost him anyway.

Maybe avoiding wasn’t a good idea anymore.

Still, you couldn’t manage to drag your feet over there. Made Gillian check up on them. Squeals of excitement amongst your coworkers at having Jack Hughes at the restaurant—along with his teammates—reverberated in your ears like a bad song. Confusion sparked in Gillian as to why you didn’t want to serve them past taking orders. Because who wouldn’t? She’d questioned you, folded her eyebrows in thar scrutinizing look; you’d never tell. Some girls would brag about it, having the Jewel of New Jersey between their legs each night. Not you. It only served as an embarrassing reminder that you’d lost him. That he was the salt air that rusted your connection.

No one knew about your friendship—was it even that anymore?—with Luke. They didn’t need to know this.

Just as they’d phased from your life, so did they leave the restaurant, silent as ghosts. The squeal of the metal door hinges sung a somber tune, departure announced, like the universe owed them reverence. You only knew they’d gone when Gillian brought you the signed check.

Leather kissed your fingers as you flipped open the checkbook absentmindedly; you didn’t expect much. Had seen Jack throw his card down first when the time came to pay—you made peace with the fact you were getting a bad tip and likely a hate letter on the tab.

“What the hell?”

You’d gotten used to having your expectations crushed. It normally wasn’t as favorable as this. Confusion awoke corpses, graveyard of buried emotions given life once more. On a 300 dollar tab, Jack had tipped you 300 dollars.

Your feet moved quicker than your mind. Tucking the checkbook into your apron, you sped towards the door, passing where Gillian was grabbing silverware at the front.

“Where are you going?” she asked, and you realized there was no discernible reason for you to be running towards the door of your workplace.

Heart and words stuttering, you managed out: “The guy left his card.”

Cold metal of the door chilling your palms, you barely heard Gillian’s response before you bolted out into the street. Sidewalk littered with coated passerby’s, passing between them conversations you’d never hear the end of, you searched for a familiar figure. Up the walkway, he walked just behind the other guys, hands in his pockets. Adorned in a black coat, he looked the vision of a mourner—perhaps he too was unable to move on from the grave.

Weaving between people, awkward and likely appearing crazed, each step felt like the mending of a broken bridge. An olive branch, in the form of 300 dollars.

“Jack!” you called. Immediately, he paused, whipped around as if trying to catch the sneaking figure of a thief.

He said nothing, but didn’t move. To you, that was a small victory.

Out of breath and covered in sweat beneath your clothes, the clothes of people around you told you that the weather was frigid, but you didn’t feel it. Felt nothing but the thunderous rush of your blood and pulsing of your skin.

You thrust the checkbook into his chest. Confusion flitted into his beautiful blue gaze, melting away the wonder that’d rested there before.

“I can’t accept this,” you fumbled out, feeling the weight of his gaze like thousands of bricks. Trapped below rubble, you could barely breathe.

“What?”

“You left 300 dollars, Jack. Your entire tab was 300 dollars.” Despite the press of the checkbook against his chest, he made no effort to grab it—let you hold it there as he kept his hands in his pockets. “I’m not accepting that.”

His eyes squinted. “I’m not asking you to. I left it for you.”

You wanted to groan. To repeatedly hit your fists against his chest until you caved it in, grab out his heart and look at it, see if your name was written on it as his was on yours.

“Why?” you murmured, shoulders tightening.

For years you’d been able to tell Jack’s exact emotions. Soul pushed against the windows of his eyes. Under the blanket of night, you couldn’t and you hated that. Hated you couldn’t tell if you were affecting him as much as he was you.

“What do you mean, Bells?” Jack sighed; you almost winced. Your once jokingly annoying nickname felt like a curse falling from his lips. Just like your feelings, so too had pretty girl been buried, grave unmarked.

“I don’t deserve it,” you muttered, eyes flitting about his face—the ghost of a split lip and cut cheek haunted your vision like an afterimage. “You’ve been radio silent for two weeks, Jack. I thought this was—I thought we were over. And that’s fine, but you can’t just… waltz into my job and leave me a 300 dollar tip. You can’t.”

A short shake of his head, the pursing of lips you’d felt all over your body—heat flushed your face. “Why?”

“Because I’ll think you still care,” you murmured. Hated the shake in your voice, just as you’d hated your reflection for two weeks. How it appeared cracked and broken and wrong.

The moment spanned for an eternity. People passed by, had no idea of the rickety bridge shaking below your shared feet. Warm light bled through the windows of the boutique at your side, illuminating Jack’s face a soft orange. Shadows of passing cars slipped onto his cheeks, momentarily blocking the light.

He bit his lip. War raged in his eyes. You didn’t care you’d practically walked out of work. Didn’t care if you were making a fool of yourself—it was past time for that, you’d already tumbled off that cliff.

Gently, as if afraid of breaking you, his fingers wrapped around your extended wrist and drew your hand—and the checkbook attached—away from his chest. Instead, he pushed it into your own.

“Keep it,” was what he said, but you knew a hundred unsaid words hung at his lips like the Gardens of Babylon. “It’s yours.”

“But—Jack—”

“Goodnight, Bells,” he murmured, eyes dancing towards your lips so quickly you could’ve imagined it. Then, they fell to the jersey hung from your frame like a white flag. Tongue clicking, his jaw flexed—but only faintly. “Doesn’t suit you.”

Left alone, all you could do is watch him weave between people and bleed into the masses, form lost behind others. Nothing made sense anymore. Perception shredded by reality, reality shaped by hope, you felt the withered flower in your heart rewake—one Jack had killed, his rays too harsh, and one you’d tried to kill yourself by neglecting it.

But there it was, petals unfurling, shaking off ash.

You hated Jack Hughes. Or tried to. You also hated how much you loved him.

Letting go was never an option. Holding on was.

For the first time in almost four years, your summer wasn’t guaranteed. Salt air of the East coast wasn’t promised, rusting your lungs and sending a shock to your system. Stars witnessing love, sand-coated skin richening into a tan, a bottle of whiskey passed between lips that knew each other better than anyone—none of it was promised, the vision fading from your view like a dying candlelight. May was waning, chased away by the decadent heat of June. You’d always known how fleeting summer was, the temporariness of it all made it that much sweeter, the moments heavier—you never knew the place was also interim.

There never existed a world where you weren’t Luke Hughes’s best friend, sharing stories of a curly-haired, lanky adolescent who couldn’t solve a biology problem if his life counted on it. The gap between you two pulsated, an open wound averse to closing, as if the spite and pettiness from each side fed its pain. A part of your heart had been carved out, stealing everything Luke. Whenever anything good—or bad—happened, your hands would itch to call him. But that wasn’t your place anymore.

How could he trust you again? Why would he?

Phasing from his life was like being pushed from a train. Fast, rough, and painful. Skin raw and bleeding, you didn’t think you’d be able to pull yourself up. Not anytime soon, at least.

Summer closing in, you only had a couple more college classes before a short break—one you’d planned on spending with your mother, per her begging. Plane ticket bought, you had two days until your departure day. Maybe in Michigan you’d find respite, self-forgiveness you’d forgone in your mother’s wisdom. Around you, students poured from the lecture hall—you had to speed walk to make you you weren’t trampled.

Worries and doubts ate at the fabric of your mind. A night ago—your ex?—Jack left you a tip that was the same size as his entire bill. Hadn’t even explained why. Made no comment on his silence or reinforced that, yes, he still cared about you. Like he had two weeks ago, he’d simply left, footsteps leading to a dead end.

You would’ve given more thought to your situation if Luke Hughes hadn’t been standing at your car, leaned against the diver side door.

Footsteps paused, you eyed him. Wondered if he had the wrong car—but who were you kidding? He knew exactly what car you had. Same one since junior year.

Eyes catching, you debated bolting before Luke called for you, “Bells!”

You took a moment to steady yourself. Secure your armor. Hoped you didn’t come off as an embarrassed mess. “Hey, Luke.”

The waver in your tone gave away your confusion. Why was he here? Why now? What changed? Every question barely stayed within your mouth, the barrage saved for a more appropriate time.

Pushing off the car, he came to stand in front of you. The slight tremble of his fingers gave away his nerves. He didn’t speak, so you did.

“What’re you doing here?”

Two weeks ago, he’d been cracking his fists against his brother in your name, drawing blood to equal the cut on his heart. Now, here he stood with shaking hands and hopeful eyes, as if he had to ask for your forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” was what he blurted out. He winced, clearly not having meant to sound so desperate. “I’ve spent two weeks being angry; thinking about you and Jack. But I can’t do it anymore, Bells—I can’t ignore you, even if I’m still a little pissed off. Living life without you fucking sucks.”

You smiled. Lowered your sword. “Yeah, it does.”

“I wish you would have told me, but I get why you didn’t. Jack explained it all, made me listen.” You listened, hoped you weren’t dreaming. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore. It’s killing me—not being able to call you when something happens, not having you cheering me on at games, or congratulating me after a win. I’m not… happy with what happened, but I can forget it, if you help me.”

Words you longed to hear for two weeks felt like returning home after a long day, the familiarity a shield from the outside world.

Light peaking in your chest, you smiled and threw yourself into Luke’s arm. Reveled in his warmth, arms that felt like home. The only boy who’d stayed at your side without fail, your home.

“I’m so sorry, Luke,” you mumbled into his chest, the soft fabric of his shirt pressed against your cheek. “For all of it. If I could do it all over, I would—but I can’t, so just know: I’m so fucking sorry. For lying to you, for making you and Jack fight, for—”

The words wouldn’t come. You didn’t want a reminder of why this apology was necessary in the first place.

“I know,” he said, chin resting on the crown of your head. “We all do dumb shit. Although, I don’t know why you chose Jack—”

You pulled back and slapped his chest. “Stop.” Laughing, you felt a weight on your ankle that effectively evaporated your excitement. “So… you and Jack made up?”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowed hard. His mouth fell lax, smile gone. “Not the first time we beat the shit out of each other. First time he ever fucked one of my best friends, though.”

You winced, the words a dagger. “Luke—”

“I get it, Bells. I’ve had my time to be angry and hate it,” he grunted, leaning once more against the car. “You gotta know: I was only trying to protect you. I’ve seen how Jack is, how he fucks girls and tosses them aside like its nothing. He doesn’t have a playboy reputation for nothing.”

You swallowed down acid. Reminders of hands that once charted paths on Jack’s body felt like thorns in your heart—would your touch ever be enough to fully erase them? Or would the past prevail? It seemed now you weren’t the exception. A part of you wanted to beg Luke to say you were different, that Jack had actually loved you, said it when prying ears weren’t betting on his response. A pathetic one man party, hoping for love.

“I feel so stupid,” you whispered, felt your unanswered questions form as tears. “I nearly ruined our friendship. All for a boy who doesn’t even want me.”

Your watery laugh made Luke frown. “I don’t think Jack knows what he wants, Bells. He may be my brother, but he isn’t me. I have no idea what he’s thinking,” he sighed, eyes gentle. “But he claimed he loved you, in front of me and a crowd of people he knows. That’s gotta mean something.”

“Maybe,” you replied, shrugged like a defeated soldier returning from battle.

“Look,” Luke began, working his jaw, as if his next words vexed even himself, “I may not have had the best reaction to you and Jack, but you’re my best friend—and he’s my brother. If being together makes you happy, then I’ll be your number one supporter. Just—don’t break up. This is already awkward enough.”

A genuine smile—the first in days—lifted your lips. Finally, something had gone right in your life. Pieces of your heart finally melding back together, fused by hands that cares enough to repair it. There existed now only one problem, an unsurpassable brick wall that barred you from true peace of mind.

What type of sledgehammer would you need to knock down Jack Hughes? To bring him back to where he belongs—you.

An arm settled on your shoulders. Luke’s smile brought you back to the now. There was time for scheming later.

“Let’s go get some food, yeah?” he sighs, dragging you towards your car. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Are you going to explain that roughing penalty you took in the last game?” you teased.

Luke’s eyes lit. “You watched?”

“Of course I did. I’ll always cheer for you, even if I’m not apart of your life anymore.” Your words felt heavier than they were meant to come off as; Luke opened the passenger side door for you, snatched your keys off your hand.

His smile softened. “I’m glad you’re back in it then.”

“Me too.”

And you meant it.

Returning home, the warmth in your chest had never felt so insurmountable. Promises of attending the next game—the decider—and the fundamental feeling of rekindling the broken friendship laying like a grenade at your feet chased away any darkness that had encroached on your bones.

For two weeks you’d stumbled through shadows, groping for a semblance of stability in a time when your life never felt more tumultuous. You understood the urgency of sailors of old, when storms came to capsize the ship, a swaying boat sending bodies overboard and into the thrashing depths.

And like the light he’d always been, Luke grabbed your hand and led you through. Gave you a reason to smile. Perhaps it was unhealthy to he so codependent, but you didn’t think it was a crime to mourn the potential loss of a friendship. You would’ve recovered, but the pain would always remain, a reminder of what you yourself had ruined.

You thanked fate and the powers that be for providing a glimpse at peace.

Kicking off your shoes and setting them on the tray at the entrance of your apartment, you were startled out of your thoughts by a rapid buzzing from your pant pocket. Digging out your phone, you expected anyone but what the name displayed on the screen was.

Jack.

Taken back to the night he disrupted your date with Jackson, then too had he shattered a momentary repose. Now, though, memories and mistakes lingered behind you two, an unshakable ghost. Your finger wavered as you accepted, mouth filling with blood as you tore the skin from your cheeks.

Crackling like lightning, you hear the unmistakable noise of indiscernible music reverberating on the receiver. Shouting voices, a poor connection shredding the quality, you waited for Jack to say something—anything, much like you had for the past two weeks.

“Bells?” Shock coated each letter, a gunshot to the heart. You’d never tire of his voice, which—from a single word—you could tell was thickened with one too many drinks and the sorrow of remembered moments.

Even he was surprised you picked up. Perhaps that meant you shouldn’t have.

“Why’d you call, Jack?” Try as you might to keep your voice airy and light, it came off tortured.

Deep breaths. That was all you needed. He was only calling because he was drunk; he’d never call otherwise. Didn’t change the fact you wished he would—just to know where his head was, why his brother (who had every right to be pissed and hate you) could talk to you, but not the man who claimed to love you.

“Where are you?” was what he said in response, completely avoiding your question—that, or his drunken mind didn’t even register it.

Unsure why you were even entertaining this, you sighed. Placed down your bag and took a seat on your couch. “Home,” you responded shortly.

Gaze cast out your window, you watched the stars dance in the cloudless sky, full moon hung like a painting at the peak. Buildings obscured the skyline, hid away some of the world’s beauty. You wondered why Jack was out, if he was moving on, holding the hips of some other girl—a blonde, you figured—as she molded her body into his. In a way only you were meant to.

Teeth of bitter jealousy ripped to shreds your tentative pity. “Where are you, Jack?”

The connection crackled. While you wished you hadn’t picked up the call, you prayed the bad reception didn’t kill it. Addiction was funny like that.

“Texas—” Voice stuttered by overconsumption, a crutch, hoping it would carry him to forgetting. “Texas Arizona.”

A bar he frequented. One you’d never been to.

“Why are you calling me, Jack?” You didn’t like how your voice trickled out mean and twisted with a sort of cruelty that spurred from rejection.

A pause. The vibrations of some country song filled the silence, burned your ears.

“Do you know how much I miss you?”

Electricity stunned every single nerve in your body. Mouth parted, his words danced in your mind, cleared by a simple question. Unfair—he was being unfair. He missed you? He had incited this awkward dance, the avoidance of two people who claimed love yet ran from it the moment it got hard. You never claimed yourself to be perfect, but at least you weren’t drunk calling him to ask such a stupid question.

You’d respected his wishes—though, you supposed you’d never really had any to respect. He’d needed the space. Supposed he didn’t anymore. That made you more annoyed that pleased.

A commotion broke over the phone. For a moment bemusement nearly made you hang up until the familiar voice of Nico came through the receiver.

“Bells?” was his first question, accent curling over your nickname like spoken silk. You nearly rolled your eyes—so Jack had even his friends calling you that.

“Hey, Nico,” you rushed out, unpaced and awkward. “Sorry—he, um, he called me. Felt like an asshole hanging up. Is he—”

“He’s fucked,” Nico sighed, grunted something to someone before returning to the conversation. “I’m sorry he called you.”

“It’s… it’s fine,” you managed, biting your tongue. Don’tdon’tdon’t. “Should I come pick him up? He probably shouldn’t drive home.”

You momentarily considered bashing your head into the coffee table at your feet.

Nico sighed—you weren’t sure if you should’ve been embarrassed. Probably. “I wouldn’t make you do that. I know it’s… tense between you two right now.”

Understatement of the century.

“Not tense enough to leave him stranded at a bar,” you replied, felt like a desperate schoolgirl after. “He said you guys were at Texas Arizona—that’s only thirty from my place. It’s not a big deal.”

“Bells…” Nico murmured, lapsed his words—clearly giving you an out.

You didn’t want one. Maybe drunk Jack would give you answers sober Jack refused to.

“I’ll be there soon—”

“Hold on,” Nico grunted, sounding as if he were holding onto something. “Jack—fucking—would you quit it? No. I’m not giving you the phone, fuck off. Sorry, Bells—Jack drove here and apparently the sky is going to fall if he leaves his car here overnight. I’ll send an Uber for you, you can drive him home in his car.”

“Okay, yeah. Thanks Nico.”

Buzzing music and dissonant voices cut off as you ended the call. Every minute waiting for the Uber had you thinking your skin might melt off from apprehension. Why had you even offered? Sure, Jack might spew some drunken confessions, but what if they weren’t want you wanted to hear? What if he admitted to slipping in the bed of a new girl, solidifying your status as a simple fling?

Buildings and street lamps blurred by your vision, the pace of the car melting them together. Perhaps Fate had given you Luke back, only to rip Jack away forever. Pins and needles struck at your heart, drawing blood that nearly suffocated you. Night felt endless, a shadow concealing you—once, you’d bathed in the darkness, stolen moments in it. Now, you hated it. How it hid away deeds that would’ve been shunned in the light. Hated how it made confidence course through you, as if anything you did made no impression on the day.

When the car rolled to a stop, you thanked the driver and departed, steadying your feet on the curb. Lights blinked inside of the bar, the wall of lined TVs visible through the large windows. Digging your phone, you sent a text to Nico—twenty still, you weren’t going to risk going in only to get tossed out.

Time spanned, stretched like a rubber band—one that released and stung you in the face the moment you saw Jack being taken out of the bar, Nico’s hand dragging him. Jesper and Dawson trailed, laughing to themselves.

As if a moth caught by the alluring glow of a flame, Jack’s eyes immediately found yours, blue thickened to a navy by the heady rush of alcohol; eyelids hung, he stumbled away from Nico—who, to his credit, attempted to drag him back—and over to you. Flinching back slightly, the hurt glare in his eyes made you nearly regret your actions.

Nearly.

“Bells?” He looked at you as if believing you were a figment of his intoxicated imagination. “Pretty girl, what’re you doin’ here?”

That name; still managed to send a torrent of heat downwards, flashes of his mouth curving to that name as he pushed inside of you, hands on your hips, where come morning the ghost of bruises would remain. You bit down on your lip to stifle a groan, wiped your hands against your jeans. The biting cold of the night air dug into your skin like cactus pricks, brought gooseflesh with it.

You folded your arms, forced yourself to ignore his antics. “I’m taking you home.”

He frowned. Pouted, more like. “Oh, c’mon! I’m not even—”

“Give me your keys,” you interjected, sticking your hand out. You were in no mood to argue with him, wondering why you were even here. The decision felt stupid, standing in front of him.

“Bossy,” he tutted, grabbing out the black keys to his BMW. “Always liked that about you. Got a demanding mouth—good for other things too—”

A single raised eyebrow and he shut his mouth, awkwardly looking over to Nico—the captain shook his head, departing from you with a thumbs up and sorry smile; Jesper and Dawson followed shortly after.

Silence erected a wall between you as you walked to his car, the cherished BMW i5 he’d brought you with the purchase—glossy black finished and a similar-looking interior, you’d fallen in love with the car. Driving it now felt like a sore consolation prize for having to deal with Jack. Helping him into the car, you left him to buckle his own seat belt before getting in yourself.

Before you could shift it into gear, he grabbed your hand on the dial. Aftershocks shot through you, the heat of his larger hand encasing you in rays of burning light. Metal chilled you before you could pull away—a lion’s head ring wrapped around his thumb, resting on the top of your hand.

“Don’t crash,” he murmured, voice gravelly. Had the situation not been as it were, you would’ve thought it attractive (you didn’t want to admit you thought it attractive regardless).

You scowled. Put the car into drive and forced his hand off of yours. “I’m not Luke.”

Jack smiled. You didn’t like the way you almost did, too. “I know. You’re worse.”

Biting on your lip, you forced down a quip; once, banter like this had been so easy with him, natural, like the rapid rise and fall of your chest when you slept. You refused to fall back into your old ways, fall over his trip wire smile and back into his arms—you couldn’t be another fling. Just as you’d said the first time, you didn’t want to be a notch on his belt.

Clearly, you failed.

The purr of the car was the only noise that existed as you drove the familiar route to Jack’s house. His form haunted your peripheral vision, a droll reminder to the way you’d leapt at the first opportunity to be near him again—even after he’d wronged you, embarrassed you, and proved that deep down, he’d always be just another boy looking to find pleasure in the girls who’d spread their legs.

Playboy, heartbreaker—titles you’d heard labeled to him, ones you’d always taken offense to as if you were the one being insulted. Defending Jack was second nature, a reflex. You knew now they’d been right.

Stupid to think you’d been an exception.

For a moment in time, you thought you’d broken the status quo—famous boy falls in love with famous girl. Thought you’d gotten away with it, but the cuffs were on your hands and the jail cell was cold and lonely.

“Why’d you come?”

Jack’s voice made your hands tense around the steering wheel.

You glanced at him; hated the way you still appreciated his beauty like a jeweler appraising a diamond ring. Red bloomed below his cheeks, brought on by the warm sting of liquor; pouty lips parted as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Eyebrows folded, as if staring at a confusing math problem—you nearly snorted. He thought you were the enigma? If fucking only.

“You called me,” you responded, eyes catching the orange glow of passing street lights; they danced in and out of Jack’s gaze, lighting up his countenance for split seconds.

“I didn’t ask you to come get me,” he shot back. And he was right.

You fumbled for a lie, a reason. Thought maybe you could use Nico for a cover up. Before you could, you bit your tongue. How many times had you lied in his name? False words tasted sour on your tongue, another tarnish to your blackened soul.

You were done avoiding.

“You didn’t,” you agreed, nodding stiffly. “I came by choice.”

“Why?”

Always asking questions. Never content with what’s given.

You flashed your eyes to him, felt the emotions radiating off of them like solar flares. “Is it so hard to believe I still care about you?”

Silence stabbed the moment. You didn’t want to look at Jack for a reaction. Eventually, you heard the shifting of fabric. Streets faded into a gated neighborhood, hedges and wrought-iron fences passing in your vision.

Just get him home. Get him home and leave. Forget about the stupid confession and let it go.

“I thought you hated me.”

That gave you pause. He thought you hated him? When he’d ghosted you, when he’d torn down your portrait from his heart and crushed any future between his fingers? Yet somehow, he was the victim, spurned by his lover.

You ground your jaw, a laugh slipping. “What?”

“You never reached out,” he muttered, words stumbling over themselves like dominoes. “Fuck—Bells, I thought—”

You debated slamming on the breaks and sending him out of the windshield. “I never reached out? You told me you needed space, Jack. Why on God’s green earth would I reach out?”

Pulling into Jack’s driveway, you finally managed to glimpse him as the car came to a stop. Fluttering eyes, pupils swallowing up his eyes—he kept his gaze leveled on you, a heavy weight yanking you downwards. You couldn’t be swallowed up by the surf—you wouldn’t.

“I thought it’d be easier,” he admitted with a twitch of his jaw. “I thought—me staying silent would be me being a good brother, not betraying Luke. If you reached out, I wouldn’t be doing anything wrong—I wouldn’t—”

Jack dragged his hands down his face. When his eyes revealed, they were on you.

“I think about you constantly.” His voice lowered, thunder through his chest. “I still want you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “You’re drunk, Jack.”

“Not drunk enough to forget that,” he responded. You felt a hand grasp your jawline. Flares shot up, ignited by his touch.

He was just trying to bring you back to his bed. He didn’t want you, he didn’t, he didn’t—

“It’s you, pretty girl.” Opening your eyes, you saw him—just as he’d always been; the boy you loved him freshman year. The boy you—hatefully—loved now. “Always been you.”

“Jack—I have to go—”

Thumb feathering over your bottom lip, his eyes dipped, bled with so much want it felt static in the air around you.

“How?” he breathed. Your chest rose and fell with rapidness. “You drove my car here.”

Words jumbled in your throat like a dam. “I’ll get an Uber.”

Eyes fluttering, a moment suspended by possibilities and infinite endings, Jack shook his head—just barely. Every decision you’d made led here, every road you attempted to make a getaway down all came back to him. He was your dead-end, the final stop. You knew that now.

But what were you for him?

You hated how you didn’t know. How his indecision rattled your bones and toppled your battlements. You hated how he could seemingly want one thing, only to change him mind without pause.

Maybe you were the fool; warned and cautioned, yet driving over the cliff regardless. The breaking body was sure to follow, but right now, you were still falling.

“Stay,” he whispered, a secret against your lips. “Please.”

And you did.

When his hands beckoned you into his body, the cushion of familiarity and home—corded muscle rippling against your back, arm slung across your waist. Hair roused every so often by exhalations. The domesticity of it frightened you, reminded you of the five month span where you had him like this; but that had been before, before he’d made you doubt your worth to him, before he’d took to avoiding you to appease Luke—who, if he’d bothered asking, would tell him he wanted the two of you together.

You knew what you wanted. Jack didn’t. You weren’t going to stick around and pray, in the end, it would be you.

You’d ran out of prayers to indifferent deities.

“Has there been anyone else?” was whispered against your ear.

You shifted. Felt like soft touch of Jack’s comforter against your side. His hand was tensed on your hip.

It took you a moment to respond. Eyes focused at his dark gray walls, the blinking of a light outside, obscured momentarily by the swinging of a tree branch. The darkness around you felt suffocating, just like Jack’s presence at your back.

For a second your debated teasing him, making him hurt—but you’d only be lying, and what use was that?

“No,” you whispered, bit your lip. “I don’t really have any room in my heart for anyone else. Not after you.”

Silence.

“You?”

Silence.

“Jack?”

You turned—as much as the position allowed—and glimpsed him. Eyes fluttered shut, peaceful, no tension perpetually holding his eyebrows inwards. You were glad one of you found some respite.

You laughed ruefully. Maybe there was your answer.

By the time sunlight bled through the window, cresting on his cheeks, you’d slipped out of his arms and called an Uber.

For once, you were the one leaving. Detaching.

You thought it should’ve felt better than it did.

This was a bad idea.

You knew that, yet somehow it didn’t deter you from doing it anyway.

When Luke had invited you to game five, you’d accepted without thought. Cheering for him had been something you’d done without thought for six years. A detail you forgot? His brother, the one you were hopelessly and embarrassingly in love with played on the same team.

After sneaking out of his room the morning of, you’d expected a text. A call. Anything to convey he cared, or at the very least was confused as to why you slipped from him without a word. You’d gotten neither; weren’t sure why you felt a bite of hurt. What else did you expect from him? If nothing else, he proved communication was absolutely not his strong point.

Always you, his voice taunted in your head, always you who falls for it.

Perhaps that was why he kept you around; no matter what, honey-coated words and hurt-laced eyes would draw you right back in. Slow-hearted fool, incapable of staying away from the poisoned well.

Around you, people melded into a sea of red and black, yourself fading into the masses—the white number 43 blocked on your back. Eyes searching for the suite number Ellen had texted you, eventually you found it—flashed the security guard the badge.

The stagnant chill of a hockey rink never got old—stinging your lungs with every breath, hardening a layer of gooseflesh over your skin. Being at the rink, especially Prudential Center, felt like a homecoming. You hoped that athletic training worked out, that the fading dream of working alongside Luke realized itself before it blinked out of existence.

Eyes cast out over the arena, you saw that they hadn’t come out for warmups. Imagining briefly what the pep talk was like in the locker room—if the Devils won this game, they went to the Finals. If they lost, it went to a Game Six. Which no one wanted.

“Bells!”

The squeal of your ridiculous nickname would normally make you roll your eyes, but it sounded endearing when coming from the mouth of Ellen Hughes. Arms encased you, drug you against a body the same stature as your own. Smiling, you returned the embrace and ripped to pieces to worries of your mind.

When Ellen pulled away, she appraised you with gleaming eyes. “You look so cute, I’m sure Luke is happy you have his jersey on.”

You sure as hell weren’t going to wear Jack’s.

“I’m sure he is. The cocky loser,” someone said beside you; Quinn, with a knowing smile on his face, took you in before offering a hug. “Let’s hope Jack doesn’t beat him up over it.”

You grimaced; Ellen and the newly arrived Jim were none the wiser.

“Quinn,” you greeted with an eye roll. “Sorry about the early knockout. I really had my bets on you.”

He shrugged, the perpetual eldest child used to disappointment. “Happens. We’ll be back next year.”

After settling in, Quinn pulled you aside. You’d seen it coming. While you didn’t know how much Quinn knew, it was clear he did. Often times you wished he played in New Jersey, if only to play babysitter for his two younger brothers that couldn’t seem to keep in line.

“Luke told me what happened,” Quinn prefaced, and you cringed. Great. So he also knew you’d fucked his brother, too. “Not surprising, but I can’t believe they actually fought.”

“It was—bad,” you settled on. Flashes from that night still haunted you when you closed your eyes.

“So I was told,” Quinn grunted, shaking his head. “It’s all resolved now?”

“Define resolved,” you laughed humorlessly, eyes flitting towards Ellen and Jim; thankfully, they were too absorbed in their conversations with extended family to care much for your talk with Quinn. “Luke and I talked it out… Jack, not so much.”

Quinn sighed. “He’s a fucking moron, but he means well.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,” you spat, hated the bitter edge if your voice. “And I’m done waiting around for him to figure it out.”

Something akin to pride flashed in Quinn’s eyes. “Not blamin’ you,” he laughed. “You gonna stay for the family dinner we have planned tonight?”

Warmth filled your heart. Family—a found one, but something you’d never really had. It’d always just been you and your mother.

However, you found yourself frowning. “I can’t. I have to drive to Newark International to catch my flight at 10:45. Going to Michigan for two weeks to see my mom.”

While Quinn seemed bummed, he nodded.

A moment later, your name was called and you glanced towards Ellen. Extended upwards, she was holding onto a sports water bottle. “Bells, would you bring this to Luke? He said he forgot his.”

Throat thickened by apprehension, you took the bottle and left. The entire walk to the dressing room felt like the walk to the guillotine—a step closer to rot made man. Jack had a knack to withering everything he touched, yourself his latest victim. You were stupid for being blind before.

Hours spent at the rink with Luke meant the security knew you—let you in with a smile. A red-adorned figure in the hallway caught your attention—Nico, taping his stick. He smiled at your approach, nut confusion creased his eyebrows.

“Are you here to chew Jack’s ass out?” he asked, earning a laugh. “If so, can it wait until after the game? He’s kinda our top scorer.”

Rolling your eyes, you wiggled the water bottle in his face. “No. Princess Luke in there forgot his water. I have the dubious honor of bringing to him.”

With the shake of his head, Nico resumed taping his stick, tossing a laugh your way. You patted his arm, appreciated the kindness he’d always shown you.

“Good luck, yeah? Win this one.”

Nico smiled. “For you, Bells.”

The locker room—as was to he expected from a group of men—was alive with spirited shouts and echoing yells. Peaking in, you first made sure no one was naked, and that Coach Ruff wasn’t giving a speech. Amongst the bodies of hockey players, you caught Luke’s curly hair sat at his locker, taping on his socks.

As you weaved past the Devils’ players, they let out whistles and hollers—most of them you knew, thanks to the endless days you’d shown up here in support of Luke, and secret admiration of his older brother. Attention caught by the sudden commotion, Luke smiled and stood as you came up—taller than normal on his skates and towering over you.

You offered the water bottle to him like a sacred sword. “Your water, my liege.”

Luke grabbed it, tapped you on the head with the bottle. “Fuck off,” he laughed. “You made it into the suite okay?”

“Yeah,” you said in a smile. “Your mom’s always a doll. Quinn is… Quinn.”

Mortification spread over his face. “He didn’t interrogate you, right?”

You shrugged. “I don’t think interrogate is the right word. More like… asked me questions.”

“What do you think an interrogation is?”

Scoffing, you pushed to your tip toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek—something you’d always done, yet what felt so taboo doing in front of his teammates.

Your heart quickened.

… And Jack.

“Good luck, asshole,” you murmured, ignored the whooping men behind you. “Bring home the win, baby.”

Luke nodded. With a joking salute, you walked away—breezing past his taunting teammates. Traitorous eyes glanced around the room, caught Jack in full gear, heated gaze on Luke—then you.

You quicken even your pace.

“Got yourself a girlfriend, Lukey?”

“Turn around! Let’s see your back!”

“Who’s the dominant one? Ten bucks it’s her.”

“Do you let Jack—”

And that was all you heard as the door closed. Urgency to escape, prey caught in the iron maw of a bear trap, you tried your damndest to get Jack’s face out of your head. Had it hurt him, your leaving? Had anyone actually left before? The one-night stands, had he been the one to slip from their arms and fade like mist blow by a strong wind?

You hadn’t even slept with him. Hadn’t taken your clothes off. He didn’t kiss you.

Yet leaving felt worse than it did after a hook up. Felt a bigger betrayal. You weren’t sure why.

Just before you could escape the hallway leading into the concourse, a hand caught your wrist like a trip wire. Calloused, a balance between rough edges and gentle touches, you’d know it anywhere. Halted in place, you waited for him to speak—for anything. Always you waiting; the act wad getting old.

“You and Luke?” The words were spat like fiery arrows. “One brother wasn’t enough?”

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of being close to him, or the residual rage of being discarded and written off like a bad story that made you snap. Maybe even the idea that you’d be able to be as vulnerable for any other person as you were for him.

“Careful, your narcissism is showing,” you snapped, whirling around. His eyes glowed like an out of control bushfire. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but we are best friends—as we always have been, Jack.”

Jack scoffed. You hated the way your stomach clenched at the sight of him in full gear—the height given to him by his skates. “Oh, yeah? So you don’t sneak out in the morning without a word to him, too?”

Who was he to judge you? The retired playboy who knew the way half of New Jersey’s female population’s cunts looked like. Shoving his hand off of you, your lips curled into a snarl.

“Rich, coming from you,” you hissed. “I’m protecting myself, Jack, since you can’t seem to make up your fucking mind. I’m done getting my knees bloody prostrating myself for you. You’re allowed to not know—but I do, and I won’t stay where I’m not wanted entirely.”

“Not wanted?” he scoffed, stepping closer until his presence swallowed you. “I may have been drunk, but I meant every fucking word I said.”

“Good for you,” you choked, hating the tears that came after your words. “Words do a lot, but actions do more. You want me? Fucking show it.”

Something softened Jack’s eyes—guilt, hurt, distress? You weren’t sure. Couldn’t look at him long enough to discern it. He blinked a few times, flexed his jaw; disbelief bled through his shuttered expression, head tilting.

You could almost see his heart bleeding out into his hands.

“Just—fuck,” he breathed, ran a hand through his hair. “I promise you, after this game, we’ll talk. Just stay. Stay and I’ll give you what you want.”

“You had two weeks to talk to me,” you whimpered, shaking your head. “And you didn’t even—”

“Jack! C’mon! We have to be on the ice in five!”

“Give me a second!” he called back to Luke, voice laced with urgency, pleading eyes falling back to you. “Please. I don’t care how long you give me—five minutes, two—fuck, even one. Just… hear me out.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him you’d be gone, so you didn’t. Turning on your heel, you tried to walk out with your heart in tact. But like a hook cast to only your heart, Jack called out again—imploring, so drenching in desperation it almost made you run back to him.

But that was what he wanted.

“Bells! Please, just—just stay, okay? For me,” he murmured the last part—you heard it. “We’ll figure it out. I promise, Bells. I promise.”

Problem was, you didn’t trust his promises anymore. The realization stung. You barely trusted him.

Cast aside so easily the moment it got rocky. Shoved out of the shelter of his heart and into the raging storm. Even after that, he still had a home in your own. Evicting him seemed too big an effort.

You loved Jack, but you couldn’t belittle yourself by waiting for a person who merely enjoyed the warm you brought to his bed—without having the attachment. Concealed sobs made your lungs weak, shook the foundations of your being until you weren’t sure if you could hold it together anymore.

In an instant, you were the fifteen-year-old girl wishing that Jack paid attention to her. Here you were now, the twenty-year-old woman still wishing for the same him.

It was almost laughable.

“Bells—”

“Jack! Hurry the fuck up! We have to go!”

A sigh. Hesitation before his footsteps retreated down the hall. The haze of terror and heartbreak alleviated only for a moment. Jack had no idea that after the game, you’d be driving straight to the airport to catch a late flight—fading into the Michigan summer like a bad dream. Sweat beaded at the nape of your neck, taunted you.

Hopefully this would all be gone. Another two weeks would kill any remaining connection between you and Jack for good—as much as the prospect terrified you, it brought with it a certain freedom. You’d always love Jack, but if he refused to let you have him—wholly and without conditions—what was the point?

Loving a figment and a dream, the ghost of a person you’d created in the spare hours of the morning.

Composing yourself wasn’t simple. Getting through the game wasn’t simple. Watching the Devils lose 3-2 wasn’t simple. Leaving the arena, knowing that this was it, wasn’t simple.

Part of you wished that Jack would come running. Plead for you to stay. Get on his knees and beg. That he’d stop you from boarding the plan like some cheesy romcom from the 2000’s, confess his mistakes and stop dancing around you.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t stop you from getting in the car. He didn’t stop you from getting on the plane.

As New Jersey faded into a blot of land on the limitless globe, you wondered if this truly was it. The chapter over and done, blank pages gone.

If nothing else, you wished you could go back to the very first night.

Memories fell from your mind, manifested as tears on your lashes. The kindly old woman at your side tapped you gently—you removed your AirPod, rubbed your eyes in the hopes to desecrate any remnant of pathetic sadness.

“Are you okay?” she asked, the waver of her used vocal cords reminding you of your own grandmother.

“Yeah,” you murmured, smiling best you could. “I will be.”

“A boy?” she guessed, eyes brimming with the wisdom only those who’d lived and learned and knew had.

You nodded.

“Well,” she started, shrugging. “If he’s the one, he’ll come find you wherever you go. The best ones always do.”

Your eyes glimpsed out the window. Saw the spanning lakes and the rolling hills, saw the rays of sun peaking over thick white clouds.

Even with the entire world splayed out underneath you, you couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than Jack Hughes.

Maybe he would be your best one.

300 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬 ( 18 + )

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — part three of breakable heaven. birthday parties are where secrets come out, it seems.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ANGST, arguments, luke being a dick but it’s sorta warranted, jack also being a dick, physical violence and in depth descriptions of injuries, shameless filth ( p in v, unprotected sex—wrap it, please, biting, hair pulling, exhibitionism? ), cursing bc yeah, not proofread we die like men

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x f!reader ; best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — on this week’s installment of hockey boys, we have the 3rd part of breakable heaven! thank you for all the positive feedback on the first 2 parts. i love hearing y’alls thoughts. will this be the end? probably not. hope y’all love reading this as much as i loved reading it ;)

₊⊹ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 — @dancerbailey3 , @bellstwd , @kashee-h , @crazycat-ladys-blog , @brucewaynegfreal (if your name is white, it means i was unable to tag you)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 : breakable heaven

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 : this mad, mad love

𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Blood fell like tears. Stained the floor. Bodies scrambled, hands outstretched, hoping to pull apart the two boys snarling like wolves.

Thunder rushed in your ears, quieted the buzz around you into a dull static. If your heart was beating, you couldn’t feel it, torn apart by horror and embarrassment and every emotion that was capable of drenching your body in numbness.

You weren’t even sure how it started. Who threw the first punch, just that they had—snow-fall spiraled into an avalanche, lips split and bruises impacted all in your name. Maybe you should’ve called for them to stop, your voice joining the chorus of others all horrified by what was panning out in front of them.

Lead made your tongue useless. Sand calcified in your bones, rooted you to the floor. The large space of Jack and Luke’s shared home never felt so daunting before now.

Like a play that refused a curtain call, the scene before you played over and over—taunting, reminding you that the truth would never stay buried for long. Head sunk below waves of memory, you tried to recall how it all came to this; how a celebration turned into a battle field, how love soured into hate.

How Luke found out.

ᯓ★

Secrets had become your best friend, lying a reflex. Nearly five years you’d shrouded your feelings in shadow, lips passing falsities about the name spelt in the rhythm of your heart. Web spun, branched out past your vision, you never thought you’d be able to tear it down.

It had been five months to the day—a dusty image on the silver screen of your mind, reran hundreds of times, boiled down to feeling; to your heart sewing itself with his, hands weathered by years of use, yet so gentle against your skin, the pain that birthed pleasure.

No matter how much time lapsed, you doubted the night would ever sour, moment lost to the encroaching hands of time.

Every fear you had, every thought that—despite his whispered promise of forever—Jack would fade once more from your life like summer, abated when he texted you the next morning; and the one after that, and the next, until here you were, five months later. His texts still lit up the dark of your nightstand, still made you drop everything to respond.

Everything was perfect—exactly the way you’d imagined being Jack’s would feel like.

There existed only one small issue: your best friend, and Jack’s younger brother.

From freshman year to his draft, it had always been Luke—your hearts danced the same waltz, though never a choreography that ended with a kiss. A twin flame that burned together, but never intertwined. Luke was your person; stood at your side even when bullets flew past your face. You’d never kept anything from him—unless it regarded his middle brother.

Before, you’d only been keeping your feelings a secret. Hiding the racehorses that beat your heart into the dirt whenever Jack was near. Now, though? Now you were hiding an entire relationship from him. Imagining the betrayal and hatred on Luke’s face when the castle crumbled only served to delay the inevitable.

Right now, you tried not to worry about that. Summer brightened the sky once more, chased away the residual cold of spring—so too came Jack’s twenty-third birthday, an event you’d been planning alongside Luke for nearly a month. Despite early ideas to have a venue, it was eventually decided that the party should be at their shared home in Hoboken—Luke had said it would be easier to wrangle everyone, weave a safety net. You didn’t argue. All that mattered was that Jack enjoyed it.

Only one downside was present: Jack’s birthday fell in the depths of the playoffs, and while a number of his close friends hadn’t landed a spot, Vancouver had. Quinn sent his regards, promised to rectify his absence in the summer. While the had Devils weaseled into the playoffs, you were given the go-ahead to plan the party regardless—it was on a three day stretch between the first and second round.

Attending games with Jack’s surname and number printed on your back was out of the question, so most nights you opted for Luke’s jersey—or Nico’s, which more often than note blew a blaze in Jack and ended with air thickened by pleasured breaths and skin glazed in a sheen of sweat. Beneath the veils of lightless rooms, deserted corners and brushes of hands that told much more than they seemed—that was your relationship with Jack. Secret moments, crowded rooms, no one the wiser. You knew it would come out eventually, topple the castle you’d built on shaky foundations; knew that when it came out, you had the possibility of losing both Luke and Jack.

Because why would they choose you over family?

And maybe that was why you never spoke up, never explained, choosing to live in stolen moments and false facades. A double life, a double lie—a slow-working poison that would eventually burn away your veins and render your heart unusable.

Eventually, but not now.

“Are you just going to sit there? What is so interesting about my back yard?”

The string of worries pulling your mind in every direction snapped, shredded to pieces by the voice of the very boy you were deceiving. Realizing your lapse in awareness, you snapped your eyes away from the sliding glass door and back to Luke, who had you leveled with a knitted eyebrows.

Between you two on the floor was a helium tank, clusters of already blown up black and blue balloons scattered in the corner of the room, dancing against the ceiling with a unseen draft. Plastic strings dangled midair, tied to the bottom of the balloons. Blinking a few times, you finally found words.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, maneuvering the opening of a balloon onto the nozzle. “Was just thinking about tonight. When did Trevor say he’d be bringing Jack back?”

In true Trevor fashion, he’d offered to take Jack out and distract him while you and Luke readied the house for the party. So, for the last four or so hours, you’d gone from stringing up banners, setting up drink tables, games, now blowing up balloons—and you were only halfway done. Muscles in your fingers screamed, begged for reprieve; you gave them none, moving to tie the end of the balloon into a knot.

“7:00,” Luke responded, before spiking a balloon at your face. Reeling backwards, annoyance creased your eyebrows—Luke only laughed. “Don’t make that face, pouty. What’s goin’ on? You’ve been weird all day.”

Had you? Always able to read you, of course Luke had picked up on your unease. Nausea crawled up your throat, burned away any words that threatened to spill out; had he also noticed the lovesick flurry in your eyes whenever you looked at Jack? Did he catch the soft brushes, words mouthed between empty space?

In an attempt to dispel any further questions, you simply rolled your eyes and grinned; hoped it looked genuine. “We’ve been making plans for this party since April, Luke. I’m worried we won’t finish in time, or Jack is going to hate it.”

Lips twitching into a smirk, Luke wound the golden string around balloon’s knot. “If he hates it, he can fuck right off,” he grunted. “I doubt he would. We could take Jack to a bar and he’d be happy.”

That much you knew was true. Jack was easily pleased—for things not concerning hockey. “Guess so. Probably more about spending time with friends and family, but still—”

“Don’t say that. Now all this effort feeling pointless,” Luke whined. A laugh bubbled from your lips. “I’m serious. All this work feels like a baby shower, or something.”

“You’re such a boy.” Tapping your phone screen, you peaked at the time. 6:35. Only around thirty minutes until Trevor came back with Jack.

Your blood bubbled like champagne, heady and sweet—the glass too full, sticky liquid pouring out over the edges of your heart. Lips sealed, marked with a tattoo only you and Jack could read, you wished so desperately you could have him without restrictions. Bear his name, written on your bedpost and heart. Moments hidden from prying eyes weren’t enough anymore. You wanted more—but with Luke trapping you between a rock and a hard place, you had little room to complain.

“I’ll remind you the person we’re doing all of this work for is also just a boy,” said Luke, returning from the kitchen with two bottled waters. Cold condensation wetted your fingertips as you grabbed it from him.

Plastic cracked as you broke the seal. Luke retook his seat in front of you on the floor. “Is twenty-three still considered a boy?”

“In Jack’s case? Yeah. I mean, you’d think eventually he’d settle down, leave behind that dumb playboy front.” Nerves made steel of your spine. A look of apprehension was buried beneath indifference—you prayed Luke didn’t notice the shift. “Although, I guess I haven’t seen a girl in his bed in a few months.”

You knew Jack would never cheat. You knew it, yet still felt ash burn in your lungs. “That’s a shock. Maybe his terrible attitude scared them away.”

Luke laughed. “Normally I’d agree, but he’s been tolerable ever since Christmas. Less of a miserable dick, but he has his moments.” He poked your knee. “Whatever you said to him the night we came over must’ve gotten to him, Bells.”

Heat crawled up your chest. Flashes of that night—of the little talking you did—sunk claws of fire into your gut. Ghostly pain nipped at the inside of your thighs, marks of teeth, indents only Jack could tattoo into your skin. Where once lying had felt natural, it now hung like an axe above your head—swinging downward to strike off your head the moment the truth reached Luke.

You’d reasoned with yourself that waiting was better, but really, was it? Were you sparing him or yourself? A foolish question and an even more foolish answer.

“Just—knocked some sense into him, I guess,” you cleared your throat, tried to hide your expression by turning your face towards the sliding back door.

Bright rays faded away into swirls of muted orange and yellow, a dying flame on the hearth. Fingertips of a newborn sunset breached the back windows, bled through and onto the tops of your cheeks. Even looking at Luke made sickness swirl in the depths of your stomach, acid burning through words—a confession hung on the tip of your tongue, haunted the back of your mind. Speeches shredded below fearful hands, explanations lost to the daunting and unshakable knowledge that Luke would never look at you the same when he knew.

And you didn’t blame him. A traitor, tangled in the sheets of his brother—shared faith broken, and for what? To spare yourself embarrassment? As wrong as you knew it was, you still weren’t able to simply come clean. Dirt made home in your soul, soured its once untarnished light. Eventually, you’d get what you deserved. Secrets never stayed hidden for long.

“I for one am glad that you did.” For a moment, you’d entirely forgotten Luke was in the room. Snapped back into your body, you gave a gentle smile and hopped it covered up the guilt burning any happiness from your face. “He may not say it, but he sees you like a little sister.”

Talons of embarrassment grappled at your flesh, nearly tore you open and hung every secret out to dry, dirty laundry expelled. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Once, you’d lied without pause. Never second-guessed. Flitting between different visages, never rooting yourself in an emotion for fear of it being ripped away. You’d latched yourself onto Jack, made home in his heart—you weren’t sure what you’d do if the truth evicted you, forced you to move to a new city, one that would never shine as bright as your hometown.

You wanted to please everyone. A pathological optimist, you couldn’t bare the way your flesh would eventually rub raw. You saw the future, even with the path forked. Happiness never lasted.

Where there existed happiness, there too was sorrow.

Such was the same for lies. They never were opaque enough to fully conceal the truth.

ᯓ★

Light danced across your face, reflected off the glitter scattered on the floor. Heat thickened the air, throngs of party-goers forced into packed throngs, the limited space within the hallway leaving no possible escape. Below foot, the hardwood floors trembled, loud music reaching below your flesh and rattling your bones. Sweaty fingers yanked down your dress, the blue of the oncoming night, decorated with plastic stars.

Following Jack and Trevor’s arrival, the celebration began—friends of friends, teammates, people you’d never seen before in your life all melded into one big crowd. Fleeting satisfaction nestled in your heart, flooded your veins the moment Jack pushed his way through the front door, greeted by the blended chorus of happy birthday! Countless people stood before him, in the gaping mouth of the foyer, yet those storm-blue eyes caught yours first.

Smiles that hung like an unsaid confession in the air. Heartstrings tugging toward their other half. Eyes locked like a shot of alcohol, lighting up your system. If he was yours, you would have ran forward; would have leapt into his awaiting arms and sealed his congratulations with the press of lips. But he wasn’t yours—not to anyone but yourself, to the tangled bedsheets, your mattress impressed in his form. No one knew of the connection strung between you, so it didn’t exist.

People swarmed him. You remained behind. Like you always had, the warm comfort of the past—how your hometown held a beauty to it no new city ever could. There would be a time for glimpses later, hidden behind locked doors. Right now, there wasn’t. Time held itself still, mocking you for cowardice, for rooting yourself to the floor instead of walking forward.

For lying, saving your own dignity. Covering up a love you would’ve screamed from the rooftops.

You stood there until you couldn’t anymore; drinks became a solace, intertwining with your blood until made home in your body. Mind fuzzy like an old film, you eventually sought out the bathroom. Maybe to hide away, the veil of shadows that had always been your haven. For years, it protected your heart—now, it hid your love away from the light.

You wondered how long it could thrive before it withered.

Ankles threatening to topple, cold metal soothed your sweating hands as you pushed open the bathroom door. Familiar, the space as minimalist as you’d expect from the home of two twenty-somethings. Hazy eyes met your reflection in the mirror; glitter splattered on your eyelids, branching into a cat-eye. Roses bloomed below your cheeks, garden bleeding down into your bare chest. You leaned forward, curled your fingers against the marble of the sink.

How long could you do this? How long could you deceive and kill speculation until fatigue at away at your resolve? Every time you brought up revealing your relationship, he fed into your fears: every single one revolving around one Luke Hughes.

Heart buried under pounds of bones, you could feel it slowly fading, a piece chipped off with every lost chance of coming clean. More and more ash piled, your throne made on corpses of lies and concealed kisses. Five months of dancing with your hands tied—you were tired.

But what could you say to convince Jack? How would you even go about admitting it to Luke—

“Bells?”

You hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open—hadn’t even realized you’d left it unlocked. Bleary gaze came away from your reflection, hooked by the voice you’d know blind, well-woven within your soul until he existed as an extension of your own being. Those eyes you’d stared at for hours, tracing the constellations within blue depths, stared back at you. Eyes that tracked your every emotion, knew you better than you knew yourself. There existed no barrier of inebriation, gaze as clear as the summer sky.

Black sweatshirt hung from his form, Jack stepped fully into the bathroom. Clicked shut the door, switched the lock. A moment passed where you merely watched him—the flex of his hand in his jeans, the stupid backwards baseball hat crowning his hair. Since you’d last seen him, he’d had it cut. Not too short, the ends still tickled the base of his neck; just how you liked it. As he shifted closer, the overhead lights caught on the golden chain peaking from the neckline of his sweater.

You teased your bottom lip between your teeth.

“What’re you doin’ in here, pretty girl?” Fingers brushed your chin as he invaded your space. All at once you were suddenly drenched in him again, the warm amber of his cologne smearing itself on your skin like sweat.

“Needed a moment,” you said back, smiling at him. Something a simple as a touch made every worry melt into obscurity. Forgotten and made you wonder why you ever fretted in the first place.

Jack’s eyebrows folded. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I feel so guilty,” you admitted, letting out a sigh. “Every time I look at Luke, I just imagine how hurt he’s going to be when he finds out—how betrayed. It’s killing me, Jack.”

Like a broken record, you’d spewed the same sentiment to Jack hundreds of times. Seldom did he have a differing response. Tonight, though, it seemed like he did.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s complicated, and I wish it wasn’t.” Stray strands of hair were tamed by his fingers. “We’ll tell him soon, yeah? Sit him down and everything. You’re right; he deserves to know.”

The weight of apprehension left your shoulders. “Thank you, thank you. I just—I can’t hide anymore, y’know?”

“I know,” he laughed, fidgeted with your fingers. “Trust me, if I had it my way, the entire population would know that you’re mine. I love you, pretty girl. Luke’s best friend or not.”

Light laughter felt like pounds of stress falling off your lips. “I love you too, Jack,” you reassured him, pushed to your toe-tips to gently press your lips together. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Took you long enough,” he whispered against you, breaths becoming one exhalation. Hands snaked up your waist, held you against his body. “I have a feeling all of this was you.”

Like the hands of a clock, you felt pleasure tick—awaiting the strike of midnight. Flames licked within your gut, nearly burned you and him to ash, indistinguishable in death as you were in life. “Congratulations,” you said, the laugh following more of a backstop than anything. Gently pushing away, you pressed a finger to Jack’s chest. “You get a gold star.”

A blur of movement, blue darkening to navy, and you were pressed to the vanity. Frigid marble bit against the bare expanse of the back of your thighs, dress pushed up slightly. The bottoms of your heels scraped against the floor. The edges of your vision blurred, tunneled on Jack—soft features sharpened by want; an emotion you knew what overwhelmingly reflected within your own gaze. Maelstroms of desire weathered your heart until your forgot your earlier grievances.

Fingers tilted your chin. Dusted the rationality off your mind. “What else do I get?”

Your gut clenched. “Whatever you want.”

Gone was the girl fearful of experiencing her first time. Five months of twisted bedsheets, golden tattoos inked into your skin by way of Jack’s fingertips had shattered the innocence that once reigned over your body. There existed no ridge of your body Jack hadn’t explored, claimed with his touch like a mariner of old. New land breached by conquering hands, you found yourself bloomed by his watering kisses and promises of peace.

Lifted with ease, you settled your weight onto the vanity now supporting your body. Jack made home between your legs, hands caught at the dip of your hips. Saliva passed between locked lips, meshing tongues, dancing in a familiar choreography. Searching stability, you locked your hands around Jack’s neck, felt the ends of his hair tickle your bare arms. He kissed you as if hoping to fuse your bodies, harsh and demanding and everything he normally wasn’t.

With an eagerness you didn’t know he had, Jack hiked up your dress, yanked your body closer by the small of your back.

“Jack—” you panted, detaching your lips to search his gaze; hooded and shrouded in a certain haze of lust, he was too preoccupied with pushing aside you panties to pay you much mind. “Jack—we don’t have time. People are probably wondering where you are.”

“I don’t care,” he grunted. The click of his belt, hiss of his zipper falling—anticipation burned a hole in your lungs, sent bolts of white-hot lightning through your veins. “It’s my birthday. If I want to fuck my girlfriend, I will.”

Parted momentarily by his fingers, you flinched from the spark of pleasure that followed. Blue flashed your way—a grin parted Jack’s saliva-coated lips.

“Fuck, you’re already wet,” he teased. There were moments you wished you could duct tape his mouth shut; right now was one of those times. “What’s got you like this, pretty girl? Was it me?”

Debating for a moment whether or not to taunt him back by denying, your breath—and subsequently, words—were stolen when pressure against your clit rocketed lightning up your body. Stomach twisting, you inhaled sharply.

After so many months of warming each other’s bed, you figured you’d be more accustomed to Jack’s antics. Unsurprisingly, you still weren’t.

“C’mon, use your words.” Heat sweltered over the base of you neck as Jack leant forward, nipped at the infinity chain hung around your neck—a claim, even if no one else understood it. “I know you can, pretty girl.”

Again, Jack bit at your neck—only this time, much harder. Pain blossomed, and you gasped. “Yes, yes! Cocky asshole, you know it was you!”

Wickedness bled into Jack’s smile. “I know. Just wanted to hear you admit it.”

Of course he did. Had the situation not been as it were, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Icon, beloved, forever bathed in limelight. Despite the negatives that came with being a professional athlete, you knew Jack leaned into the positives. An adoring fanbase, fame by way of talent, not coincidence.

One thing that scared you perhaps more than Luke when your relationship was eventually revealed? The girls who had watched Jack from afar, passed between his bedsheets like glimpses of light. Red drawings of hearts around his name, in handwriting not your own. You feared those pens would underline your name, await a downfall to cross you off the list. Scrutiny and hatred would undoubtedly come, you knew.

Loving Jack made it all worth it.

A burn set in on your muscles as Jack moved your legs wider, greedy hands seeking any purchase as he angled himself to you. The dip of his forehead to yours, ankles locked around his back—he flexed, moved forward, found home within you. The ghost of a gasp slipped from your lips, danced in the space between you. No ache erupted, so different from the first time—residual discomfort, the stretch of muscle, but no pain. Notched against you like puzzle pieces, time stilled for a stretch as Jack remained motionless inside of you, allowing you the moment to relax.

His hand slipped from your waist. The mirror behind you rattled as his hand slapped onto it. Hair tickled your cheek as Jack dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Shit—always so tight, pretty girl,” he murmured, voice nearly lose below pleasure. He gave a gentle squeeze to your hip. “Takin’ me so well, like you were made to. Only for me, right, baby?”

Nodding without hesitation, you curled your fingers into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, felt jealously burn your heart that it got to touch his skin and not you. “Only you, Jack—fuck—only you.”

Each rapid movement, spurred by the knowledge that you were in his bathroom at his birthday party, felt as cataclysmic as stars going out in supernova. White-hot light peaked in your gut, extended burning rays all throughout your veins. Being with Jack, fitting together as if fashioned from the same bones, held every bit of warmth that returning home did—a welcoming breeze as you took in the space, a place you’d always belong, regardless of age.

Still, the pleasure that pooled in your being wasn’t enough to take away the bittersweet aftertaste that shocked your mouth when Jack’s lips found your own. Each withdrawal, followed quickly by a sharp thrust inwards, jumbling your mind until it spilled out into incoherent whimpers—it did nothing to take away from the rudimentary fact that you were fucking your best friend’s older brother.

Born from a night of stolen touches, blooming into something you wouldn’t be able to stop if you tried—a small spark that spiraled into a wildfire, burning down everything in its path until only wanting remained. Illicit, dirty, wrong; perhaps you would’ve felt more guilt if you didn’t love Jack, if the clandestine meetings only served to satiate some carnal desire. Love or not, your hands were still stained a guilty red, the stain not washing off no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Fingertips, gentle as snowflakes falling on a windowsill, ghosted over your eyelids—painted in a myriad of purples and blues, dusted with glitter that took you so long to apply correctly.

“Hate to ruin your pretty makeup, baby,” Jack cooed, fingers that were, seconds before, dancing above your flesh, found themselves threaded in your hair. With a yank, your throat bared itself, like some sacrificial lamb to a forgotten god. “Got all dolled up for me, yeah?”

Vocal cords clipped by the pleasure rumbling through your body like aftershocks, all you could manage was a nod. Leg muscles whining, the hinges of a rusty door threatening to collapse, you struggled to keep your ankles anchored around Jack’s midsection. Every movement, the forceful thrusts that felt more like he were trying to split you than cherish you, dragged long whines out of your lungs.

As if sensing your physical limitations, Jack anchored the hand that had once been carded in your hair on the underside of your thigh. With newfound leverage, he dragged your hips forward to meet his punishing efforts—skin kissing, sweat traded like saliva. Nerves alit at your fingertips, nails dug into the nape of Jack’s neck, searching for any modicum of stability.

You knew this was wrong—felt the judgmental stares of your morality as Jack made home within you. Black painted itself in your soul, a once plentiful garden withering away. Eventually you’d have to face the consequences of your deception. Eventually, but not now.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” Beside your head, Jack’s hand squealed against the foggy mirror—slid up and down with each thrust. “Come for me, yeah? The only present I want from you—won’t ask for anything else.”

A hurricane made landfall, washing away any semblance of rationality in your mind, you felt the pleasure crest into something knotted and gnarled��before a particularly deep brush within you unraveled it all. Head dropping, you muffled your cry of pleasure into Jack’s sweater—bit hard enough you felt the bone of your jaw tick and whine.

“Fuck—good girl,” he murmured, movements stuttering as your innards clenched and trembled. “Wonder what people would say if they saw how much of a slut you were for me; how you like getting fucked by your best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t want the reminder, but the facts seemed to be taunting you no matter where you hid.

Skin too tight, bones made ash—you knew then why it had always been Jack; physical or emotional, he’d brought forth feelings no one else had managed to inspire, an artist finding beauty even in the most mundane of things. To you, Jack had been untouchable, an idea more than a reality, the rough draft of a future you wanted, but never something you managed. Now that you had him, the mere prospect of losing him made heartache cleave your chest in two.

You didn’t think you could be a mourner for the rest of your life, unable to move on from the grave.

Before you could give much more thought into the possibility of loss, Jack’s lips tested yours—the space between occupied by wanting whimpers and grunts of the same ilk.

“God, I love you,” he panted—as close as his face was to you, you still were allowed the beautiful sight of his eyes fluttering closed, tensing in satisfaction. “So fucking much. Wish I could rip off this dress, fucking shame I can’t.”

“Wore it just for you,” was what flew out of your mouth. And it was true; the darkened blue shade, the color of a melancholic night, it had always been Jack’s favorite color. A detail you’d learned via eavesdropping—one you tucked away, dressing in that exact shade every time he saw you.

Pathetic, you knew. But you were his now, so what did it matter?

Flesh pinched under Jack’s bruising grip, you felt the stammer in his rapid motion—the telltale sign of a cresting climax. Pulsing, he urged your eyes onto him—not that they hadn’t been—and forced the fog away from your mind with a harsh grip on the back of your neck.

“Look at me,” he groaned, drawing back his head enough to capture your entire face in the lense of his eyes. Although buried under miles of suffocating water, you managed to acquiesce to his request. “There you go—keep those pretty eyes on me.”

A lasting movement. Touches branding promises into sweaty flesh. Heat shot through your body, spilling out around where you and he were connected. Jack dropped his head into your shoulder, the vibrations of his lengthy grunt lighting down your skin like an earthquake. Nerve-endings on fire, the two of you remained interlocked, one body and soul.

Eventually, your daze was shredded by a gentle kiss to the bridge of your nose. “You with me, pretty girl?”

A nod. Deep breaths rattled your aching lungs. “Yeah—yeah. Just catching my breath.”

Overwhelming emptiness settled in your gut like a rock as Jack withdrew. Tipping your head back, you remained sat on the vanity, eyes fluttered closed. Hoping to grasp a moment of respite. Feet shuffled around the bathroom, water gushed from the sink beside you. When a cold washcloth ran over your soaked core, you had to bite down the yelp of surprise that bubbled on your tongue.

Hand shooting out to steady yourself, the familiar fabric of Jack’s sweater crinkled under your touch—dampened just slightly from what you presumed to be your mouth. Jack’s free hand wrapped around your extended wrist, rubbed soft circles into your skin, as he ran the washcloth over your inner thighs with upmost gentleness.

Warmth bloomed in your heart like a newborn sunrise, reaching eager fingers of light beyond the horizon. The care with which he handled you, regardless of the actions carried out moments before, never changed. He wasn’t the type to just roll over and abandon the love conjured by touches. Jack was as he always had been—safe, comforting. Not in the dull way, the suburban lifestyle that made dread beat in your heart like horse hooves. Jack was safe in the way your favorite meal was; no matter how many times you had it, the taste never dulled, never soured.

From a hopeful optimist with a schoolgirl crush, hands testing the cage she trapped herself in by loving someone she’d never had; to a woman, coddled by newfound love, surprised by the strangeness of life. From a revered effigy, not to be touched; to the man she traced constellations between the freckles on his back.

It was funny, the way life surprised you.

Dress sufficiently rightened, fingers smudging away the falters in your makeup, you found your footing—always strange on heels—and looked to Jack. Despite the flush drenching his face, he looked as he always did; beautiful, boyish in the way that youth coddled him. A gentle smile eased onto his lips—dimples flashed, that fake tooth you’d always be able to tell apart from the real ones, just as you could tell his laugh apart from everyone else’s.

“Sorry for ruining your makeup,” he said, voice like the summer breeze. “It looked really good.”

“Looked,” you echoed, letting out a breathy laugh. “Was gonna come off at the end of the night anyway. No harm, no foul.”

Jack’s nose scrunched. “I could absolutely argue with that,” he muttered. “You’d be surprised how many missed calls there are even when the person is bleeding on the ice—”

“Okay,” you drawled, rolling your eyes. Competitiveness practically hardwired into his blood, Jack could never let anything go. The reference to his most recent injury—a missed high stick that resulted in more than a few stitches—was all you had heard about for the past week. “I get it, but stop preaching to the choir. I didn’t miss the call.”

Jack scowled, before grabbing you by the waist and not-so-kindly tickling you. “Maybe you paid off the ref?”

A harsh slap delivered to his chest—though, from his reaction, had no effect—made Jack stop. “I’m thinking about doing it now.”

“Hey,” Jack whined. “It’s my birthday!”

Realization came at you like a frigid wave. This banter could go back and forth for hours, but you didn’t have hours—you didn’t even have the twenty or so minutes that you’d been in the bathroom. Because you weren’t alone, protected by the darkened corners of deserted rooms. You were at a house party, Jack’s house party; for his birthday.

Fear nailed your heart down. Had Luke noticed? Had anyone else? What if they came looking? The glimpses of domesticity, flashes of what could be, were always shattered when you were harshly reminded of your status. As a kid, you’d always chosen truth when playing truth or dare—had always seemed the safer bet. Now, the truth didn’t feel safe at all.

You had to tell Luke. Rapidly.

“Speaking of,” you said, managing to wrangle down the panic that bloomed like venom in your veins. “You should probably go make an appearance, seeing as everyone and their mothers are here for you.”

Jack searched your gaze. You shut the book before he could read into it. “I guess you have a point,” he grumbled. “Where are you gonna be?”

You wished so desperately you could say by your side. But you couldn’t be, so you didn’t. Bit down your wants once again—you had no one to blame but yourself.

“Um—not sure,” you said, biting down on your lip. So hard that blood soured your taste buds. “Luke and I made sure there was a beer pong table, so maybe there?”

Jack laughed, grabbed your face with hard hands and kissed your forehead. The sincerity in his stormy blue eyes nearly sent you backwards. “I love you, pretty girl. Don’t stray too far—and tell me when you’re about to leave.”

Before you could utter the same sentiment back, he faded from the room like a shadow—all that told he had ever been there was the door clicking shut.

ᯓ★

“Where the hell have you been?” came Luke’s raised voice, carrying just barely above Starboy playing through the loudspeakers. Each thump of the bass rattled the walls, trickled down to your very bones.

Heels wobbling, you made your way to Luke’s side. The space of the living room was entirely swallowed by blurs of people—multicolored hair and outfits all meshed into a single flash, muddled under the neon lights.

Jack was nowhere to be found. You didn’t want to ask—too afraid any attachment to him would tip Luke off. You felt like you were dancing around landmines, and in these heels, you were bound to stumbled and explode any peace you’d fabricated.

“What do you mean?” you called back, hoped he couldn’t hear the gallop of your heart like a thunderstorm over the horizon. “I’ve been out back. Where have you been?”

Luke looked unimpressed, but grabbed you into his arms, a shield from the partygoers stumbling by with passing laughs. Leant against the wall of the living room, Luke held you out of the way. “Right here,” he grunted. “I’m kind of regretting having this party at my house.”

“Don’t be a sour host,” you fired at him. He flicked your forehead. “Regardless, it’s yours and Jack’s house—and he is the birthday boy.”

“Whatever.” Luke’s eyes cast out over the crowd—the spill of what could be anything from water to alcohol. “Shit sucks. And I know exactly who’s going to clean this up.”

A sigh rumbled your lungs. “You have got to be the wettest blanket of all wet blankets.” When Luke’s face scrunched, you pointed a finger at him. “Oh, don’t even! You are being miserable—it’s a party, Luke. Let loose.”

Amber-colored liquor sloshed in Luke’s cup as he gestured around the living room—without pause, you grabbed the solo cup, took a swig. Luke scowled. “I’d be able to let loose if people weren’t trashing my house.”

It was times like these you wished Quinn was around—the designated worrier, maybe then Luke would be able to have even a modicum of fun. Mood confidently soured, you knew tonight would not be the night you came clean to him. Scouring his face like a map, looking over the trails, hoping one of them led to the reason for his upset. It had to have been deeper, brought on by more than just a messy house party.

Rolling questions around your tongue, you opened your mouth—one, twice, thrice, before you settled on what to say. Confusion birthed irritation; you thought he’d been joking before, but it was very clear he hadn’t been. “Luke, what is your—”

“Why are you losers hanging out in the corner?”

Annoyance lashed like wires in your veins. Moments seemed to never last long enough, time mocking you—the familiar voice grated your slowly dwindling patience into ash; already Luke’s miserable attitude had sunk your excitement, and before you could even find out what his issue was, of course Trevor interrupted you.

Bodies shifting to look at the newcomer, you stood with your back to Luke; casually dressed, the typical boy—frat boy, your subconscious teased—Trevor handed you a plastic cup containing some unknown liquid. Dancing neon lights reflected back, ripples echoing across the surface of the liquor. Deciding for the moment to set aside your vexation, you offered Trevor a side-hug and set Luke’s attitude to the back of your mind.

“Nice to see you too, Trev,” you shot back, teasing smile lifting your lips. One thing you’d always admired about Trevor was his ability to smile even in the most tense of times.

“Seriously,” he began, eyes flitting between you and Luke. “Why are you guys—hold on, Bells, what’s on your neck? Were you attacked by a bear?”

Mortification wasn’t strong enough a word to describe how you felt in that moment. Almost immediately you felt the atmosphere rumble with a forthcoming storm, bad omens on worse winds. Air sufficiently robbed from your lungs, your hand shot up subconsciously, felt where Trevor’s eyes rested like a laser sight on your collarbone. You practically felt Luke tense—hundreds of questions hanging in the air like a overflowing storm cloud.

How could you have been so stupid? How could Jack have not realized—or you? As if reading the book of your soul, Trevor clamped his mouth shut, averted his eyes. Every inhale in those moments felt like shoving a knife deeper into your lungs, forcing any stability from your body.

Cut open, exposed, strung up in the village square for all to see. Nausea sunk hooks into your esophagus, burned straight through any defense you had.

“Oh, I—burnt myself with a curling iron.” The world’s most common excuse, one you said not for Trevor’s sake—but Luke’s.

You felt the anger rolling off of him like a heatwave, making sweat bead at your palms. You couldn’t even look at him; he didn’t know who had given you the mark, but if you looked at him, you knew it would all come spilling out, the dam broken, seal forgone by a simple look.

“Your hair’s natural,” came the frighteningly gentle voice of Luke. Numbness claimed every part of your body. “And you didn’t have that earlier.”

You spun on your heel. Horror sent your heart straight to the shredder—he looked every bit the quiet rage that danced in the shocks of an earthquake. “Luke—” You grabbed his hand, hoping; he dropped it. There was no possible chance he knew. There wasn’t.

Nothing more was said. Silence felt like swords, taking swings at your bared heart. Lies caught up to you, bit at your heels, knocked you down with skinned knees. Before you could say more, place bricks to rebuild your crumbling walls, Luke’s hand closed around your wrist. Feet stumbling, the squeal of the sliding glass door—the sharp fingers of frost encroached on your bones, nipping at your bare flesh. People parted as Luke dragged you into the open air of the backyard.

Glances passed like secret judgments. Whispers strung between lips like trip wires. No words came to you—what could you say? You didn’t know how Luke found out; breath didn’t come swift enough, air scarce. Standing became arduous. Moments felt spanned into millennias. You couldn’t focus on the tongues lashing around you, on people watching as you stood before Luke, tears falling like rain. None of it mattered—you could barely breathe.

“I was going to tell you,” you whimpered, vision turned hazy like the image of an old photograph. You could barely see Luke through the barrier of your tears. “I promise, I was. We were just trying to find the right time—I didn’t… I don’t—”

“Bells—”

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Mind sunken, the wreckage lost to the sea. Music faded into a dull hum, static. Your ribs nearly cracked under the pressure of your beating heart. “I’m so sorry, Luke. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“—Bells, what the hell—”

“I know he’s your brother.” Nausea swam in your throat, rattled your very core. The admittance of your illicit affair almost toppled you completely. “I wish it had happened differently. I—”

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Confusion burned away the horror. You rubbed your eyes, pulled away glittery palms. It may as well have been blood. Before you, Luke stood still as a stone statue, a carven representation of betrayal. Lip twitching, you shook your head, tried to will away the vision before you.

There wasn’t a way to describe the expression on Luke’s face. Anger? Hurt? Hatred? You didn’t know—didn’t think any of those words strong enough. Looking at Luke felt like accidentally breaking your favorite possession, the pieces laid discarded at your feet.

But that wasn’t what caught you cold—no. It was his question, the visceral rage entwined with his words that felt like a volcanic eruption.

Why did he ask? Why was he questioning it? He already knew.

Unless—

“Oh, my God,” you covered your mouth, feared bile would follow your words. Stumbling backwards, you felt two hands steady you, gently wrapped around your elbows.

Soft roughness—a perfect juxtaposition, a texture that once comforted you. Now, it shot arrows into your already punctured heart. You knew this would happen; hidden touches, kisses stolen in the covers of shadows wouldn’t be secret forever. Web of lies unraveled at the single picking of a thread, here now you stood, between the two people you loved the most in your life.

Jack and Luke, inexorably intertwined, forever linked in your mind. After this, what would there be? Could this be it? Sour blood flooded your mouth, cheeks shredded. The pain did little to effect you; the feeling of your heart splitting was too intense for you to much care.

Where once you’d lean into Jack’s touch, you found yourself tensing, bones awaiting their reckoning. Luke’s eyes danced between you and Jack. Lightning lit up his gaze—pieces finally together. The picture before him wasn’t hard to read.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Luke growled. His words landed like bullets, you found yourself bleeding from every hole in your skin. No matter how badly you wanted to, you couldn’t look at Jack. “My brother?! Bells—please tell me you’re joking.”

The fingers around your arm tightened. Head far afield—the sort of out of body numbness that happened when your mind refused to cooperate with reality washed over you. Bleeding, bones broken, an animal struck on the side of the road; your eyes darted around, saw the stares, unheard words passing between open lips.

Then suddenly, Jack was in front of you. Shielding you from the fire-hot gaze of Luke. Always your protector, always the focal point.

“Drop it, Luke,” he muttered, voice rumbling like thunder. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“We’ll talk about it later?!” Luke stepped forward; a predator pushing through the underbrush. And like the prey, your heart rate quickened, every instinct telling you to run—deny, hide, lie. “No, fuck you, Jack. When were you going to tell me you were hooking up with my best friend? Before or after you dropped her like a cheap whore?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jack snarled, tossed up his hand. You felt rooted too the ground—the camera lense capturing wild wolves fighting for dominance. “You really think I’d do that? I love her, Luke—and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t drop her like a cheap whore. Stop acting like a fucking child.”

With a disbelieving scoff, Luke found your gaze. The cracking of your heart was deafening—when he looked at you, for a moment, the anger gave way into something far worse: hurt, the betrayal that comes with blind faith. You never wanted to die more, eager to shove your own hand in your chest and tear out your heart; maybe then the pain feeding through your entire body would stop.

Probably not.

“Oh, forgive me for my skepticism.” Chests brushing, anger swirling into something tangible, Luke pushed—you didn’t know how much more he could until Jack snapped. “How many girls have you said that too, huh? How many, just so they’d spread their legs for you?”

You winced; doubted for a moment the reality you’d built up had simply been conjured by your wanting mind.

Jack bared his teeth—rabid and wild, an expression you’d never seen on his face. Before he could knock his bow and let fly his arrows, Luke continued his verbal assault.

“And Bells already did, so how long does she have before you get bored of her?” Spit flew, imbued with more rage than you’d ever seen from Luke; on the ice, off the ice. It’d never been like this. Never towards Jack—or you. A sharp shove, brewing blows. “You just couldn’t let me have something. Always have to be the center of attention.”

Bodies lined in your peripheral, thickened by the promise of violence. Every word rose gooseflesh on your body, heels stuck to the ground—nailed to the cross, strung up on the highest peak, friends and enemies alike watching your downfall. Blood ran down your hands, dripped to the floor, screamed your culpability into the abyss.

Eyes all leveled on the two brothers, their anger a common point—though for entirely different reasons. Both to protect, seeking adversity where there was none. Luke hadn’t even shown anger at you, the imagined plight nothing more than fear that his brother was using you. And Jack? Jack was coming to your defense, and his own.

All of it was backwards—wrong, wrong, wrong. This wasn’t how Luke was meant to find out, the slip of your foolish tongue and a perceived discovery.

“What are you, a fucking child?” Venom laced every word. Even with the height Luke had on Jack, he still somehow managed to loom the shadow of a tree. “She’s an adult, not some accessory only you’re allowed to have. Get over yourself, Luke.”

Silence spanned. No bite returned. Luke’s quietness scared you far more than his explosive anger. For the first time since the argument turned truly nasty, Luke looked at you—emotions ran through his eyes like a stampede, heart shining through. You could see the cracks, ones you’d have to glue back together.

If he ever let you.

It hit you then that this was perhaps the last time he’d ever willingly be near you. The last time he was openly vulnerable with you.

His mouth opened, grappling for words, as if your very presence stole his voice. “How long?”

“Luke—please—”

Tears blinked into your eyes like dying stars. Two gazes met in the collision of planets—ruinous and utterly consumable, what could lead to total destruction or the birth of new life.

“How long, Bells?”

You choked down a sob. “Christmas.”

There existed one simple moment of peace before the storm. Eyes left yours. Fell to Jack. The understanding of what your words meant, lie finally unearthed out of its shallow grave. A single nod, and Luke’s fist rocketed forward.

Gasps echoed like gunshots. Bones met with thunderous cracks. Motion blurred behind your tears, panic striking your heart in electrifying bolts. Flesh made molten, you could do nothing but watch. A car wreck, so terrible you couldn’t help but stand and stare. Mind barely keeping up, you watched as Luke pinned Jack—then as Jack pinned Luke.

“Holy shit,” you heard from behind you, didn’t even turn. Trevor bolted past you, flanked by Cole. Each grabbed a hold of a brother, tried to tear them apart, to no avail.

Curses hung in the air. Jack’s arm reeled back, cracked Luke across the face—screams condensed in the air, until the terror and confusion of everyone watching was palpable, rising goosebumps on your flesh. Nothing felt real. Wishes shredded by reality, the image of sitting Luke down, telling him together faded into the forgotten land where all of your hopes were laid to rest.

Perhaps there too would your idea of having a life with Jack be buried.

When finally Trevor and Cole managed to drag Jack off of Luke, the former spitting blood, you managed to glimpse the damage—it turned your stomach, almost shot bile up your throat. Hair mussed, maroon liquid seeping from a shattered nose and into the cracks of his teeth, flashed when he smiled, Luke pushed himself onto his hands—glared at Jack; flesh split into a cavern on his cheek, choked up with blood that licked like a scarlet tear down his cheek.

“Fucking coward!” Luke’s scream split the air, sliced through Jack’s angry words to his friends. They stood before you; watching, you felt like a ghost. A fight began in your name, spiraled into something much worse. “Five months, Jack! Five whole months, and not once did you think of telling me!”

“Of course I did!” growled Jack, tossing Trevor’s arms off of him. “News flash: not everything concerns you. We were waiting—”

“It concerns me when it’s about my best friend! I can’t fucking believe—”

“Enough!”

You didn’t recognize your scream. But then again, you didn’t recognize the boys in front of you either. Maybe everyone had shed their skin, morphed into their base selves. Where before everything had felt predestined, a great play of the ages, now you saw the pages burn before you—story lost.

Eyes snapped to you, countless and shocked. You only cared about the attention of two people.

“Stop acting like I’m a goddamn child who can’t decide for myself,” you spat, hated the residue of venom that remained on your tongue. The tears falling from your eyes felt like hot lava. “I know I should’ve told you, Luke. I never meant to hurt you—that’s the last thing I want to do. But I don’t belong to either of you; neither one of you hold more of a claim over me than the other. I’m not a toy. I’m going to make decisions for myself, right or wrong. I know I fucked up.”

“But this—” you gestured wildly to the two brothers, heaving like wolves, “—I don’t even know who you two are anymore.”

The final blow, sword coated in so much blood the silver was lost, gleam forgotten to violence. Two pairs of blue eyes—one a stormy sea, the other a gentle river—softened, the haze of anger blown away like a fog.

It didn’t matter—the apologies, the touches, the tears. All you knew was that you couldn’t be here anymore. Not now.

So you turned on your heel and left.

Feet shuffled. Paused in place. Curses flew from lips that’d learned your body in secret moments.

“Trevor—let go of me.”

“No. Let her go. You owe it to her.”

That was the last thing you heard as the door slid shut. The house was emptied, crowd deserted the building to witness the hosts trade blows. Bright multicolored lights danced in your blurry vision. The floor was covered in glitter and streamers, stains you wouldn’t help clean. Music pounded in your eardrum like a heartbeat. You weren’t even sure if your own was moving.

You ran your hands down your face, let out a noise between a laugh and a sob.

Glitter sparkled on your palms as you pulled them away.

So much for a celebration.

373 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃, 𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ summary | part 2 of breakable heaven ; returning to your hometown for the holiday season forces you in the same room as your childhood love. the question still remains: are you truly over him?

₊⊹ warnings | pining, angst, two idiots in love who are too dumb to talk to each other, blasphemous filth ( p in v, unprotected—do not do this—loss of virginity, innocence kink, jack literally doesn’t shut up, biting, hair pulling ), jack being a possessive asshole, icky feelings, insecurities and feelings of inferiority, love confessions, i’m missing some prob but like… not proofread i’m lazy

₊⊹ pairings | f!reader x jack hughes, bsf!luke hughes x reader ( platonic )

₊⊹ author’s note | the second part of this jack hughes story! thank you for the beautiful messages and positive feedback from breakable heaven! it means so much <3 anyway, here we have it. i debated not giving them a happy ending but i’m a slut for love :( a bit filthier than i thought it would b so i am sorry for that. based off i wish you would by taylor swift ;) for those who wished to be tagged! ( @bellstwd )

Your mother had taught you a valuable lesson when you were much younger—you can’t love someone fully and unconditionally until you love yourself.

In your younger years, you’d thought your mother a cynic. A two-time divorcee, flushed with the currency of wisdom that was only earned from loving and losing and other terrible things. Taking love advice from a woman who couldn’t hold onto not one, but two marriages wasn’t exactly something you were keen on doing. After all, what did it matter how you felt about yourself, if you truly and heartily loved your partner?

Turns out, it mattered a lot.

A lesson you learned—not for your own benefit, but one that came as a result of a cruel summer night, tarnishing your memory like the yellow fingers of age. Even now, curled in a wool-knit blanket, eyes fixated out the window of your mother’s living room, you remembered that night with sickening vividness, as if it had been branded into your brain with hot iron. The confession, five years coming, had felt so powerful then, yet now it felt like an axe hanging over your head. The moments after were as followed: Jack remained silent, shifted the car into drive, and brought you both home. He didn’t mention it that night, as you stumbled through the threshold of the beach house, nor the next morning, as Luke and Quinn noted a strange, quiet tension yanking the two of you apart. Hell, even when you helped Luke pack your things into his Jeep, whispering a goodbye to the beach house as it faded in the rear view mirror, Jack still hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even waved goodbye.

It stung then, a reminder that you truly and wholly blew it. A presumed outcome fell short of expectations—Jack didn’t love you. All you were to him was a potential one night stand, a canvas he could tear up and toss away once he was doing painting on it. You’d never be hung in the museum of his heart, the signature piece; all you were was Luke’s best friend, the foolish girl from his childhood that imagined herself at his side, like so many other girls had before you.

It wasn’t Jack’s fault you’d placed him on an untouchable pedestal, that he was the boy you had always and would always compared every other potential lover to. Hope never truly died if there existed faith, and for you, that was in abundance.

Summer waned into fall, fall into winter. Once lively foliage withered and died, browned leaves littering the ground, blowing in the frigid Michigan wind. A ruby-red Cardinal flitted in front of the living room window, chirping an upbeat ballad. Warmth melted into your hand, brought by the cup of cocoa in your palm. Eyes kept forward, you scrutinized the outside. Your neighborhood was just as you remembered. Faint ghosts of the past bled into your vision like unwanted age spots; a soccer ball at your toe-tips, black tire wheels of your iridescent blue bike—one gifted to you at your seventh birthday—screeching up and down the block, head tilting toward the sky as the first of snow fell, landing on your face and hair with beautiful softness.

So many memories held in the cracks of the pavement, the blades of grass. If you closed your eyes tight enough, you could almost imagine you were young again. Michigan had always been your home, even though college had pulled you all the way to Newark. Here, you’d grown up, stretched child-like skin into adolescence, gained scars and memories and the like—here, you’d met Luke, and with him, Jack.

Days of studying at the Hughes house, false excuses to be in plain sight, in the desperate hopes that Jack would see you. If you thought about it now, you could still conjure up the image of the day you first fell for Jack Hughes.

It had been a early spring day—the first of Spring Break. Heated rays and overwhelming boredom had urged you and Luke outside, where Jack and Quinn and their friends were congregated. A slippery pool edge, unfocused eyes, and a gait you shouldn’t have been walking at left you bloody on the ground.

Even now, you recalled the feeling of your skin tearing away from your palms and knees, the blood flooding to the surface of your cut. With a knee bathed in red and the inability to get up, you caused quite the scene. Sticky tears in an unending supply. Luke had immediately ran for his mother, Quinn for the first aid. You were sixteen at the time, never good with pain—still not. Remaining behind, now knelt at your side with an empathetic look in your eyes, Jack had tore a piece of his shirt off and wrapped it around your knee in a makeshift tourniquet.

It was then, looking at Jack, his form made watercolor through a barrier of tears, you truly began loving him.

And to your dismay, you never stopped. Even with his failure to confess back, even with the resounding silence that grew rust between your phones, you knew you still loved him; now, though, you also sought to love yourself.

In the six months since summer—since you’d whispered in the dark a secret you’d swore to take with you to the afterlife, since Jack had shot a carefully fired arrow into your heart—you’d allowed yourself the opportunity of peace.

Hard as it was, you didn’t constantly check Jack’s socials, nor wait by your phone in the hopes that he’d text, that he’d admit he loved you to. Six months later, he still hadn’t. You feared he never would talk to you again. You weren’t mad anymore—you had been, sure, but you missed Jack far too much to cloud your heart with hate. How could you, when it still beat in tune to him?

A whistle of wind accompanied by the creak of old wood made you look away from the window. Flesh cold, you realized with embarrassment your cocoa had gone cold—barely even touched, the now-brown marshmallows barely surfacing, like sinking ships at sea. Crossing the threshold into the house was your mother, with what appeared to be a dozen or so grocery bags in her hands. Your eyebrows lifted, and in a movement, you placed down your mug of cocoa and made your way over to her.

“Thank you, thank you,” your mother grunted as your hands brushed her own, lifting a few of the bags from her hold. A few unseen glass jars clinked and rattled as you placed the bags down on the kitchen counter.

You tossed your mother a bemused look. “Are you feeding the whole neighborhood?”

“Ha ha,” she said flatly, rolling her eyes—a mirror to your own—before finally managing to set all of the groceries down. “No. I invited Ellen, Jim, and the boys over for dinner. Call it payback for all the years Ellen had to feed you.”

Blood fled your face, horror parting your lips. Acid seemed to burn away your heart until only strings of muscle remained, barely keeping your body upright. Why this came as such a surprise to you, you didn’t know. Fate always seemed to have a way of laughing in your face—allowing you the faintest of respites before latching around your ankle, and dragging you right back into the hole you’d tried to hard to climb out of. It wasn’t like you were upset; Jack’s rejection no longer angered you, no longer made you curse his name to the moon when no one else was awake to hear your sobs. It was in the past. A rock in the stream that would one day erode down to a pebble.

Right now, however, that rock still disrupted the flow of the river. And that rock was going to be at your house tonight.

The mortification seemed to have bled out on your skin like ink. Taking eggs out of the plastic bag, your mother looked at you with confusion. “What’s your issue?”

Realizing you probably looked like you’d just been told to go to war, you cleared your throat and busied yourself by unloading the groceries. “Nothing,” was your awkward response. “Just excited to see them again.”

Your mother frowned. “You and I have very different ways of showing excitement.” She took the tub of butter out of your hands. Made you look at her. A groan almost bubbled past your lips—she always knew how to get anything out of you. “Be honest with me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Was it better to speak, or spare yourself? To expel your worries on another, or wade through the struggle alone, yet free of judgement? Working your bottom lip between your teeth, you decided suffering alone was only going to make it all the worse when Jack finally stepped through your door and back into your life.

“This summer,” you began, palms kissing the cool marble of the kitchen counter—you needed something to steady yourself, to keep you grounded, “I told Jack I loved him. I thought maybe he did too, that if I told him, he would finally just admit it.” You laughed ruefully, raked a hand down your face. “Well, he didn’t. He barely even spoke to me after that night. And now—I have to see him again, and I’m not sure what to do.”

The warm flame sprouting from the wick of your mother’s Christmas candle reflected on her face, set a small twinkle in her eyes—she was smiling, like a child gifted its most important toy. Your eyes crinkled, confusion carving lines in your forehead. Why did she look so happy?

“Oh, baby,” your mother cooed, cradling your face in her palms. The smell of gingerbread and vanilla and underlying antiseptic breached your airway—your mother’s signature hand sanitizer. If not for the situation, you would have grinned. “Men are idiots. They just are. Especially when they’re in their early twenties. Don’t base his feeling towards you on his reaction.” You frowned. What were you supposed to base it on, then? Before you could ask, your mother continued, “I won’t say he loves you, or doesn’t love you, because I don’t know. And based off his reaction, I don’t think he knows either.”

You looked at your mother then. At the age lines that split her skin. The sunspots that dotted her flesh, earned by a life under the sun. Once, you’d seen a cynic, a person who hated love because of her lack of it. Now, you saw a woman who was once the same age as you, who once had the same struggles—and learned from them. She didn’t hate love, she understood its trials. How love didn’t always win.

“What do I do?” you asked. Flimsy skin tore away from your lip under pressure of your teeth. Copper flashed on your tastebuds.

Your mother shrugged, pulled her hands away. The encroaching cold that followed made your hear hollow out. “I can’t tell you what do to,” she sighed, as if the knowledge pained her. “Do you still love him?”

Time felt an endless thing then. Chalked full of bitter memories and brief brushes and the heady intoxication of love. Knife in your hand, you’d tried and tried to beat down your love for Jack. Blow after blow, cutting straight to the bone, just as he’d done to you. Despite your attempts, breath still came, the wounds healed—you hadn’t struck hard enough, or perhaps you hadn’t wanted to. Whatever the reason, the mere question had your heart thundering against a cage of pearlescent bone. If it beat any harder, you were sure it would tear through flesh and bone—leap its way out of your chest and find the awaiting palms of Jack Hughes.

Did you still love him? Was that even a question? Through everything, through angry tears and nights lost to heartbreak, through a push and pull that threatened to tear you apart, you knew the answer. It rang just as true as it had the night you first confessed. Yes. You still loved Jack. Maybe a piece of you, no matter how small or weathered by time, always would.

A knowing smile graced your mother’s lips.

You didn’t feel the need to answer.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The smell of honey-roasted ham, accompanied by a gentle undertone of artificial pinewood and vanilla hung heavy in the air, thickening the space until you were choking on smells that were so distinctly Christmas. Mediocre at best in the kitchen, you elected instead to sit wrapped in a fleece blanket on the couch, the buzz of the TV—a rerun of Home Alone, probably the seventh time it had played since you’d gotten back into town— serving as background noise against the thunder of your heart. You didn’t know how long you’d been sat, staring out the window, much like you had been earlier in the afternoon.

The blanket of night had since fallen, the generous light of stars and a few far-off planets easing into the cloudless expanse. The vivid colors of neighbors’ Christmas lights could been seen—albeit duller than they normally were—through the drawn blinds. Waiting for the rumble of tires to climb your driveway felt like an eternity. A part of you wish they wouldn’t come, if only to be spared another day. To allow your heart a chance to draw tighter its stitches before it had to go up against its undoing.

“You okay?” your mother called from the kitchen, as she had been for the past hour of cooking her famous ham. Clearly, she worried for your wellbeing as much as you did.

Lack of blinking finally strained your eyes. You peered over at the kitchen, saw your mother’s hair as she bent down and checked the ham. “Yeah,” you said, too strangled for your liking. “I’m all good.”

Lies felt like second nature on your tongue now, especially when regarded one Jack Hughes.

Both the deepest dread and the most suspenseful excitement sent your head under water, a sudden drop in blood pressure, constricting your veins until you were certain there was no way consciousness was going to be possible when you saw him. Six months. Six months of crying and wondering and repairing, all for what? Just to be forgotten the moment a whisper of his presence tickled the nape of your neck.

A pathetic schoolgirl. A girl who never grew up, never put down her dolls in exchange for reality. Dreams were always much kinder.

Headlights flashed the window pane. Even obscured by blinds you knew. Gravel crunching under tires, the soft squeal of breaks as the car came to a stop. Your heart accelerated, the beating of hooves in your soul. Moments away from crumbling to ash, you forced your head high and stood up. Your mother seemed to realize as well.

“Oh, they’re here!” she squealed with excitement, abandoning her dinner in favor of making her way to the door.

Frozen in time, a statue caught by the stare of Medusa, your mind felt yards away from your body as the door opened with a groan and muffled greetings. Ellen appeared first, then Jim. Both offered your mother hugs, were led away with stories of a troubling ham. Quinn passed through the door next, then Luke. You felt like a fool standing in the living room, christmas pajamas hanging around your hips and upper body, simply watching them arrive. Seeing Luke alleviated your muted horror.

A smile found its way onto your face when you saw him. Luke was always the one who could drag you out from under waves of self-loathing and fear. “Bells!” Luke called once he saw you, feet moving in a flurry. Before you could escape, his arms came around you, lifted you with ease.

Laughter trickled from your lips, your inner struggle momentarily crumbling to ash as Luke kept you elevated in his arms. “Hey, loser,” you muttered into his shoulder, feeling the ground meet your feet as he placed you down carefully.

Fingers carded through your hair and mussed it. “Loser, eh?” He placed a hand to his heart, faking a wound. “Always cut so deep, Bells. How are you?”

It hadn’t been six months since you’d seen Luke. Maybe closer to two. Unlike Jack, you were actually friends with Luke, and two of you made frequent attempts to visit and talk. Living twenty minutes away from one another certainly made it all easier. Always your apartment, never his—you couldn’t risk running into Jack. Not when the wound caused by his rejection was still so new. And even when it wasn’t, when the flesh of your heart had closed and pinkened, you still couldn’t. You knew the stitched would open right back up.

A plaid flannel, with intersections of blue and cream and white, hung from Luke’s shoulders, where underneath was a simple white shirt. You eyed his outfit—his sweats and tennis shoes. “Going for the lumberjack aesthetic?” you teased, poking his ribs. “My mom might ask you to cut some wood for a fire.”

Scoffing, Luke rolled his eyes. “Fuck off. You look like a twelve-year-old boy on Christmas morning.”

The fuzzy and white Snoopy pants, matched with a t-shirt of similar design was perhaps not the best outfit for dinner. “A twelve-year-old boy wishes he was as stylish as me.”

“I can speak for them and say they don’t,” Luke muttered, earning an offended look from you. The back-and-forth allowed your mind some respite, a place to curl up and not worry if the night terrors would come for it.

A kiss pressed to your cheek, and Luke wandered off to rejoin his family. With the shield of his body gone, your eyes immediately found the focus of your life for the past five years. Any semblance of peace shattered and sliced your heart, tears of blood flooding your system and sinking your mind. Your walking manacle, the night terror that kept your mind from ever truly resting stood in front of you, taking his shoes off by the door. Tacky Christmas bags hung from his hands and arms, red tissue paper overflowing from the inside.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. In those spare moments before he did, you were allowed to simply gaze at him, like you always had. Half a year had allowed his hair to grow, the ends now tickling lower part of the nape of his neck. Obscured slightly by a backwards white cap, all you could see was the strands peaking out—just as you had always liked. Something about him in a ball-cap made you feel like you were in high school again, swearing you’d never seen a more attractive man. Even now, at twenty, you still hadn’t.

Tan skin was revealed as he peeled off his jacket, the skin a richer color than what you last remembered it being. One of the many things about him that pissed you off: he never burned, always tanned. The sun seemed to extend its favor to Jack; giving him a smile as bright as its rays and immunity to its harmful effects. Unfair. Just like Jack’s dimples. Unfair dimples.

When finally his eyes met yours, widening a bit, as if he hadn’t expected you to be here in your own home, you didn’t look away. The blue of his eyes was darker than normal, as if touched by the night. Even now, after the heartbreak and the confusion and the anger, you still thought him the most beautiful person you’d ever seen. Six months in the making, endless nights writing in your notes, thrown out speeches, all of it culminated to this moment. You almost heard time hold its breath, waiting to see who’d bow first. This time, it wouldn’t be you.

“Bells…” Jack breathed, looking you up and down. Normally, you would’ve felt the sharp claws of embarrassment rake down your back at your outfit. Now, you couldn’t care.

A smile. An olive branch. Hope reignited by the simple utterance of your dumb nickname. “Hey, Jack.”

He blinked at you. Maybe he was expecting a screaming match, a brick to be lobbed at his head. You’d thought about that outcome a hundred times before, imagined yourself finally making Jack hurt like you had. None of it was ever satisfying. Happiness and continued living even though he didn’t want you seemed revenge enough, if in truth it even was revenge.

You walked to him, stuck a hand out. He appeared dumbfounded, as if words had died in his throat and created a blockage. Instead of speaking, you simply grabbed a few of the presents from Jack’s hold and carried them into the dining room. Your mother had set it up, the cherry oak table adorned with glass wear laser-cut into intricate designs, china plates outlined with gold inlay, a red and gold tablecloth that had seen better days. You couldn’t remember the last time your mother had set the dinner table. Not since your father left.

As you placed the presents in the center of the table, you felt Jack slink next to you, an encroaching shadow you could never really outrun. His shoulder brushed yours as he placed the remaining presents with the ones you set down. Heat immediately rose, an unwanted flush of your cheeks. Teeth worrying your bottom lip, you attempted to conceal the feverish feeling Jack brought to your system. A plague that never went away, never weakened. Just as deadly as before.

He didn’t say more. You didn’t expect him to. Greeting Quinn, you eventually made your way over to where your mother stood with Ellen and Jim. A dish towel slung over her shoulder, she smacked your hand with it when you went to dip your finger in the ham’s glaze.

“Don’t you dare stick your finger in there, dirty,” your mother scolded, earning chuckles from Ellen and Jim. Eyes rolling, you pinched your mother’s side before being grabbed into an embrace by Ellen and then Jim.

Looking at Jack was like looking at a replica of Ellen—only with blonde hair and a sweeter disposition, less of an inclination to be a complete and utter dick. Her smile, however, made you heart constrict. Just like his. “Look at you! All grown up,” Ellen beamed. Nearly two years since you’d last seen her, at your graduation. “And so beautiful! I bet the boys are just falling at your feet.”

All but the one I want, you thought bitterly.

“Thank you,” is what you said instead, offering up a timid smile at the shower of praises Ellen offered you, from your hair to your skin, compliments that you hadn’t heard in a while.

Ellen tossed her head over her shoulder, looking at her three sons stood at the edge of the kitchen, all talking amongst one another. “Luke! Why didn’t you tell me how pretty Bells has gotten.”

Luke muttered something before walking over to you. Arm slung over your shoulder, you were pulled suddenly into his side. “Gotta find a way to keep her to myself, mom.”

Your face heated at that. You knew Luke was just pretending, making a joke, but his voice was so similar to Jack’s you could almost imagine it was him who’d said it. Before you could control yourself, your eyes darted over to Jack, leaning against the far end of the kitchen counter. His shoulders were tensed, jaw rolling, the bone shifting under skin. Quinn appeared just as lost as you were.

You wanted Jack to say something. To fight. Do anything that gave you any insight into his confusing mind. Did he want you? Did he hate you? Why was he the hardest person to read? Puzzles were fun until they became to difficult, too much to handle. You weren’t sure how much longer you had before you gathered up the pieces and gave up.

…Oh, who were you kidding. You’d never give up. Tried and failed, a mark of a desperate effort to be loved. As long as faith remained, so would hope. And hope was a dangerous thing in the hands of the dreamers.

“I’m tellin’ you,” Jim said, head shaking as he watched Luke keep you close to him, “you’re never gonna find a better girl. You need to lock her up before you lose her.”

Luke laughed; always able to shake things off. You, on the other hand, felt embarrassment set off wildfires in your chest. Ash made breathing arduous. You couldn’t even look at Jack. Everyone around you laughed like it were true; Luke squeezed your shoulder, kissed the top of your head. You wished with such force it was Jack, your heart almost cracked open.

Some part of you wanted the ground to split open and drag you to hell. Banter—it was only banter. Yet, somehow, you wondered if Ellen and Jim always thought this way; that you and Luke would be the perfect couple. Friends to lovers, and the like. You imagined it for a moment: a white picket fence, a red-and-black jersey marked with the number 43, two kids, maybe, with a big golden retriever. Safe and secure and boring. Dull. A life you watched from the outside and felt pity for who lived it.

You loved Luke. You weren’t in love with him, never would be.

“I don’t know.” Jack’s voice made your head snap up embarrassingly fast. Throat clenching, awaiting, wondering. “I don’t think Luke is Bells’s type.”

While Luke feigned offense, you felt the flare of white-hot anger lash your veins. All at once you were transported back to that night poolside, the cold summer night air nipping at your skin; Jack’s belief he could dictate your life, stop you from going to the bonfire. Objectively, he was right—Luke wasn’t your type, never had been. But hearing Jack say it made you want to disagree, to argue, if only to speak to him. To build something between you other than lovesick confessions and an air thick with unsaid words.

Hand drifting up to Luke’s chest, a fake fool-in-love look directed at your best friend. “You never know. Crazier things have happened.”

Whatever was said in response, you paid little mind to. Eyes on Jack, a test of wills, a silent challenge he’d always risen to. The perpetual smug aura Jack carried with him like a sword shattered, and he pushed off the counter with a scoff. You saw Quinn and Luke trade glances; Ellen and Jim and your mother were all too deep in their own conversation to give much thought to the current situation between you and Jack.

What had felt like a stalemate for so long finally began to become an active war zone. “Oh, yeah?” Jack said, nodding his head at you. Still against Luke, still in his arm. “What’s the criteria? Rich hockey player? Didn’t think you were a puck bunny type, Bells.”

Quinn rounded on Jack. He lifted a hand and smacked him on the back of the head with a scowl. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Rich that you’re calling her a puck bunny as an insult,” Luke grunted, eyes darting to you. Assessing, scouring—seeking any twinge of upset. “You don’t seem to have any issue with them when you’ve got ‘em in your bed.”

Bile crawled up your throat like a dying animal, stuck on the side of the road. Flashes of intertwined skin and fervid air made your head spin with disgust. You knew Jack wasn’t chaste, far from a saint, yet the call to attention of his actions behind closed doors made jealousy and envy and every terrible emotion chill your heart. Jack’s eyes flashed. Bit his tongue; you’d never seen him do that before. Clearly, he didn’t desire descending into a brawl with his brothers.

Electing to ignore Jack and his knife-sharp words, you managed to wiggle away from Luke’s hold and over to your mother—forced by association to befriend Ellen, the two women blossomed between them a close friendship courtesy of your countless days spent within the Hughes home. A part of you felt for Jim; an absentee father meant he had no one to talk with whenever they came over, left to haunt your mother and Ellen’s conversations. Faintly, you wondered what the dynamic between your families would have been had your father not left.

“Do you need help setting the table?” you asked your mother in a low voice, praying she could shove some futile task into your hands to justify avoidance of a certain Hughes brother.

Your mother looked away from Ellen and Jim, clocked your desperate eyes—an animal gnawing at her cage bars. “Oh, um…” she trailed, looking around. Then finally, “Take the rolls to the table, yeah? The ham’s almost done. I’ll bring it over with the vegetables in a moment.”

Eager for an escape, you snatched up the plate of perfectly rounded rolls, dusted lightly with sheen of melted butter. If there was one continued truth about your mother, it was that she was an excellent cook, a trait that had unfortunately passed you over. Coming back to Michigan meant your mother spending hours in the kitchen, favorite meals made just as you liked them—tastes and smells that were so distinctly home. You hated how you couldn’t even enjoy it, what with the harpsichord of your heart being so perfectly played by Jack. Why he settled on acting like a douchebag, you didn’t know. Gone was the sweet older brother of your best friend, the boy who won you a plushie as an apology, who tried his hardest to include you even when you felt more alienated than ever.

Now, he stood before you as a stranger. A scar, burning your flesh with every cruel word. You wanted to stomp your feet at him, revert into the little girl who would pout whenever she was made it in tag. It wasn’t fair. How could he transform in a manner of months, in days? What could you have done to sour his heart so thoroughly towards you?

Once every plate had a roll, you opted to simply take your seat and find something busying on your phone. Anything to distract yourself from the crushing knowledge that whatever teenage love you nurtured for five years was now a cold corpse, one you couldn’t bury even as it began to rot.

The seat beside you pulled out. Luke snatched away your phone, taunted you with it like a carrot to a pig. “Did your boyfriend break up with you?”

Your eyebrows drew in. Finally Luke gave you back your phone. “What are you—? I don’t have a boyfriend to break up with me.”

Luke grinned. “I know. Was just a way of asking what was wrong.”

“Stupid way,” you mumbled, earning a shoulder nudge from the boy beside you. Weak smiles and false laughter seemed to be your brand now, even when those around you tried their hardest to cheer you up.

“I could just, y’know, not care,” he fired back, before his face turned serious; a look you were not used to seeing on the always-joking Luke Hughes. “Seriously, Bells. Let me pick your mind.” A grimace tugged his lips. “If it’s my dickhead of a brother, don’t feel singled out. He’s been a brat ever since we came back from Sanibel.”

That caught your attention. “What?”

Thankfully, you hadn’t seen Jack since then. You supposed it was entirely possible he was just as downtrodden as you had been in the months following your summer trip, but unlike you, he had no reason to be. He hadn’t been rejected by his crush of five years. He hadn’t been taunted with possibility only to be shunned by reality. He hadn’t lost what could’ve been his only chance with the person he loved most in the world. Jack Hughes had no reason to be as bratty as you had felt. Even then, you tried to be cordial. He had snapped the olive branch in front of your face.

So what the hell did he have to bed upset about? You supposed it could have been entirely unrelated to you, but that possibility was much less fun and catered less to your likings, so you ignored it.

“Yeah, he’s been an ass, so don’t think you did anything,” Luke explained with a frown, eyes shooting over to Jack, where he stood muttering unheard words to Quinn. The latter looked less than thrilled with whatever Jack was saying. “I am sorry for what he said, though. You aren’t a puck bunny. No one thinks that.”

“I know,” you sighed. Jack’s carefully crafted insult made no sense to anyone but you and him; he knew you loved him, knew it went deeper than the fact that he was a professional hockey player. Yet, he’d still shot it in your face. “I wonder what’s been bugging him.”

Luke shrugged. “With him? Who knows. We haven’t been playing the greatest, but even then he’s been acting like this before the season started.”

The smell of honey-glaze and smoked ham permeated the air, overwhelming the once thickened scent of gingerbread radiating from your mother’s candles lit around the room. Feet shuffled around the kitchen, dulled voices overlapping into a buzz of background noise. Your mother’s figure ducked and reappeared, setting the ham on the table. Every force in your body urged you to look at Jack, hoping that maybe he was already looking. Two gazes met; your heart accelerated. He had been.

Clearing your throat, you refocused your attention on Luke—oblivious, just as he always had been. “I gave up trying to figure Jack out years ago.” Half-truth, half-lie. You’d tried to stop, never quite managed. He always proved the grandest addiction.

“Probably the right call,” Luke said. “He’s never been the easiest to read.”

You were well acquainted with that notion.

Empty space became occupied by warm bodies as everyone came to the dinner table. Steaming and glistening with a shine, the ham quickly became the centerpiece of the table, even if it were slightly off center—those gaudy packaged presents were still proudly displayed in the middle. Assorted vegetables were placed down beside them, held in a ceramic bowl decorated with a little red truck hauling an evergreen. You wondered briefly if your mother had a hidden stash of everything Christmas she only pulled out once a year. Quinn took the seat across from Luke, Jim next to him. Your mother and Ellen occupied opposite heads of the table. Finally, Jack sat—across from you. Annoyance bubbled in your chest, almost bubbling into a snide remark. Of course he decided to sit there. Of fucking course.

Instead of giving him any indication that his choice left you rattled, you began filling your plate with the array of foods your mother had cooked. Compliments flew as people began taking bites, information passed between lips that hadn’t been together in years. A part of you missed the domesticity of the holidays; the warm embrace of togetherness, conversations between people who cared about the response, love-infused food and nights. All of it would’ve felt perfect, if not for the boy sitting across the table from you. So close, yet too far to touch. Always out of reach.

If Jack didn’t speak, you could imagine he was still the sweet boy you remembered throughout your high school years. The one who tore his own shirt to stop your bleeding, who signed a puck for you because he was certain he’d make it big and eventually it would be worth money. It was now, yet you had no intention of selling it. That boy had morphed into a stranger intent on severing any ties between you, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe a few more nasty words and there wouldn’t be any coming back, the undeniable truth that he didn’t love you would finally be beaten into your head.

But as always, you were the eternal optimist. Maybe a fool, but a sanguine one. People considered you too idealistic for your own good. You just thought you were hopeful for what could be, not afraid of what might be.

“So, Bells,” Ellen called to you, tearing your eyes away from your plate. Fork pushing around your green beans, you hummed in acknowledgment. “What’s new in your life? Still going to college, I hope.”

You laughed, caught your mother’s eye, as if your dropping out had been kept a secret until now. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still going to college. Athletic training. Luke wants me to become the trainer for the Devils.”

The image conjured was an amusing one. No longer would you torment Jack from memories, transformed into a daily staple in his life, unmovable and horrifyingly real. The spiteful part of you wanted to earn the job, if only to remind Jack he could never escape you—just as you could never escape him.

Sneaking a look at Jack, you managed to catch his eye roll. The flex of his hand against the clothed table. Your hand itched around the fork—maybe you could launch it hard enough to do damage. What was his problem?

“Wouldn’t that be something?” Jim accompanied his words with a hearty laugh. It felt like a hug. Growing up without a father meant you sought one in nearly every man a few decades older than you. Thankfully, Jim had taken up the mantle with little issue.

“Bells would burn Prudential Center down,” Quinn chimed in, earning an offended scoff from you. “I hate to say it, but it’s true. You nearly blew up the microwave making Ramen.”

“Actually, she did blow up the microwave,” your mother said, sending you a judgmental look. Being ganged up on never felt so friendly. “You’d think she’d learned her lesson after the Mac and Cheese incident.”

You threw your hands up. “Okay, okay. So what? We can’t all be perfect.”

“You can’t be not perfect and still be aware of how to correctly make microwaveable food,” Luke chuckled, forking a slice of ham into his mouth. You hadn’t even touched yours. “But we’ll cut you some slack. You’re a changed woman.”

You weren’t, really. And you knew it. The girl who had pulled a charred cup of Ramen—and before that, macaroni—from her microwave was still the girl who couldn’t shake that burr that was Jack Hughes off of her skin. You knew how to correctly make Ramen now, but not how to stop loving Jack. It was funny, the lessons life decided to teach you. Often, they weren’t the ones you needed most. Or maybe they were, you just didn’t know it. Regardless, you failed to see how learning to correctly make microwavable food aided you at all in the big conundrum that was your love life.

Eyes caught your own as you looked around the room. Blue, rife with scrutiny, and oh-so familiar. You hated how beautiful he was, how effortless it all came to him. You supposed rose-colored glasses made even the dullest gems into diamonds. He kept your gaze, eyes darting down to the infinity necklace cradled in the hollow between your collarbones. A gift he’d gotten you two birthdays go. One you cherished—to you, the love you had for Jack was infinite, a loop that had its ups and downs but was ultimately unending. The little gold symbol suddenly felt like lead against your neck, suffocating you. Embarrassment flooded your airways—you hadn’t even realized you’d been wearing it, you just always had. Like second nature, the feeling of the dainty piece of jewelry faded into the background of your life. You never took it off; not even to shower.

This was the first time you debated doing so. Maybe you’d chuck it at Jack, toss it in the trash, throw it in the fireplace. Anything to purge yet another reminder that Jack Hughes—despite your best attempts—would always hold a claim over you.

“I’m glad college hasn’t chased you away yet.” Ellen’s voice broke the staring match. Looking down at your plate, you realized your appetite was gone. “I know we made a joke about it earlier, but is there any special guy in your life?”

Yes. Your son.

Flashing a forced smile that felt all to similar to a grimace, you found a small crack in your plate far more engaging than the current conversation at hand. All eyes seemed to have leveled on you; the heaviest of all being those across the table, narrowed, as if daring you to lie.

“No—not anyone, at least right now,” you murmured, tearing away flimsy flesh inside of your mouth. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until iron soured your taste buds. “Too busy with my studies. Most guys don’t care about what I do.”

And too busy being in love with your son.

The small part of your quickly withering soul that hoped the conversation would lapse was swiftly laughed at. Jack—because, of course—opened his mouth, turning all the attention towards him. Just like he always did. “I don’t know,” he said, smirking and mocking and mean. “Luke does, no? Athletic trainer and athlete—a match made in heaven.”

Your hand furled. Of course he took to cruelty. “Luke and I are friends.”

Concerned looks courtesy of Luke and Quinn only served to fuel your annoyance further. The parents seemed lost, clearly out of the loop with Jack’s recent asshole bender. Jack straightened in his chair, adjusted the ball cap on his head. “Are you? Friends aren’t normally as close as you two are.”

You felt cornered, chained to a metal desk, interrogated and open and vulnerable. Ellen’s eyes flashed to you—so familiar, filled with more concern than her son’s ever would be. Clearly, everyone was lost as to why an argument was brewing between you two. It never had before. But this wasn’t before; this was now, and now, Jack wanted nothing to do with you. It was clear his words were all spat just to dissolve any feelings you had towards him.

Luke placed a hand on your arm. “Jack, quit it. This is stupid.”

Always persistent—something you once loved about Jack—the middle Hughes did not heed his young brother’s words. “I was kidding before, about the puck bunny thing. But now… I’m not sure.”

“Jack!” Ellen shouted, setting her fork down. A murmured apology to you and your mother passed over your head. Tunnel vision on Jack, you could feel the bile well in your throat, a horrible consequence of caring.

Jack only shrugged. You felt your chest clench, the build up of a downfall. He was using your confession against you. Making you out to be a fool. You forgot how mean Jack could be when he tried. He normally never was to you.

“A puck bunny?” you fired back, momentarily forgetting your setting. The people around you. “I’m sure you’d know all about those, huh? Seeing as those are the only girls willing to engage your miserable ass.”

The quick escalation felt like whiplash. You hadn’t even meant to dig that deep, to get that angry. Something about seeing Jack again, about him pushing and pushing like he always did had made you break. He always knew how to push your buttons. Did it with ease, and yet, you still found yourself happy he was even engaging you. Not ignoring you, fazing you into the background of his life. Some part of you still effected him, and while it did, the connection still lived.

Luke leaned into you. Hand closed around your elbow he whispered something to you—you didn’t hear, were too deep under waves of annoyance to care. Ellen and Jim scolded their son, while your mother remained silent, eyes darting between the two caught in a duel. Non-confrontational, passive; sometimes you wondered if that destroyed her marriages. Stark anger became apparent in Jack’s eyes, fueled by your cut. Beloved and beautiful Jack Hughes, only ever wanted by those who sought status. Except you. And maybe that was why you had said it.

“Careful,” Jack hissed, ignoring his parents protests. “You almost sound like you’re in love with me. Oh…right.”

He smiled at you like a predator, and like the great Roman Empire once did, you crumbled. The fire stoking your rage went out, smoke rising into your lungs, choking you, making it impossible to breathe. Unwanted tears crystallized at your waterline, taunting you, showing you that you did care—you always would. Seasoned in everything you, Jack knew exactly what to say to cut right into your heart; a slice of cake he’d cut off and eat, smiling with the pieces still stuck in his teeth.

Eyes leveled on you. Quinn growled out a judgement that made Jack scoff. You didn’t hear it; nor did you hear Luke’s worried question. All at once you became what you reviled: vulnerable, exposed, cut open and strung out for prying eyes to see. Jack had taken the secret you’d hidden from everyone so dutifully and spat in back in your face. Made your feelings the punchline.

A perpetual free fall; the girl who reached too close to the sun only to pull back charred fingers.

You rose on unsteady legs. They carried you from the table, past Jack. Voices called you back—primarily your mother. You didn’t heed her. Hand against the bannister, you made your way upstairs. A trip you made hundreds of times as an adolescent, your sanctuary from the outside world. Throwing open the door to your childhood bedroom, you were hit with a sudden fog of nostalgia that invaded your mind. Scribbled drawings of indiscernible things were pinned to the wall, bright crayon colors sticking out like a sore thumb against the dark green wallpaper. Checkered bedsheets with a few irremovable stains darkening the fabric, folded so carefully you imagined your mother had to have been in here before you’d returned today.

Hockey pucks signed by Jack, a Lidstrom jersey hidden behind a glass frame—red and white, folded to prominently display the number 5. Detroit was close enough to where you’d been born, a team that was successful in your early years. Bandwagon or not, you wouldn’t have even remembered their glory days if you tried. Posters from movies you no longer watched stapled into your wall—a shelf of vinyl records blanketed in a layer of dust. History and memories permeated the air. Melded with your sorrow to create a truly explosive concoction.

Hitting the bed without repose, your bones shook with the force of your sobs, muffled against the sweaty skin of your palms. Everything felt so wrong. You’d never go back to the way it was—to the feeling of coming home to this room after seeing Jack, going to one of his games alongside Luke. You feared whatever hung between you two like an unrealized dream was truly and finally dead.

Wood creaked. Footsteps approached and the bed dipped next to you. Assuming Luke or your mother, you kept your head buried in your hands. “I’m such an idiot,” you gasped, seeking air—it wasn’t scarce to come by, yet you found you couldn’t get enough.

A hand rubbed gentle circles in your back. Didn’t speak, allowed you to.

“I—I just… I wish he’d come back. Be my friend again, at least! Every time I see him, he finds a new way to try and hurt me. I don’t get it. I don’t.” You knew you were rambling, knew that if it was Luke he’d have no idea what you were talking about—you knew you’d have to explain that you loved his brother, but right now, you didn’t care. “I tried to move on, thought I’d given up. But I see him again and it all comes back. I’ll never be able to forget him, will I? Not as long as I live.”

A knee bumped against your own. It was bare, unrestricted by the confines of sweatpants. You froze—both Luke and your mother had been wearing pants. Only…

Your head snapped up, and of course, there Jack was. Always following you, forever haunting your life. Mortification wracked your body like a tempest, threatening to sink you and give you a burial at sea. Choking down a groan, you tried to move away from him. Distance, deny, run, flee. Anything to shut the door you’d just opened for him. Now he knew, more than he should. He knew you still cared; you’d just handed him more ammunition to fire into your barely-beating heart.

Jack’s hand caught your thigh. Heat burned through your body, a trail all the way down to your core. “Wait,” his voice was choked, full of holes. “Just… please—wait.”

You tried to wiggle away. His grip proved too strong. “For what? So you can make fun of me some more?” You dug the heels of your palms under your eyes, destroying any evidence you’d ever been crying over him. “I’ve had enough, Jack. You win. Is that what you want to hear? You finally fucking did it. I give up.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Bells.”

“Nice sentiment,” you spat. “A bit too late, though.”

You went to stand. Shoved Jack’s hand off your thigh and ignored the aching longing that replaced the warmth of his skin. Even now, your body yearned for him.

Traitor.

Before you could even make it to your feet, Jack’s hand cupped the back of your head. Yanked you. Confusion sent ripples down your spine, locked your bones. A blur, and then your lips were against his. Soft and sweet and everything you’d ever imagined they’d be. You were sure you’d gone into cardiac arrest. You were sure Jack had lost his goddamn mind.

His fingers pulled you closer, sent you almost tumbling into his lap. Your hands steadied against his chest, felt the rapid thunder of his heart, believed for a moment that maybe he was as effected by whatever you two had as you were. Lips melding together like the natural meeting of the tides, you felt your foot teeter on the edge of an abyss, one you’d fallen into and dragged yourself out of more times than you could count. Jack’s free arm corded around your waist, rippled with a flex of his muscles made your flesh turn molten.

A sudden rush of clarity extinguished the fire. You shoved away from Jack, hands still on his chest.

“No… no,” you panted, eyes darting around his face. Blue and big and wild he looked back at you, carnations sprouting under his cheeks and lips parted with each deep breath. “You can’t—you don’t get to do this. You aren’t being fair.”

“How?” Jack breathed, ghosted his fingers over the small of your back.

“You say mean things to me, push me away,” you said, feeling your resolve dwindle. How could you stay strong when he was looking at you with so much longing? “I tell you I love you, you say nothing. The only thing you’ve ever confessed to me is that you want to fuck me. I won’t be another notch on your belt, Jack. I won’t.”

His lips parted. With your bodies so close, you could make out ever little detail—commit it to memory, a drawing you’d hang proudly in your mind. Waiting for Jack’s answer was torture; you didn’t think you could handle another rejection, not when he’d kissed you in a way that was going to screw you up forever.

A moment passed. You resolved to think he was answering you by not answering. A scoff, tears welling, you tried to escape his hold—he wouldn’t let you.

“Wait!” Desperation clung to every letter. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I’m not good at this. I didn’t mean it, what I said. It’s just… my mom saying you’d look good with Luke, you played into it—I got jealous.” He shook his head, looking away as if embarrassed. “Doesn’t excuse what I said, I know. I—I just… imagining you with anyone else made me livid.”

You hid a smile. Beat down your fifteen-year-old self that would have died if she heard what Jack was confessing now. Instead of pulling away, you relaxed into his touch. Gave him an opening to expand on his words.

“This summer, it was the same thing,” he explained, heaving a deep sigh. “Seeing you with Jackson… it made me so mad. I didn’t even know why until I explained what happened to Quinn after we left Sanibel. He called me a fucking idiot.” Jack laughed, that beautiful, musical noise that you imagined hearing for six months. “I shouldn’t have acted like that—this summer or today. I’d always seen you as my little brother’s best friend, and then, suddenly you weren’t anymore. I wasn’t sure what to do.

“After you confessed to me… I froze. I didn’t know what to do. You barely even looked at me the morning after—I thought you hated me, so I just… tried to make you hate me more. Spare you any pain.” A rueful laugh split his lips. “I realize now how fucking dumb that was.”

He cradled your jaw, looked at you as if seeing the moon for the first time. A smile parted your lips, toothy and big and real. “So…?”

“I love you,” Jack murmured, a secret for only the two of you to hear. “And I’m sorry it took me so many years to figure it out. I wish I had said it that night—I’ve regretted it for six months.”

Every shard of glass once lodged in your heart was meticulously pulled out by those three simple words. The holes in the hull had been plugged, sinking no longer imminent. Warmth of the like you’d never felt before nearly burst through your chest, a purged soul calling for its other half hidden below the flesh pressing into yours. Fingers tracing his jaw, his eyebrow, every piece of flesh you could touch, you felt the young girl who’d wished for this moment finally move on, merging with the girl you were now.

Love never truly died if you were willing to fight for it; to go to war day after day, all for someone else. True love was selfless, vulnerable and naked and real. It had taken all the heartbreak, all the tears and the longing and the unshakable hope to know that this love was true love.

“I love you,” he whispered again, forehead to your own. Heated flesh met in a bursting of stars. “I’m sorry, Bells. So fucking sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured back, putting to rest that anger and resentment to run back to this mad, mad love.

A moment. The finale of two people, after years and years of dancing around one another, coming together in the joining of hearts. Jack surged, lips taking your own. It wasn’t messy or rushed like some kisses of your own had been in the past—it wasn’t immature and too eager, but soft and slow and everything you’d ever wanted. Hands cupped your bottom, yanked you into his lap. Something nudged your inner thigh, bringing a heat to your cheeks and chest.

You hadn’t figured being in Christmas pajamas would at all be a turn on. In fact, you hadn’t even considered the idea of being with Jack like that. Of course you’d fantasized of it, dreamed up the moment, but now that it was tangible, an outcome that was possible, nothing felt suffice. Not only did you not know what to do—you were currently in your childhood bedroom, with your mother and his family downstairs at this very moment.

Deft hands snaked up your shirt, running down the bare expanse of your back. Bra forgone in favor of comfort, you realize there existed on less barrier between yourself and Jack. With something akin to a growl against your lips, Jack pushed you backwards on the bed—the plus checkered comforter cushioned your landing, smelling faintly of lavender and dust. Hands on either side of your head, keeping his body aloft above you, Jack merely appreciated you for a moment; the halo of hair around your head, flushed cheeks and gentle smile. You had no idea how you got here, yet begged for the moment not to end, for the world to spare you of a pinch even if this was a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, brushing the tresses that crinkled at your hairline. You smiled. Never did you think you’d hear those words fall from his lips.

A laugh, free and triumphant. “Could say the same thing about you, Hughes.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m ‘Hughes’ now?”

“Never been anything else,” you shot back.

“Is that right?” he asked. “Guess I need to jog your memory then—gotta remember who you belong to, yeah?”

Flushed and utterly wordless, you had little protest when Jack lowered himself and rejoined your lips. Tongue prodding, tangling in a wordless battle, dominance and other trophies up for grabs, his hands slid beneath your shirt, tugged on the hem. You paused, the fever overtaking your mind abated for the faintest moment.

You knew very well where this was going. You weren’t an idiot; lacking experience, maybe, but not oblivious to the obvious signs. Your hands sprung into action before you could pause— his lips departed, marked with the memory of your own. Confusion creased his eyebrows.

“Jack—hold on,” you rushed out, eyes glancing towards the door. If anyone walked in, you’d probably jump out of the window. “My mom and your family are downstairs probably waiting for us to come down. We shouldn’t—”

A lash of pleasure frayed your nerves as Jack’s mouth descended on your neck, teeth carving a mark—one true and real, no longer a hypothetical red ribbon—into your flesh. Hot and wet, his lips danced over your skin, sticky with a sheen of sweat, humming in acknowledgment of your words. Stomach clenching, you pleaded silently for Jack to stop; if he didn’t, you really knew all bets would be off. Any logical part of your mind telling you bad idea in blaring red lights would be silenced for good.

“It’s fine,” he murmured against your clavicle, nipped at the bone pressing against the skin. “I told them not to wait—said we needed to talk. They won’t come looking.”

With one hand beside your head, he utilized the other in slowly peeling your shirt up until your breasts threatened to spill from the fabric. Your heart caught in your throat. As much as you wanted this—him—you still felt like claw marks of nervousness rake down your spine and tighten the bones within your skin.

“Jack—wait,” you said, for what felt like the upteenth time that night. He did, peering up at you from where his face was in your neck, eyebrows drawn. You knew your next words would make or break the moment, and you knew you’d have to tell him. “I’ve never… done this before.”

You cringed as the words tumbled past your lips in a rushed jumble. Jack froze, dropped his hand. Concern flashed in his eyes. “Shit—Bells, I didn’t…” he trailed off, sucking in a breath between his teeth. “Let me—”

He moved to get off of you, and in an act of sheer desperation, you tossed your arms around his neck and yanked him back down, head shaking rapidly. “No! No, I want to. I want it to be you, Jack,” you muttered, the admittance a long time coming.

It wasn’t as if you’d never had the opportunity. Every time you’d considered it, felt the weight of another atop your body, you would close your eyes and imagine it were Jack. Light reflecting off of glitter on the floor of parties, the thick smog of mixed marijuana and cigarettes, drink swirling with unknown ingredients—those were the times you had chances. Felt hands cup your flesh and urge you into deserted rooms. No one was ever Jack. You never imagined they would be.

Except now, the heated flesh pinning you was him. His lips had marred your own with their imprint. His hand teased beneath your shirt, almost off, almost exposing you. A gentle smile split Jack’s lips.

“What do you want, pretty girl?” he murmured, finger tracing your hairline. Gooseflesh rose in the wake. Shivers nipped down your spine.

The nickname gave you pause. Pretty girl. Not Bells. You’d always been Bells. To Jack, to Luke, to everyone in your immediate circle that knew and understood the history behind the name. Bells was the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old eager to be noticed by her best friend’s elder brother; she was the stain on Jack’s favorite shirt, incapable of being scrubbed out, remaining by sheer force of will. Bells was a young girl, no more than a presence in Jack’s life that he never engaged—respected and acknowledged as a part of his brother—but someone he knew little about.

Pretty girl, though—pretty girl was someone Jack could love, someone he did love. Shed the skin of the lovesick girl, grown into a woman who understood the world, yet still hoped for the love she’d built up in her mind. And now she had it.

The expectant look on Jack’s face told you everything you needed to know: he wanted you to say it. “You suck,” you breathed with a shaky laugh, easing a bit of the tension in your bones. “I want—I want you to fuck me, Jack. Please.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. Wrenched shut his eyes. “You know I love it when you say that.” You did. Though you didn’t know why. “You can run your filthy mouth later, but I need to hear you tell me this is okay. That you want this. I’m not going to take your virginity if you aren’t completely sure.”

Warmth melted your heart. Had the circumstances been different, you could’ve wept at the amount of care in Jack’s voice. “I’m sure,” you said. Caution and worry and the knowledge your families were downstairs beaten into ash, you cupped Jack’s face. “Every time I’ve imagined this moment, it’s been you. It’s always been you.”

For a moment, the heat in Jack’s eyes abated into something akin to love. “There we go,” he murmured, carding his fingers through your hair. “I’m going to try and make this sweet, but we don’t have all the time in the world, and I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s okay,” you said immediately. You didn’t care where or how this happened, just that it did.

Jack nodded. Searched your eyes for a moment, looking for any signs of second thoughts or worry. None were present. You figured you were probably far more excited for this than he was. Satisfied in his reinforcement, his hands skated further up your shirt, grazing beneath your breast, hovering above your thrashing pulse. Toes curling against the thick comforter beneath you, you awaited the cold that would follow when Jack finally took off your shirt. It was barely even intimate, the beginning stages of sex, yet it was the most vulnerable you’d ever been with a man—if you didn’t count the one time Luke walked in on you changing, but that hadn’t been intentional. This was.

“Lift up for me, pretty girl,” Jack murmured softly, leaning back on his heels. Balanced on his haunches, his hands were freed to yank up your shirt. You obliged, not allowing fear to damper your desire.

The fabric peeled away from your skin. The stagnant air of the room encroached, raising goosebumps. Hair on end, you found yourself unable to open your eyes as Jack lowered you back down. Stories of Jack’s past trysts had passed your ears for years—the gritty details only shared between the lips of men, instagrams pulled up in the desperate hope that she looked even minutely like you. More often than not, she did. Perhaps that served to breathe life into your love for him, as pathetic as it was.

Many girls had passed into Jack’s bed, built in ways you weren’t. The venomous bite of insecurity turned your blood sour, made you want to curl up and forget even thinking Jack could want you. Why you? When he could have anyone, has had so many others, why settle for you?

Before you could fall deeper into the pit of self-loathing, Jack’s voice cut through the fog of your mind. “Open your eyes. C’mon, pretty girl—stay with me.”

When you did, there Jack was, still above you, still smiling. The dream hadn’t faded into reality when you blinked opened your eyes. The world hadn’t pinched you and screamed at you to wake up. Everything was the same. Except, it wasn’t. Because now, Jack loved you. Now, you were going to lose your virginity to him, just like you’d always planned to. A little bit of a stretch, especially back then, to imagine such an outcome. Call it a masterminded play, or the waiting of a patient plant for its flowers to return, but the dominos had fallen—and here you were.

“Are you going to touch me?” you asked, cringing at the neediness in your voice.

Jack laughed, husky and clipped short by a soft groan. You didn’t understand, until you saw his line of sight. Wanting fingers kissed your flesh, holding your breasts as if they were prized possessions. Playfully, he rolled your nipple between his fingers—relished in the flex of your spine, the taut draw of a bow. Even looming above you, knelt between your bent legs, he still felt all encompassing, drifting into your system until all you could feel was him.

Cold came has his hands left you, danced down your belly and towards the elastic band of your sweatpants. Teasing, a thumb dipping below the surface, you had half the mind to beg him. Another hand snaked beneath your hips, lifted them up with ease. Everything happened in a blur, the fever of your mind obscuring the moment—all you could discern were the touches, the heat that rose in their trail. Jack’s fingers hooked around the bands of your underwear; checkered gray-and-white, with lace edges and a small white bow in the center. A flush rose to your cheeks as he appraised them, a smirk dancing on his lips.

“Cute,” he commented, relishing in the annoyed groan that rattled your chest.

“Just take them off,” you grunted, wiggling your hips. Somehow, the prospect of being fully naked was no longer so daunting. Something about Jack made you safe, comfortable—half the reason you fell in love with him in the first place.

“Oh, now you’re being bossy?” His eyes slitted. Snapping the elastic against your hipbone, Jack taunted you further. “You had no issue in begging me a few seconds ago.”

What normally would’ve made you turn inwards with mortification only made you laugh. “You won’t hear me beg again if you don’t take them off, Hughes,” you threatened. Jack knew you were lying, saw right through it, yet still nodded.

The slowness with which Jack removed your underwear was almost comical. You knew he wanted to take it slow, give you time to say no and turn tail in case it became too much. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have been so thoughtful—eager hands and torn fabric and quick motions. But not right now. A part of you wanted to tell him to hurry up, but another part—the schoolgirl who would look at Jack from afar, imagining what being his would be like—allowed the sweetness of the moment to cushion your already rock-solid decision.

Sure, Jack had hurt you. Pushed you away. Said things you probably wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. But none of it mattered now; if you held a trial for the crime, sunk those syringes into his flesh and stilled forever his heart, what then would there be for you? How could you continue on, when the second half of your soul was buried within the cold, unforgiving dirt? He was young, you were young. There was still so much road left, boxes you’d both left locked, opened by keys only the other had. You couldn’t hold him prisoner for a mistake forever.

It wasn’t like you were a saint, either. You certainly weren’t now.

The old wood of the bed creaked as Jack lowered himself to his stomach. Arms hooked underneath your thighs, he settled them onto the sturdy planes of his shoulders. Before you could even ask what he was doing, you felt him press various kisses into the generous skin of your inner thighs. Bites, the gentle suction of his lips, and you were already wound.

Scrunching your eyes, you flexed your feet dangling in the air. “Jack—”

“You’re okay,” he whispered, laving over a particularly hard bite with his tongue. “I’ve got you, pretty girl, don’t worry.”

Warm breath fanned over your core. Sticky and flooded with desire, you resisted the urge to cringe backwards when two fingers parted you. Mortification was a feeling you were experiencing a lot, so it seemed, especially when regarding Jack. You heard a sharp inhalation, the flexing of his back muscles against your calf. For a moment, you worried something was wrong—he saw something undesirable, or you had made a mistake, or—

“Christ, you’re so wet,” Jack mumbled, the breath expelled by his words heating your already sweltering entrance. “What’d I do to get you like this?”

You wanted to roll your eyes at his smugness. Always confident, forever debonair. You supposed it came with being one of the best hockey players in the world.

A million words came to your tongue, although none felt suffice. “Please, Jack, just do something—”

“I’m getting there, needy girl,” he chuckled, before swiping his fingers once more through the wetness gathered at your core. “Let me enjoy you—don’t know how long I’ve imagined this.”

How long he’d imagined this? You could have laughed. He wasn’t the one who’d lived for five years with a crush on a boy you thought utterly untouchable. He wasn’t the one living out a fantasy fabricated in the deep recesses of sleep. Fed up with the wait, you lifted your head from the pillow and glared at Jack.

“Touch me, or I swear I will find someone who will.”

That was all the urging he needed.

His tongue, searching and eager and wanting, met the epicenter of your desires. Pleasure bowed your back, lungs caught off guard with a stuttered whimper. He kissed you how he’d previously kissed your lips… only… there. You’d heard of it, had it described in unnecessary details by friends. They’d all claimed it awful, said men just didn’t know how to give head. You weren’t sure what men your friends were hooking up with, but they certainly were not Jack. Because Jack… he knew how to give head.

Lips ripened by their meeting with your own, he delved into you like the meal you’d abandoned downstairs. Needing stability, your fingers sought purchase in Jack’s hair, only to be barred from his locks by the stupid white ball cap still sat backwards on his head. With little repose you tore it away, flung it somewhere across the room. You’d have to pick it up later, or maybe you wouldn’t. Leave it there as a keepsake, a reminder every time you came in this room to this very moment. Fingers corded through his hair, you yanked—relished in the muffled grunt of pain or pleasure that followed.

Burrowing in your stomach like a song on replay, you felt suddenly constricted by the pleasure lighting its way up your veins. Skin too tight, bones quaking, you muffled what would have been moans into the palm of your hand—just as you’d muffled your sobs; tasted the residue of tears, salty and bitter, against your tongue.

Respite was offered when Jack lifted his head. “Look at you,” he said, reverent and awed. “Never thought I’d see you like this. Always so straight-edged, clinging to Luke’s side. My little brother’s best friend.”

One thing never changed: Jack liked to talk—did it just to hear himself. Sly attitude and teasing dripping from his lips like your juices, he never failed to taunt where he could. Despite his salacious words striking a cord of embarrassment in your heart, you couldn’t deny how attractive he sounded right now, voice thickened with desire and lust and everything you mirrored in your own body.

Whatever witty remark you had dancing on your tongue burned out when you felt the prod of fingertips at your entrance. Legs pushed forward as Jack readjusted, no longer on his stomach, he was sitting much as he had been before. Your ankles anchored to his shoulders, caught just before your heel. Like a shadow of a towering tree, Jack loomed above you, kept you down. Your gut clenched. Sticky flesh parted at the intrusion of his fingers, sucking deeper, eager just as you were. The feeling of a space that had never been breached by fingers larger than your own before splitting open made your eyes twitch. It didn’t hurt, maybe stung—a dull pinch at the ring of muscle being opened, but no more than that.

Jack’s eyes flickered to yours. Beneath a curtain of want there hid genuine concern. “This okay, pretty girl?”

Even in the throes of lust, he still cared. It had your soul burst, stretching hands to rejoin with its lost part just above you. “Yeah,” you whispered. Your heart smiled with familiarity. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Lacking any barriers, the final restriction torn down, Jack finally indulged you. White-hot bolts of lightning flashed up your spine as fingers flexed and withdrew, before pushing right back in. The sound of your melding flesh was barely audible over the rush of blood that thundered in the shell of your ear. He kept one hand on the underside of your thigh as he worked you, your own fisting into the checkered comforter below.

You knew very well he was looking at you, gauging your reaction—repeating a movement that left you particularly breathless. Like the blind learning more code by way of touch, Jack read you by the heat of your flesh below his, the storybook written in the constellations of your eyes. He bent forward more, pinned the tops of your thighs to your stomach. Folded into a position he desired, the pleasure felt all the more real and tangible, a flash of fire you could reach out and graze, so close it nearly set your body alight.

“That’s it,” Jack drawled, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. You wished desperately it was tangling with yours. “That’s my girl. You got it, don’t you? Taking it so well.” The curl of his fingers; the arch of your back. “Yeah? Want it like that? Oh, pretty girl, all you had to do was ask.”

You almost wanted to tell him to shut up, but his voice was only adding to your increasing high. Fever breaking, hot chills tore down your back like underbrush passing fire. Your legs twitched, Jack smirked. He tore your hand away from your mouth, clearly unfazed by the damning fact that everyone you were close to was a floor away.

His movements were rapid now, eager in a way that had your insides curling and head lolling—as if he sought out your climax more than you did. Your hips twitched, the spark in your stomach fanned into a blaze, tearing down your nerves and shoving your head underwater. Lips parted, you managed to wrangle down your whimper into a strangle sound, an animal beaten into submission.

“Oh, my God,” you panted, coming back into your skin—your sticky, sweaty skin. Above you, Jack smiled crookedly, withdrew his fingers. The unusual emptiness almost made you whine.

“I thought I was ‘Hughes’?” he taunted, pushing the hair that’d fallen into his eyes back with a hand. Even in the spare light of the room, you could still see his beautiful blue eyes—the color of the sea after a storm, still rocky but not destructive.

Although, you might’ve considered Jack destructive after that. He surely wrecked your life.

Unhanded by the iron-hold of pleasure, you took your leg off his shoulder and kicked him gently in the chest. “Don’t get too big an ego now. I may be disappointed when I see your dick.”

With a subdued smirk, Jack made quick work of his shorts—shorts, in almost thirty degree weather, the fucking freak—and tossed them aside. They landed somewhere next to your shirt, joined then by his own. You’d seen Jack shirtless before, committed the picture to memory very early on. But seeing him like this, in the glow of intimacy and love, it made it all the more special—all the more real. Without much thought, you grazed your fingers along the ridges of his abs, earned through rigorous training and constant practice. There was a small scar below his left clavicle, one he’d gotten from the mishandling of a parrot at a boardwalk. You were half-certain you still had the video somewhere on your phone.

Shivers met your fingertips as you traced his collarbone. “We can still stop,” he said, serious despite the situation. “I’m not going to expect anything, Bells. Call it and I’ll never bring it up again.”

That was when it hit you: he really loved you. Loved you enough to deny himself pleasure and yourself, to forget the most intimate moment you’d ever shared with him. Most guys didn’t care, took what they wanted and packed up home—but then again, most guys didn’t love you.

You reached up, brushed his jaw with your hand. His eyes met yours. Blue, right. “I’m sure, Jack,” you whispered. “Make me yours.”

And so he laid you down, held aloft by his arms on either side of your head. Distance was a forgotten thing, so close together your breaths meshed and became one. He lifted a hand to your leg, urged it around his lip. You followed suit with the other; they hung from him like your necklace hung from you, the only thing you still wore. Infinity—Jack.

It hit you then that you were about to lose your virginity to the boy you’d loved in secret for five years, in your childhood bed, while your mother and his family were downstairs eating dinner.

Somehow, the only part you cared about was the beginning.

A moment. Unsaid words finally spoken, the realization of a dream that had once been solely yours, now passed to the palms of the boy who already held your heart. Every touch against your skin was an I love you, the gentleness with which he handled you, spreading your legs like he’d never be this close to you again. Time spanned forever, until it didn’t.

You were once more parted, though this time by something much larger than Jack’s two fingers. The pinch of pain reverberated up your back, brought forth unconscious tears—they rolled down your temples, disappearing into your hairline. Eyes squeezed shut so as not to face Jack, you allowed yourself to simply wade in the moment, the darkness behind your eyelids a small solace against the discomfort in your stomach. When finally Jack stopped pushing forward, you felt his head drop into the crook of your neck. Lose strands of hair tickled your jawline, the groan that trickled from his mouth vibrating against your sweaty skin.

“Fuck,” he grunted. You heard the sheets crinkle under his grip. “There we go—you’re so perfect, taking me so well.”

When his head rose, you merely looked at one another. The pad of his thumb came to swipe away your tears, offering a sad smile. You weren’t naive. You knew it would hurt—friends had told you their stories, hell, people on the internet had even shared them. There was no big mystery around losing your virginity, nor was it as big as people made it out to be. Still, you thought it special. A part of you hoped Jack would be the only person to ever have you in such a way. If everything went right, and he still wanted you after this, he would be.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, kissed you so gently you could’ve believed he wasn’t fully inside of you.

You shook your head. Wiggled a bit. The feeling of being stretched open was so strange—not exactly painful, but foreign. “It’s okay—I didn’t expect much else,” you said, head still fuzzy from the buzz of your last high. “It doesn’t hurt; just feels weird. Like you’re too big, I guess.”

Jack let out a weak laugh. “You’re too good for my ego, pretty girl.”

Time lapsed. For a while, all you did was look at each other, bask in the warmth that was the joining of two people, tied together by an invisible red ribbon. One you’d previously only thought wrapped around you. Finally, after years of trying, hoping, praying—here you were. In a place dusted in a layer of nostalgia, decorated in all things Jack, you laid beneath your first love and allowed him to have you, wholly and unapologetically.

A part of you was glad for your ornery nature. Even in the face of unfavorable odds, you never let go, never took the easy route even when you absolutely should have. Loving Jack was loving the weather, always changing, unpredictable—but with the right clothes, you could adapt. And you did.

Muscles quaking above you, it became clear that Jack was struggling to keep his composure. You offered a small smile, hooked your arms around his neck. “You can move, Jack. It doesn’t hurt.”

And so he did.

With one arm rooting him to the bed, he took the other and dug it underneath your back. Corded muscle flexed and rippled against the bare expanse of your back as he pulled your midsection flush to him. Legs locked, he began a pace you could barely keep up with—stamina gained from years of athletic training, pushing your body down a spiral of pleasure and need. His head once more dropped into your shoulder, teeth flashing against skin. Pain erupted; you wouldn’t have been shocked if he bit straight through. Below you, the old wooden bed groaned with anger, torn from its respite. You doubted it had seen much action since you played Five Little Monkeys on it when you were much, much younger.

Back bowed with the bite of nerve-fraying sensation, you worried your lip between your teeth—prayed it was good enough a shield against the sounds bubbling in your throat like a hot spring. The squelching of your joining bodies would’ve normally disgusted you; now, you didn’t care.

“Spread your legs, pretty girl,” Jack groaned against your skin, the intrusion of his hips between your legs already setting a burn into your muscle. You obliged, as much as you could with the flexibility God gave you. “There we go—that’s it. Such a good girl.”

Given more room to work with, he managed to pierce straight into your stomach and stir your guts. Wound tighter than a wind-up doll, you felt your toes dangle over the precipice, where below thrashed frothy white waves. A blur, and Jack’s forehead was against yours. Sweat passed between skin, sticking your hair together. Normally, you hated being sweaty—right now, you didn’t much care.

Mouth parted in a silent scream, you kept eye contact—burning through your retina, straight down into your soul. As is if your pleasure were written on a sheet only he could read, Jack plucked each and every string, bowing your back, making your body sing its praises. His hips beat into your own like he hated you; hand so tight against your waist you were sure purple bruises would blossom come tomorrow.

Every drag of his length, slipping with such ease in and out, made you inch closer over the edge of that quarry. A particularly tight clench made Jack curse. “Shit—so good, pretty girl,” he grunted, eyes fluttering shut. You thought the length of his eyelashes was unfair. “So good for me; taking me so well. Never gonna let anyone else have you like this, right? I’ll carve a path only I’ll ever fit inside you.”

You nodded blearily at his question, barely even registering it. Later, you’d confirm that, yes, he would be the only person to ever have you in such a intimate way.

A few more meetings of both of your hips. The dance of his lips over yours. The flex of his fingers as your found them with your own. The rope finally frayed; your body locked with the tumbling over the edge of the cliff, swallowed up by unforgiving, frigid waves. The tightening of your muscles around him caused a stutter in his movement. Sufficiently satisfied, your body went boneless, limp in his one-armed hold. Allowed him to chase his pleasure, use you like you fantasized he might.

“God—fuck—” he growled, biting at the base of your neck, right where the pendant of your necklace sat. “Luke’s going to kill me.”

His speech sent you back to that night. Then too had there been a love confession, only it had ended very differently.

“Can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.” Hands flexed against your skin, tugged on it like he were trying to find a way inside of you. “Gotta frame it. Wonder what he’ll think—me, fucking his best friend. So innocent, so timid. Bells.” Jack scoffed. His pace increased to the point where you didn’t think he’d be lasting much longer. “I’ll tell him how fucking tight you were. How your body begged for me.”

Yeah. Jack Hughes definitely liked hearing himself talk. Especially when having sex. You’d say who knew, but you definitely did.

Your hand clenched around his own. The implications of his words scared you shitless, but that was a problem for another time—for a time when he wasn’t so deep inside of you he was prodding your guts.

“Feels so good,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. Jack always made your eyes roll, although previously for different reasons. “Only you, Jack. Only ever you.”

Hissing against your cheek, there was a final, prolonged movement before he stilled completely, flush against you. Heat spurted inside of you, oozing out and onto the bedsheets—another irremovable stain added to the collection. Later you’d care. Later you’d worry over the implications. Now you didn’t.

Your breaths intertwined into one large cloud, thick with lust and love and culmination. Jack gently turned you over, laid you on his chest. The come down gave clarity: you still loved Jack Hughes, and you prayed he still loved you. With gentle fingers he combed through your matted and sweaty hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. So domestic, so sweet—a massive contrast to the way he’d handled your body moments before.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rife with emotion. “I didn’t mean to go so rough.”

You laughed, relished in the rapid beat of Jack’s heart below your ear. “You didn’t. I would’ve told you if I didn’t like it.”

“I know,” he said, traced his fingers down the line of your spine. Shivers trailed in his wake. “I just worry about you.”

You wiggled, still joined. Chin propped on his chest, your peered up at him, studied him. He looked so much the same—same big blue eyes, clear and soft, the same sun-bright smile that no one could ever dim, the same shallow dimples that made an appearance whenever he genuinely smiled. He was still the seventeen-year-old boy you’d fallen in love with, stayed up late watching his games in the hopes he’d score. The boy you’d watch be drafted and sent him a text congratulating him. The boy you’d got the NHL app for—set notifications on for the New Jersey Devils. You weren’t from New Jersey, barely even cared about the place. But Jack loved it, so you loved it. The boy that was half the reason you even went to college in Newark. The one you’d spent years loving and hating in equal amounts.

But love won if you fought for it. And you had, for years; a one-sided battle that was slowly being lost. Then came Jack, and turned the tides. The war had been won, the weapons lowered. You felt blood in your mouth—you let yourself unfurl your fists.

Loving Jack was loving an idea, until it wasn’t. Because now he was touchable, his flesh hot under your fingers. He wasn’t just a construct you’d created in your head, the hope of him loving you back a laughable one.

Because he did. He does.

“I love you,” you murmured, watched him smile. The confession didn’t feel like an axe above your head anymore.

And he touched your cheek. “I love you too.”

And that was all you needed.

773 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ summary | secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ warnings | unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ pairings | jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ author’s note | i’ve returned from a milliom year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? “How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack—why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided—lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

2K notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 4 months

Text

SILENT NIGHT — MATTHEW TKACHUK

matthew tkachuk x fem!reader

12 DAYS OF KINKMAS

summary: in which Matthew agrees to walk around their neighborhood to look at holiday lights… with a catch

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, praise, slight exhibitionism, choking, daddy kink, p in v (unprotected). (2.8k words)

notes: welcome to day 6 of my 12 days of kinkmas! this is my first time ever writing for matty, so i apologize if it’s iffy.

i should’ve known nothing with Matthew could be done with pure relaxation in mind.

i thought it would be nice, a relaxing walk around the neighborhood, hand in hand like normal couples as we look at all the christmas lights that decorate each house.

but i didn’t take into account that my boyfriend is, to put it lovingly, a freak.

a relaxing walk? no, thank you, not for him. instead, he has to make things… interesting.

so here i am, hand grasping Matthew’s tightly as i walk next to him, the side of my body pressed to his, and soft breathy moans escaping my lips as he smirks beside me.

i begged him all day since he got home from his roadie to get him to agree to this walk, and he kept saying he ‘wasn’t feeling it’. until he came up with his one term, a stupid term that i stupidly agreed with.

“Matty, c’mon!” i whisper pleadingly, a shiver wracking my body from both the cold air that rises up my jacket, and the vibrations that press against my clit, controlled by the little remote that my boyfriend plays around with in his coat pocket.

“uh-uh.” he teasingly denies, turning the vibrator in my panties down a level.

the dark sky looms up above us, stars barely visible, but it doesn’t matter to me because my eyes are fixated on the bright lights that adorn each house. reds, greens, white’s, and blue’s; blow up santa’s in a few lawns; light up reindeer in others.

though it’s not snowing like it would’ve in Calgary, i’ve gotten so used to the warm Florida weather that now that it’s winter, the nip of chill in the air makes the tip of my nose red.

my teeth sink into my bottom lip so hard that i fear i’ll draw blood, attempting to hold in my sounds as we walk past another couple that must’ve had the same idea to look at the lights.

Matthew smiles politely as we pass, not giving off any hints that we’re doing anything beyond admiring the beautiful lights; but once we’re far enough away, i hear the click of a button of the remote a few times, the vibrations of the toy that’s pressed snugly against my clit rising in intensity.

my legs stop, my hand that’s tangled in Matty’s tugging him back as he continues to walk, and my jaw drops open as i let out a loud, squeaky whine.

“shhh!” he reminds me. he hastily takes two big steps forward, stopping in front of me.

his hand rises to cup my cheek, tilting my head up to look at him, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mixture of mischief and lust.

“you gotta be quiet. don’t want anyone to hear you, do you, sweetheart?” his head tilts in questioning, an eyebrow raising as he awaits my response.

i’m quiet for a moment, listening to the silence of the night before i respond.

“no, Matty.” i shake my head as my boyfriend nods his in approval, tangling his arm through mine.

he urges me along, my feet shuffling slowly across the cement as i attempt to simultaneously walk and clench my thighs together. leaning down, his lips ghost against the shell of my ear, his heated breath fanning against my cold skin, sending chills down my spine, my eyelids fluttering closed as i let him guide me.

“you’re being such a good girl for me,” his voice is deep but spoken in a hushed whisper, his hand splaying out against the small of my back. “looking at me with those pretty eyes, just desperate to cum.”

his free hand slips back into his pocket, the vibrator suddenly switching to the lowest setting, making me whimper in response.

“not yet.” Matthew tsk’s shaking his head as he resumes the walk, guiding me along down the sidewalk.

he glances down at me, flashing a bright and innocent smile; as though he isn’t holding the essential key to my orgasm in the palm of his hand; as though he isn’t torturing me with pleasure in this very moment.

his eyes flit up, gazing behind me, and entirely too quickly, his smile turns mischievous, a playful glimmer in his eyes.

“hey, look,” he sing-songs, “there’s sasha’s house. and the lights are on! we should stop by and say hello, shouldn’t we?”

he nods his head towards the house behind me, “we’ve been meaning to invite him over for Christmas dinner, right?”

his hand slips into mine, pulling me along towards his captain’s house, and my eyes widen, shaking my head.

“no!” i try to speak lowly, but my word turns into a soft moan as the vibration against my clit gains intensity. we get all the way across the street before i can speak again, “Matthew!”

he halts in his tracks, turning towards me with a raised brow at the disuse of his nickname.

“i am not going to face your captain right now!” a cheeky grin spreads across my boyfriend’s face, teeth on full display, and i already know he’s about to test my limits.

“why not?” he questions playfully, biting his lips to hold back a chuckle.

“y-you know why not!” i hiss back, my hips jerking slightly as he lowers the intensity of the toy just a little, “i am not facing him with a fucking vibrator in my underwear!”

“hmm,” Matty hums, nodding understandingly, but his lips still hold a mocking smile. his finger hooks under my chin, tipping my head back to look into my eyes, “well then; the faster we walk, the faster we get home, which means the faster you can cum all over my cock.”

my body trembles in desperation at the mere thought, my hand reaching up to grasp his in determination before i begin walking as fast as i can muster under the circumstances.

Matthew follows me, speeding up his pace as he begins to laugh, “so needy!”

his teasing leaves me unphased, my feet only shuffling back towards our house even quicker. but the faster i move, the more intense the vibrations get against my clit, urging me to slow down.

“M-Matty, please!” i cry, spinning around to face my boyfriend, “you win! i can’t take it anymore! i wanna go home!”

frustrated tears threaten to spill over my waterline, a pout etched into my face as i gaze up at him, towering over me.

“we can go home,” he hums sincerely. stopping beside me, he holds his arm out for me to entangle mine with; before lowering his lips towards my ear one last time, “right after this.”

my brows furrow in confusion, pulling my face back to look at him, but it doesn’t take long for me to understand his words.

the vibrator begins to hum, my body falling into his, as he proudly holds up the little purple remote, the tiny little LED numbers at the top reading ‘10’.

“highest level, darling. just let it out.” Matthew smirks, arms encircling my waist, holding me flush to his body as my legs turn weak.

the vibration against my clit is the most severe it’s been all night, my legs instinctively pressing together. but it doesn’t help at all, rather making the sensation stronger, which in turn makes my legs give out entirely.

Matty holds my body up, leaning down to capture my lips in his, effectively releasing my bottom lip from its jail between my teeth. with our lips pressed together, my hands tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, moans pouring from my mouth and into his as my toes curl inside my combat boots.

eyes squeezed shut, the knotted chord that’s been tangling in my stomach snaps, my orgasm bringing flashes of light into my dark vision, blood rushing in my ears.

and just as quick as it hits, it’s gone; the vibrator powered off entirely with a simple click of a button from Matthew’s finger.

i breathe heavily as i come down from my release, pulling away from my boyfriend’s lips as he lifts me off the ground. my legs loosely wrap around his waist, his hands holding my ass as he begins to walk, eyeing his path from over my shoulder.

“i thought i wasn’t-”

i’m cut off by Matty speaking over me, “coming until we got home? yeah, that was the plan.”

he shrugs, fingers gripping tighter on my ass as he hastens his movement.

“but, you seemed so… tense,” he chuckles, “call it an early christmas present.”

“i don’t wanna cum for christmas!” i pout, but when he looks back at me with a singular raised brow, i backtrack, “well, i do. but, i also want a stanley cup!”

Matthew snickers as he steps up the stairs towards our front door.

“yeah? join the club.” he jokes and i smack his shoulder as he unlocks our house, opening the door and stepping inside.

“you know what i meant!” i roll my eyes, “i want a custom one a red one, like Panthers red, with your number on it.”

he smirks, letting me slide down the front of his body as i lay my feet flat upon the hardwood floor.

“i think i need a shower.” i huff, kicking my boots off before i turn to face my boyfriend again.

Matthew stands in the same spot as before, now eyeing the wet spot on his shirt from where my pussy was pressed against him after my release.

“you? look at me.”

i shrug, looking up at him with innocent eyes, “well, you did promise i could cum on your cock when we got home. you didn’t say where in the home.”

my boyfriend stares me down with a blank expression, blinking slowly as he processes my words, before clasping my hand with his, hurriedly pulling me towards our bedroom.

i giggle as i run through the house behind him, following him into our bedroom, where we’re quick to rid ourselves of our layers of clothing. i keep my panties on, walking into the bathroom before i peel them off, setting the vibrator in the sink to wash later.

i turn around just in time to watch Matty turn the shower on, water cascading down and pinging off the tile of the walk-in shower, splashing up against the panes of glass that surround it.

i step towards him, eyes scanning his toned body until i reach the part i yearn for.

his cock is hard; no longer straining against any fabrics, it stands in the air, tip flaming red and glistening with precum.

“oh, you’re so desperate, aren’t you?” he smirks, his hand pressing against my lower back as he ushers me into the steaming shower. “your eyes haven’t left my dick, it’s like you’re willing it to fuck you.”

my sight finally flickers back up to his face, warm water splashing upon my back as i stare up at him with soft eyes.

“i am.” i whisper, my voice low and sultry.

Matthew steps forward, closing the shower door behind him and pulling me towards him with a hand on my hip.

his erection presses against my hip, his voice deep and lust filled as he speaks, “all you to do is ask, darling.”

my thighs press together, eyelids falling hooded as i gaze up at him.

“Matty?” i start, an encouraging hum coming from his lips, “will you fuck me?”

“turn around, angel.”

i spin around, back facing him as water falls against my chest. he turns us to the side, his hands gripping my hips and pulling my ass back towards him, his cock nestling against it.

he bends my upper body forward, my arms instinctively stretching out in front of me, my wet hands slapping against the wall. Matthew steps back, kicking my feet apart before his right hand leaves my hip.

i squeak out a moan as his thick fingers swipe through my folds, gauging my wetness and lubrication from my orgasm just ten minutes ago.

“you think you can take me?” his lips, press against the top of my shoulder, peppering wet kisses up the side of my neck as i heave out of a shaky breath.

“yes,” i moan, nodding my head as best i can, “yes, daddy.”

Matty groans at the name, his hips bucking against mine and causing my jaw to drop. i peer back over my shoulder, watching as his hand wraps around his length.

he guides his tip through my wetness, spreading my cum around as lubrication before he lines himself up with my entrance, pressing forward and taking great pride in how my walls swallow him in.

“fuck.” he grunts, listening to my strangled whimper as he eases into me, “doing so well f’me, princess.”

the painful yet pleasant sting of his thick cock stretching me open causes my arms to shake, dropping forward with my forearms against the wall now. the new angle proves well when he finally bottoms out inside of me, the tip of his dick prodding against my g-spot.

“oh my god.” i cry out, my hips grinding back against him as he pulls out slowly, biding his time before he makes a swift thrust back in. his muscular thighs smack against the backs of mine, the sound echoing with the water that sprays down upon us.

his arm wraps around the front of my waist, holding me up as he fucks into me. his thrusts start slow but harsh, gradually picking up until he’s slamming into me at an unforgiving pace.

my tits bounce, my entire body jolting forward with each thrust, and i know at the rate he’s going, i won’t last long.

a broken sob carries through the bathroom as i press my cheek against the wall, barely able to keep my head up as i arch my back, allowing a deeper angle and an even better positioning for him to hit that soft spot inside of me.

“M-Matty! daddy!” my body shakes, only being pushed further towards my limit with the sound of his groans as he fucks into me, my walls pulsing around him.

“that’s it, princess,” his hands slides up my front, roughly clutching at my breast before continuing its travels, wrapping around my throat. “you gonna cum for me?”

he uses his grip to pull me upright, my back against his chest as my head tips back, laying on his shoulder. his hand tightens gently around my neck, the rush clouding my head as my breath catches in my throat.

i make a feeble attempt at a nod, but it’s more of a jerky movement than anything. his cock prods against my g-stop repetitively, his hips smacking against my ass.

his grip loosens enough for me to gulp in deep breaths, the pressure in my stomach building and building with each passing second. his free hand falls down to my swollen clit, a singular thick digit rubbing against it as his pace never falters.

“i’m gonna c-cum.” i pant out through shaky moans.

“cum for me, princess.”

his name falls from my lips like a solemn prayer, my toes curling against the wet tile underneath them as my eyes rolls back in my head, the pressure in my stomach finally relieving in a blast of pleasure.

Matty doesn’t stop pounding into me, his thrusts just growing more desperate as he chases his own high, simultaneously riding me through mine.

“shit, shit, shit!” he curses, his thrusts faltering as he reaches his orgasm, releasing inside of me with ropes of cum.

he stills, his hand falling from my neck, and instead both of them gripping my hips as he slowly pulls out of me. a gasping breath falls from me as i’m left clenching around nothing, the feeling of emptiness bittersweet.

“god, you’re a fucking dream.” he hums, spinning me around and pulling me into his chest.

a lazy smile spreads across my lips, pressing a kiss to his pec as my eyelids flutter.

“i think i really need a shower now.” he laughs at my response, turning so my body is completely under the warm water.

i step back, tipping my head back to let the water soak my hair and body before i peek an eye open to glance at him. his eyes are stuck on my breasts, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“are you gonna help me get clean or what?” i cock an eyebrow at him, his eyes snapping up to look at my face.

“i think… if i do that, i can’t be held responsible for my dick’s reaction.”

a boisterous giggle erupts from my throat, my hands reaching out to grab his, and i pull him under the water with me.

“well, the night is young,” i sing-song, “and you were gone for a long time.”

“i was gone a week.” he chuckles.

“mhm, and i usually get about 5 orgasms a week… i think we’ve got some catching up to do.”

342 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

he set my house on fire, you lit my heart ablaze; when the smoke cleared, you stayed, coughing up ash with me.

jh86 x reader: the revenge plot doesn't go as planned (ft. ex-fiance am34).

(warnings: blasphemous filth (it's on the tamer side, i think), unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), spit and descriptions of bodies and stuff like that, hair pulling (big fan), lots of talk about toxic relationships and being mean and using people and sad moments (we can thank this fictional am34 for that), oh, and slight bullying of tz11). idk just please be warned, don’t read if you’re not 100% sure.)

(a/n: hello, favorites. thank you so, so much for your patience and softness. today i bring you a story that took me so, so long because i worked so, so hard on it (and it's really long! 14k worth). we have checked all the boxes: terrible ex-fiance am34, sweet boy jh86, schemes and plots and the like. no, i don't think any of these characters are like this in real life. no, nobody acts like this, but it's getting colder, so i think a lot of us are craving that gentle domesticity. and yes, i wish someone had shown up with flowers after i finished undergrad midterms. there's probably a ton of plot holes but shh! don't tell anyone. also tried out a new format, the smut is in the middle instead of the end, let me know how you feel about that. anyways, i miss you and i love you and i think of you often and fondly. i hope you and your snakes are doing well and knowing what you deserve and accepting nothing less. let me know what you think, what you want next, etc. go canucks, of course. oh, and no, i do not think it's a coincidence that all the guys i write about are having a great season so far (except the ducks that refuse to play). how could it be? definitely a causal connection. all my love to you. until next time).

since you were a young girl, you had known that your greatest motivation, your deepest truth, perhaps your fatal flaw, was just how deeply you felt.

when you were little, that meant tears came easily, anger festered like weeds in a prized garden, and happiness felt like flying.

it also meant you could read others' emotions almost as clearly as your own.

it made you different, it made you a good friend, it made you the person you were. for much of your life, you had made peace with the fact that your well of emotions went deeper than others. you had loved that part of yourself, even.

but the night you broke off your engagement to auston matthews, you wanted nothing more than for everything you were feeling to disappear, to evaporate into the air as if it had never been.

"you couldn't've at least tried to hide it from me?" you had said, willing your fragile voice not to break.

and he had sat at the kitchen counter, that massive body on the stool that you had carefully selected for the house that you shared, that you thought you would share forever. and he had sighed, sounded almost annoyed. "would that have made it better, angel?"

his indifference coated your bones like lead paint. that name, once one you felt would call you out of a coma, would lead you out of hell like a northern star, now felt like nothing but a condescending, patronizing taunt. silly, stupid angel, the god might as well have said, how could you think you could ever be enough?

understanding settled like ash on your eyelashes. "you think i'll forgive you," you said, little more than a whisper. "you think i won't leave."

he scoffed at that, then. at you. "and go where?" he asked, sounding almost genuine. "where do you have to go?"

how superficially he knew you, it seemed, at that moment. how had you not seen this before?

"you honestly think i could ever look at you the same?" you asked.

he shrugged, his shoulders so imposing, stature so suddenly frightening. a body you knew better than your own, suddenly foreign. a ghost. "maybe differently, but still looking," he said, "your eyes have only ever followed me, angel."

and maybe he was right, but you were done proving him so.

"send my things to my parents' place," you said, cold, devoid of anything. emotion welled up in you like a flood, but you froze it before it could crest through your mouth, come out like some mythical fire-breathing dragon. you slipped off your ring, placed it on the counter.

you didn't feel lighter without it, though. you felt so devastatingly heavy, like cinder blocks were tied to your ankles, like liquid stone filled your head.

"are you kidding?" he asked. to your silence, careful pause, he tilted his head, shook it once. "you're just gonna quit?"

your hands were shaking. you could feel rage rattle through your body, shake your bones. you clenched your fist so tightly you wondered if blood would drip from your palms, stain the light hardwood floor that you had spent so long deciding on. "how dare you," you said, begging your quivering lip to still.

his smirk was cruel. "not like it matters," he mused. "you've never been able to quit me."

you had seen him mean. on the ice, sometimes to journalists, sometimes to fans, sometimes to you, even. but this was past mean. this was past elementary bullying, past joking insults that don't land. he was trying to call your bluff, trying to push you into forgiveness, trying to hurt you.

"watch me," you said, your voice made of ancient rock.

"are you mad because she's hotter than you?" he asked, his brow contorted in false concern. "is that it?"

despite yourself, a small smile pulled at your mouth. a smile that made your eyes glitter. a smile that should have scared him. a warning.

"she is beautiful," you conceded, because she was. what good would it do you to deny that? you approached him, then, in his personal space for what you believed would be the last time. he turned to you, your eyes meeting in a clash, like sword on sword. cruel, brutal arrogance and pure, pretty wrath. you held the side of his face in one palm, the other hand resting on his shoulder. "but when a beautiful person hits on me, auston, i say no."

his eyes flickered down to your mouth, simmering with lust. you laughed at this, at him, raw and true, let pity soak your tone like acid. "i'm not mad at her, auston," you admitted truthfully. "i'm not even mad at you." you patted his cheek, perhaps a little harder than you needed to. "i'm just so disappointed."

that had been weeks ago. you had moved back to the states, so embarrassed on the plane at how you couldn't stop the tears from flowing, until finally you were back with your parents in new jersey. they had welcomed you so warmly, so easily. it had taken a few weeks for the tears to finally slow, for the utter devastation to fade, for your red eyes to brighten again.

at first, it had been hard to remember anything but how his embrace felt like home, how tightly he hugged you after games, how his eyes shone when he laughed, how he had teared up when you had accepted his proposal, how he had gushed about picking the right ring.

but as the sadness faded, as it festered into something much more serious, you remembered less of the fairytale moments, less of his perfect smile, less of the "pretty girl" utterances in his rough bedroom rasp. soon the sadness gave way to steely rage, to an almost bloodthirsty need for revenge. for him to hurt the way he had hurt you.

and no one does bloodthirsty like a group of university-age girls. after catching up with your childhood friends, and getting them caught up on your situation, you looked at your confidants with eager eyes. "what do i do?"

your best friend from high school spoke first, banging her fist on the table. "burn his house down?" she offered. "steal his dog?"

her friend from college put a gentle hand over her fist, "i think for now we try to avoid the federal crimes," she said, then turned to you. "when my ex cheated on me, i got with the lead singer of his favorite band." her eyes shimmered. "and then bought his dream car and wrapped it pink."

you giggled in delight. "oh, you're good."

your childhood friend nodded. "phycological warfare." she looked at you. "who's his idol?"

you thought for a moment, tapped your fingers on the table. "i don't know if idol is what i should be going for," you thought out loud.

"who's someone who would make him uncomfortable? insecure?"

"his dad!" your friend said, making you shake in a laugh.

"his biggest insecurity is the spotlight leaving and not coming back," you told them. you had known that for a long time.

"being forgotten?" your friend asked.

"being replaced," you said, your eyes widening with understanding. "with someone better. more promising." you shared a look with your friends, felt anger solidify into a plan. into hope.

"you look like you have someone in mind."

a memory flashed across your mind like a shooting star, engulfed in flame.

"how was the game, aus?" you had asked when he got home, stirring the pot of soup on the stove.

you heard some kind of grumble as he dropped his things in the mudroom, made his way into the kitchen.

"what's wrong?" you asked when you met his eyes, sensing something wrong like smoke in the air.

"just this young kid," he muttered. "'s nothing, really."

and you knew then that it wasn't just nothing, because he never tried to hide things from you, to diminish his feelings, unless it was really bothering him.

you turned the stove off, approached him, wrapped your arms around his middle and hugged him tight. "who's this new kid?" you asked, muffled by his chest.

his arms pulled your closer, tighter. this had always been where you felt warmest, safest. "some h name," he muttered. "hicks? hughes, maybe?"

you smiled into his chest, knowing him, and knowing he would never have forgotten the name of this kid. knowing auston matthews never forgets people who make him feel like anything other than the world's brightest star.

"whoever he is, probably just had the game of his life," you had said, your voice a comforting lullaby. you had pressed yourself up on your tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "nothing to worry about, yeah?"

he had smiled back at you, but something dark had swirled behind his gaze. something like knowing, like ominous understanding, like an empire, falling. "already forgotten, angel," he had said, but you knew, even then, that he was lying.

the memory fizzed and dissolved like baking soda in vinegar.

you looked at your friends and smiled. "what do you guys know about jack hughes?"

from there it was surprisingly easy to shift from a tangent line outside jack hughes's circle to someone inside of it. you were patient, too, careful not to rush. you wouldn't settle for anything less than perfect, after all, refused to enact any plan that wouldn't end in exactly the revenge you sought.

one of the other wags from toronto, whom you had grown close to, insisted on helping, giving you the numbers of some friends close to the devils.

"i'm honestly so, so proud of you for leaving," she had told you over the phone, her voice nothing but genuine, knowing. "all of us, we all knew you were way too good for him."

"did you?" you asked, maybe a little shocked. having been so completely deceived, so absolutely blind, for so long, it was interesting that others had not been as deluded as you. to hear their perspective, to see what you had not been able to before.

"sweetheart," she said, gently, "everyone who meets you can see that you're good. that you deserve someone good." there was a pause. "and everyone also sees that he was never that."

you let her words settle like glitter on a childhood craft. "thank you," you said. "i miss you."

"we miss you so much. see you soon?"

you agreed, thanked her for her help.

"i hope he's good," were her closing words. "maybe better, at least."

having started classes with your old friends, intent on finishing the degree you had so quickly and thoughtless abandoned for auston, you had ample time to plot.

"feels like we're in a spy movie, or something," your friend had said excitedly.

"we'll be your guys in the chair," the other chimed in. "here the whole way."

the rest of the initial plan came easily, with the help of the people who were on your side, which you quickly learned was a group made up of more people than you thought.

very soon, it was time for step one, and you were in front of your mirror, having just finished getting ready, your friends by your side.

you took a deep breath. "what if this isn't a good idea?" you whispered.

they squeezed at your hands. "no going back now, okay? we'll be there the whole time."

"what if he's not interested?"

"look at yourself," one of them said, "don't be stupid."

"what is he thinks i'm a crazy stalker?"

your oldest friend shrugged, her eyes full of mischief. "what if you are?"

so you found yourself at a dingy, run down bar, the lights low. according to your contacts, this was where the team and their friends came after home games.

when was the last time you had come to a bar looking for something? for someone? it felt distantly familiar, but so strange, like hearing a language you spoke as a child but that hadn't graced your tongue in decades.

you had been with auston for years, after all, having met him when you were 19, him 23. a whirlwind, a tornado, a perfect tempest of pink dust and white teeth. a proposal two years later, a break off a year further.

you were 22 now, and had never felt further from your nineteen-year-old self. a foolish child, a delicate doll, a phantom cloaked in a desperate desire for acceptance, for love.

you didn't know how to flirt in this new body, new being. you didn't even really know to how flirt with anyone but auston - it had been so long since you wanted anyone else. and you didn't even really want jack, at this point. you just wanted justice.

a cluster of motion and noise behind you ripped you from your thoughts. you didn't turn, though, just stirred your drink, let the liquid settle again until you could see yourself in the reflection. until you could make out your eyes, until you could plead with your mouth to tell you what to say.

a game, the beautiful girl mouthed to you, a secret code, it's only a game.

your hazy eyes caught on a pool table in the corner of the bar, vacant, the lamp above it flickering. you smiled to yourself, made your way over, picked out a cue, ran your fingers along the edge of it.

you took a sip of your drink before setting it down, lining yourself up to break. with a swift, even motion, a pleasant cracking noise rung out, colorful balls moving in different directions.

you scrunched up your nose, having sunk none initially, gracefully lining up to go again when you felt a few figures approach.

the first one who spoke, the one right next to you, was not someone you recognized. you didn't even think he was on the team, but he had the build of a hockey player, probably a quick center.

"need a private lesson, there, sugar?" he asked sleazily, his voice the arrogant drawl of a child, almost endearing in its steadiness. he leaned on the table as you looked up at him, straightened, tilted your head to rest against the cue.

"awful kind of you, coach of the year," you teased before nodding to the other person who had joined you, looming across the table like a shadow. "gonna help me beat your friend?"

your new coach scoffed, ran a hand through his long, unruly hair. "trust me, sugar," he said, "you don't need any help beating him."

you locked eyes with the figure across the table, whom you had only seen before on a screen, the one you had heard about in the arms of your ex-fiance. here he was, the soft contours of his face shimmering in the dim light. the mythical and heroic jack hughes, the shaker of the unshakeable auston matthews.

he was shorter than you expected. "not much of a competitor, is he?" you asked the man next to you, talking about jack as if he wasn't right there. as if you hadn't been looking at him the entire time. "doesn't like to play?"

you tilted your head, dared him with your eyes to prove you wrong. the familiar fire of flirtation, of the chase you hadn't engaged with in years flared when he took a step out of the shadows, letting you see him clearly and up close.

during your research, you had seen pictures of him, but they didn't do him even a semblance of justice. he was gorgeous in a fairytale prince sort of way, like he might save the day with a true love's kiss at any moment. his eyes were a striking blue, his nose almost dainty, his jaw angular. your gaze caught on his full mouth before finally landing on his eyes again. he had the kind of complexion and expression you could tell lit up when he smiled. your stomach twisted at the thought. a game, you repeated in your mind. only a game.

"i'll play," he said simply, his voice goofy in a way you weren't used to. not sleazy, like his friend, who was currently behind you while you bent forward, lining up the cue. it wasn't the classic baritone you were used to hearing in auston, but something more cautious, something sweeter.

the game progressed, each of you sinking shots with the tell-tale soft thud. it was his long-haired friend, the one who kept calling you sugar like you were some southern belle, who was much closer to you, who was adjusting your hips and arm placement before each turn, who was flirting with you so openly, his breath hot on your neck, his gaze open and obvious.

even then, a quick exchange of glances with jack felt much more intimate than any innuendo-filled comment and fumbling touch from his friend. whenever jack would sink a ball, his eyes would flutter up to meet yours in a fleeting catch of flame, of promise, of knowing.

with only a few balls still on the green felt of the table, his careful voice broke you from your trance. "what are we playing for?" he asked, eyes alight.

the look you shared was teasing, probing, yet deadly serious. this is everything, the look said. are you ready to give everything?

"how about this?" you began, your tone light and smoky. "if you win, you get my number." his full mouth quirked upwards in the slightest of smirks. "and if i win, i give it to him," you finished, nodding towards his sugar-spewing friend.

jack looked at his friend. "good with you, z?" he asked.

his friend, z, you guessed, let a cocky smirk drape across his face like velvet curtains. "more than good," he said, "as we're gonna win."

with the stakes agreed upon, the game continued until only the eight ball remained. you lined yourself up, your ever-so-involved coach just next to you as you called your pocket.

"have a game, sugar, here we go."

you ignored his friend's voice, lining your cue up perfectly, the smooth wood resting delicately between your fingers, the angle of your arm and neck smooth and sensual. everything about your preparation lent itself to a winning strike, everyone at the table knew it. you could feel it in z's early celebration, see it in the slight quiver of jack's hand.

bent over the table, in the final seconds before your strike, you peered up at jack through dark lashes, all dim light and foggy promise. you gave him a sly smirk as you followed through, the black and white ball missing the pocket by an inch, hitting the side of the table with a soft sound.

jack narrowed his eyes at you with a curious sort of look before quickly calling his pocket and immediately sinking the ball.

his friend sucked on his teeth before throwing up his hands in defeat. "christ, sugar, didn't take you for a choke artist," he said. "unless you're into that." he shot you a wink before heading off to grab a drink.

for the first time, it was just you and jack. you leaned on your cue, let your gaze fall over him lazily, in the same way you knew he was doing to you. he was close now, close enough that you could see how blue his eyes were, how long his lashes, how high and soft his features, how his hair was just a little too long on the sides.

"you let me win," he said, a gentle observation, not anything accusatory.

you smiled. "prove it," you said, to which a matching smile graced his own face.

"must be my lucky night, then," he said as he handed you his phone and you typed your number in.

you laughed. "i don't know," you mused, "you seem like a guy who's used to getting what he wants." and he did seem like that - who could say no to those pretty eyes?

he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a motion you tracked. "'m a guy used to earning what he wants," he corrected, and you hummed. a distinction that auston had never made, even though he worked hard, sure. but he was a natural. what would it be like to be with someone to whom everything didn't come just so, so, easily?

"like to work for it, hm?" you teased.

his gaze dropped to your mouth for a second before returning to your eyes.

you stepped forward, pushed and poked at the imaginary line between the two of you. you looked up at him, gently swiped at his cheekbone with your thumb, felt heat rumble between the two of you, something volcanic. "don't work yourself too hard, yeah?"

without a second glance, you placed your cue against the table, grabbed your bag and made for the door.

on your way out, you overhead the conversation that had erupted in your exit.

"i was the one talking to her the whole time," that long-island-ish drawl said.

"if you think she was into you for even a second, you're an idiot," jack replied.

you swore the door was chuckling as it shut behind you.

everything had gone exactly as you'd hoped, exactly as you'd known it would, so you weren't at all surprised to receive a text the next day asking if you were around that night to get a drink.

so you found yourself at a different bar, this one a bit more upscale, quickly spotting jack as he waited for you outside. you blew out a breath as you approached, as a smile made his face glow. it was still so new to find someone else beautiful. when would you get used to his imperfect teeth, his oceanic eyes, his feminine nose, this greek sculpture opposed to autson's roman one?

you blinked. "hi," you said, suddenly feeling lame.

his mouth quirked. "hey." he opened the door for you, nodded. "after you."

"i'm gonna warn you," you started as you ducked past him and into the building. "i haven't been on a date in a while."

he shoved his hands in his pockets, a juvenile habit that made you blush. "find that hard to believe," he said, his tone playful. "pretty girl like yourself."

you scrunched up your nose at that. pretty girl. auston had called you that so many times, but for the first time you actually thought about its meaning. something flipped in your stomach at jack calling you pretty, but it was the girl part that had you pausing for a moment.

you were a girl, pretty much, you were jack's age, but you hadn't felt like one in so long. maybe it was being with someone a little older, but you felt almost ancient, so tired, so drained. but here you were, on a date, every bit the pretty girl he had deemed you.

you just laughed, taking a seat at the counter, smoothing out your dress against your legs. "real sweet talker, are you?" you joked, turning to him and meeting his eyes.

his mouth quirked like he knew something you didn't. "somethin' like that," he said.

the night went by fast, conversation flowing easily, no sign of pressure or anything of the like. you asked about his career, what he did that day, his family, his friends. he made you laugh, and it came so easily, so fluidly. he asked you about what you liked to do, what you were studying in school, how you were enjoying jersey.

surprisingly, you found yourself wanting to be completely honest with him, even though you couldn't be. you found yourself wanting to tell him everything, to answer any question he asked, to never leave him wishing or wanting even for a second.

you got hung up on the curve of his upper lip, on the slope of his shoulders under his button down, on his girlish laugh, his firefly of a smile.

the night was over too soon. too soon, you had the sinking feeling that you were in over your head, that perhaps you had chosen the wrong person for your revenge plot. you wanted to hurt auston, after all, but not yourself. certainly not this shimmery spark of a boy in front of you.

he walked you out, both of you pausing outside the bar, under the dull streetlight, a theatre spotlight for your praiseworthy performance.

you turned to look at him, and him at you, sinking into each others' gazes like quicksand, the air thick with expectation.

"i don't kiss on the first date," you blurted out, talking to his lips, talking to yourself.

he smiled, his shoulders rumbling in a laugh. "'s okay," he breathed, "like to work for it, remember, baby?"

you shook your head as your cheeks erupted in a delighted rosy flush. "goodnight, jack," you said, your voice every bit the giveaway. he returned the sentiment with a knowing grin.

the next day, you invited your girls over to watch him play. as you all settled on the couch, a homemade cocktail in your hand, you couldn't help but hide your face when the camera lingered on his profile during the anthem.

one of your friends gave a mock-salute. "god bless america," she said, shaking her head as you threw a pillow at her.

"alright," you chastised.

"what?" she asked, raising a brow, "just appreciating the wonderful offerings of our country."

your other friend shook her head. "you don't usually go for guys like him, eh?" she asked. "i mean, ever since we were in middle school you always went for the guys with biceps bigger than my face." she held her hands in front of her face for visualization.

"'s not like he's tiny," you said, almost embarrassed.

"no, no," she amended, "but he's no auston. he's just, i don't know, pretty."

you smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. auston was so masculine in every way, and jack was softer, somehow, pretty in a way you didn't usually go for.

pretty in a way that made you smile at your phone when he texted you the next day, asking if he could cook you dinner later that week.

you were blushing to yourself, the morning of, after he had texted you asking if you had any dietary restrictions.

and you didn't, but wasn't it just the sweetest, most thoughtful thing to ask? would you have even thought to ask?

i want you to be comfortable, his text said, i want you to laugh with your mouth full in my kitchen.

careful, angel, a deep voice called from the back of your mind, from the inside of your teeth. this is about me, remember?

your fingers twitched with the reminder as you stood on his front stoop, waiting for jack to answer the bell. the air had a brisk twinge of a chill to it, a chill that had your nose turning pink and your feet stiffening in your boots.

but he answered the door, and the breath you blew out rose between the two of you like a misty curtain, one you resented, because it distorted your view of him, even just so.

the mist settled, and his smile was left in its wake.

a smile that silenced all the gossiping voices in your head, left the throne of their malevolent king vacant, abandoned.

"you're here," he breathed, almost like he couldn't believe it, like he couldn't believe you.

"and it's your fault," you teased, scrunching up your nose.

he shook his head, laughed at some joke in his mind, stepped aside. "you must be freezing, baby, come in."

the butterflies in your chest soared as he helped you shoulder off your coat, his fingers leaving just a ghost of a touch on your wrist, the back of your neck, leaving scorched skin behind. you shivered, took in his graceful figure hanging your coat up on a hook by the door, let a smile come easily to your face when he turned back to you.

"what?" he said, grinning.

you let out a half-laugh. "nothing," you said, looking around as you kicked your shoes off. anything to avoid the white-hot light of his undivided attention. "i like your place."

and you did like it, truly, it was just so unexpected. homely, not cluttered, but definitely not the modern, futuristic, almost barren aesthetic you can come to associate with successful hockey players.

he flashed you a shy smile as he led you into the kitchen, bowing his head, making his hair fall into his face, almost bashful. "it likes you too," he told you, swinging his hand up to hit the top of the doorframe like a basketball-obsessed middle-schooler. you bit your lip to stop your grin.

what a pleasure it was to get to know all the most intricate and intimate manners of someone new.

"everything's almost done, now," he said, quickly turning off the stovetop and peering through the glass of the oven.

his tone was much more at ease then when you had talked to him before. he was at home here, and you could tell. he wore home like a hand-me-down sweater, too big in the shoulders and worn in the elbows, but lovely and familiar in all of its comfort.

you sat atop a stool at his counter, nervously rubbing the sole of one foot into the top of the other. "thanks for cooking, jack," you said, "you really didn't have to do anything fancy, or anything." suddenly, sitting here in this space, surrounded by the evidence of his effort, you felt guilt settle deeply into your body. unworthiness, perhaps, of the smell of food in the air, of the drink he had poured for you so gently, of the smile he kept throwing your way.

that voice in your head huffed. look at all this, he said, look at the burden you are.

and you were feeling it, so heavily, until jack took a sip of his own drink and waved you off, furrowing his brow as if confused. "'s how a date works, right, baby?" he said. he tilted his head, teasing, "tellin' me no one's ever pulled out all the stops for you?"

and you laughed, shook your head, because you supposed it was, supposed no one really had.

you got to know each other even better over the meal he had cooked, surprising you once again with how easy everything felt between you.

"tell me what you did today," he might say, his voice soft, muffled from chewing.

and you might tell him about your classes, how midterms were coming up, how you were nervous but felt pretty good about most of them.

maybe then you would ask about practice that morning, to which he would tell you some story about his teammates, how they were giving it to him all morning.

"why?" you might ask, to which he would look up at you with that bashful flush.

"'cause they knew you were coming over tonight," he admitted, pushing broccoli around his plate. "kept saying how i was probably gonna make you a box of kraft or something."

you laughed, a genuine rumble from deep in your chest, tilting your head back. when you looked back at him, he was looking at you with something like wonder.

and maybe later, you would ask what his favorite part of his house was, and he would say it was his wall of framed pictures, which would make you melt a little bit, your heart a puddle of feeling.

too soon, you were setting down your fork and knife, crossing and uncrossing your legs in restlessness.

"did you like it?" he would ask, his voice so full of hope it could have killed you.

so full of hope that you reached across the counter to hold his hand in yours, if only for a moment, to squeeze his fingers in meaningful emphasis.

your touch caught him by surprise, hesitant for a moment before locking eyes with you, simmering, then squeezing your hand back in his warm, callused grip.

a grip that said i'm no natural, but i'll work for it. for you.

"it was perfect," you said honestly, because it was. "but please, please let me do the dishes," you pleaded, looking at him through your lashes, just wanting to do something to help.

it would feel so wrong to be doted on for the whole night while giving nothing in return. at the very least, it would feel foreign.

he shook his head playfully, but relented. "you can help," he conceded, "but 'm not letting a pretty girl clean up my mess by herself."

you scoffed with a smile, squeezed his hand a final time before pushing yourself off of your stool, gathering all the plates and glasses in a single go.

"where'd you learn how to do that?" he asked, genuinely, as he followed you to the sink.

you carefully set everything down in a graceful swoop, let your lips quirk upwards in nostalgia. "once a waitress, always a waitress," you explained, referring to your short-lived stint at a busy restaurant in toronto before auston insisted on you staying home.

and at the time, even a little now, it was a sweet gesture, one you had taken as him wanting you to relax, wanting you to have the freedom to do whatever you wanted with your days.

you just secretly wished he had considered that what you wanted to do with your days was working, going to school, doing something for yourself.

jack leaned on the edge of the counter, his lopsided grin like an electric jolt to your heart. "what, did they show you the door 'cause you were making all the tips?" he teased, nevertheless making you blush as you washed the plates with soap. "not fair for everyone else, 's that it?"

you gasped in dramatic accusation, flicking sudsy water from your fingers his direction. "how dare you?" you exclaimed before turning away from him in a huff, feigning sadness. "'s not like i can control this face."

his mouth widened in shock, then took on a scheme-filled smile as soon as the water hit him, a short laugh escaping him. "you didn't," he said, dipping his hand in the soap and flinging some at you.

you squealed, holding your hands up to shield your face as he reached in for more, bubbles filling both of his palms. "wait, jack, i'm sorry!" you laughed. "i swear, i didn't mean to!"

"liar," he cooed, his gaze sparking like a lighter, you swore you could hear the clicking sound. then he was right in front of you, only a breath apart, so close you swore you could feel the beat on his heart in your own chest.

he reached down and gently held your face in his hands, the soap now all along your jaw and cheeks.

you closed your eyes for a second, sighed in defeat, still so aware of him so close, of his touch, feather-light on you skin.

when they opened again, you both had not moved, frozen in place, perhaps willed by the moment, compelled by the growing sensation of rightness, of being exactly where you were supposed to be. when he spoke, he was speaking to your lips, dragging his gaze back up to your eyes like it weighed something stark.

"do you kiss on the second date?" he breathed, and your breath caught, your heart stuttering at his utter politeness, his thoughtfulness, the idea that he remembered things you had told him.

you bit your tongue, because, if you were being honest, you usually didn't - you took the rule of threes very personally. you liked to take your time, savored that lovely period of what could be. besides, you had learned the hard way what happened when you let people in your life too quickly, too hastily. you knew all too well that giving in to a toothy smile and a sleeve of tattoos only led to shrugs met with tears.

but here, now, with jack's soapy hands on your face, in the space he had so warmly accepted you into, you had the feeling this boy in front of you was going to be an exception. that he would be an exception for many things, perhaps the exception.

as if hearing your internal dialogue loud and clear, he dipped his head down until he was impossibly close, so when he spoke you could feel the words on your lips.

"please let me kiss you, baby," he pleaded, his eyes hooded and heavy, his voice a rasp.

deciding he was an exception indeed, you answered him by pressing up on your toes, meeting his mouth with yours in a kiss that bruised.

and later, you would think about how auston had never been a please let me kiss you man, instead he had been a give me a kiss, angel kind of guy.

after, you would think about how it felt so much more personal, so much more sweet to be asked please, can i instead of being ordered give me, give me, give me, like a demanding, red-faced child.

later, you would think about how the previous kisses in your life paled in comparison to the feeling of jack's lips on yours. how before this moment, you were used to kisses that felt like transactions, like the necessary box being checked before the next step, how they felt like being swallowed.

after, you would swoon over all the details and nuances, but, right now, there was nothing but his lips, his hands, the way he melted into you and practically whimpered when you kissed him harder.

kissing him didn't feel like being swallowed, it felt like taking the biggest deep breath of your life after slowly suffocating for years. you forgot you had soap bubbles all over your face, you forgot about auston, you forgot about everything - there was only him, and you, in this moment.

he held your face like you were something precious, moving one hand into your hair as you wrapped your arms around his neck. he tasted like lemon and rosemary, as well as something so deliciously him you could feel yourself become addicted immediately.

his grip in your hair was soft, and when his lips moved against yours it felt like melting snow in the warmth of the morning, pure and sweet and natural and right. kissing him felt like waking up with sunlight streaming through the windows, like laughing while taking your makeup off, like cinnamon and clove and home.

when you pulled away from him, only just slightly, both of you catching your breath heavily, he opened his eyes slowly, almost reluctantly. his eyes were almost glazed over, and you had a feeling yours looked in a similar way, syrupy and hot.

he gently swiped his thumb along your swollen bottom lip as if testing to make sure you were real, not just some shadow, not just a dream.

you traced your nails along his neck, smiled as he brought his hands down to wrap around your middle, resting them on the small of your back.

"god, you're just so fucking pretty, aren't you?" he breathed, like a revelation.

you swore he had your head spinning for days after, days you unfortunately and cruelly had to spend apart due to a week-long road trip for the team.

you told yourself it was a good thing that he was going away for a bit, as it would give you a second to regroup, to revaluate, to familiarize yourself with what your initial goal was for your plan. you reminded yourself over the week apart that jack was a means to an end, that whatever had blossomed between the two you had a finish line, that all of it was meant to make a point, then hopefully leave this whole hockey world behind after the damage had been done.

but then one of your girls would throw on the game, and jack's expressive face would fill the screen, chewing on the fingers of his gloves during warm ups, and your heart would sink at the thought of leaving him behind. and it just about combusted at the idea that you were using him, even though that's exactly what you were doing.

you've only been on two dates with him, only kissed once, you reminded yourself. he's probably seeing other people, anyways, probably with some other girl right now. it's not like you're exclusive. this is probably not a big deal to him.

the thought was comforting but also devastating, a brick in your stomach.

while he was away, midterms came and went. as you walked into your last one, you thought about maybe texting jack after, trying to get together tonight, since he would finally be back.

then your pen hit the paper and time passed in a blur.

you exited the lecture hall in a flurry of relief and pride, happy to have accomplished something so concrete, something that you had truly worked hard on.

walking down the stairs outside of the entrance, your smile stilled, frozen in shock, when you looked up from your feet and saw a familiar, beautiful figure leaning against his car, an excited grin on his face, flowers in his grip as he locked eyes with you, making your breath catch.

"is that jack hughes?" some kid from your class said altogether too loudly to his friend. you had seen that same kid wearing devils gear more than once.

his friend didn't look up from his phone. "who's jack hughes?" he replied.

you couldn't stop your disbelieving laugh, your smile, already making your cheeks sore as you finished descending the stairs, until you were in front of him, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in for a hug before you even realized what you were doing.

this was so unlike you, really, letting yourself feel as deeply as you could without filtering it, but anything else would have felt so wrong it could have killed you. especially when he brought his arms around you without even a second's hesitation, held you tight and close, so you could feel the petals of the flowers on the back of your neck.

"you're here," you said, breathlessly, still shocked, into his firm chest.

"had to make it back for your last test," he said into your hair, both of you not wanting to let go.

"how did you know?" you murmured, pulling away from him, only slightly.

he loosened his embrace, pulled away to get a look at you, let his eyes run over you carefully, indulgently. he pushed your hair back from your face, his touch gentle, like you were a relic, something worth treasuring. "you said so, last week," he said simply, like it was obvious.

he said it as if, for years of your life, you had wished and yearned so reverently for auston to remember the little things, like your coffee order, like the dates on which your parents were coming to visit, like your anniversary.

he said it as if it didn't mean the entire world that he had listened, that he had remembered.

you only leaned into his chest, looked up at him with something seriously dangerous in your eyes, something that was not supposed to be there. "'d you bring me flowers, jack?" you asked, a playful note in your tone.

he flushed, so lovely, hid his face behind the bouquet, peeking only one deep blue eye out, as if embarrassed. "too much?" he asked, still shielding his face.

you laughed, squeezed his bicep lightheartedly. "just enough," you assured him, your eyes full of meaning, willing him to lower his shield, let you see the face you had been dreaming of all week. "thank you. i missed you."

you would have told him that a thousand times just to see the way his whole face lit up, like he could never hide how happy your words made him. he wore the late afternoon sunshine like a dream, the dewy rays dripping down his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, slow and golden as honey.

he had this way of making you feel like you were first choice, every time, and it was so foreign that you hadn't known you had been craving it until he had laid it at your feet like an offering. every time he texted you to check in, to ask how your day was, to finalize plans, it would send a flurry of butterflies swarming your chest, a rosy flush to the bridge of your nose.

he was so, so beautiful, inside and out, that you effectively forgot what the whole point of your plan was in the first place. you basically had forgotten about it, that day that he dragged you along with some of his friends to pick out a christmas tree.

"do i know any of these friends?" you had asked on the way up, riding shotgun, reaching over periodically to run your nails along his neck, just below his hairline, your way of saying i'm happy you're here. and he would reach over and rest his hand on your thigh, not possessive, just a reminder of your presence. a reminder that made your insides twist with want, nonetheless, that made your gaze simmer.

one of the things you appreciated so genuinely about jack was that he didn't rush you for even a second, so happy to go at whatever pace made you most comfortable, whatever pace would keep you around the longest. it felt almost wrong that his acceptance of a slow pace made you want to speed things up, made you want to know what he felt like in your hands, what sounds he might make if you teased him, what his voice would sound like in your bed.

he let out a rumble of a laugh at your question, shaking you from your daze. "you'll definitely recognize one of them," he said. "though i don't know if he's fully recovered from your last meeting."

"oh no." you paled. "not him." you winced, thinking about how you had probably bruised his inflated ego. not beyond repair, though, you knew. for guys like that, never beyond repair.

jack traced circles on your thigh with his thumb in affirmation. "don't worry, baby," he said, "told 'm to be on best behavior."

when you arrived, you recognized that boisterous voice immediately.

"so good to see you again, sugar," he drawled, his tone especially toying.

you decided to cut any hard feelings immediately, going up to him and giving him a quick hug in greeting. "i think i owe you a thank you, coach of the year," you said, pulling away with a smile.

luckily, he seemed to forgive quickly, even to appreciate your efforts. "i prefer my thank yous in hot chocolate form," he said, and you promised to fulfill his request later. he gave you his name in exchange for yours.

you spent the afternoon leisurely ambling around the grounds, looking at potential trees, but really just enjoying the company of those around you.

most of the time, you spent laughing, tucked into jack's side, finding warmth in the firm feeling of his hip against your waist.

"what about this one?" trevor asked, holding up an especially short and stout one.

the two of you decided jack would need a taller one to better suit the ceiling proportions in his living room.

walking around, it felt like you were in your own dreamy winter wonderland, in a fog of laughter and warmth and a million other beautiful things.

"you leave again tomorrow?" you asked at one point, unable to hide the slight disappointment in your voice. you peered up at him, your eyes warm, your cheeks rosy from the cold.

he met your gaze and nodded, hugged you tighter into his side. "back in a few days," he said.

you couldn't help but pout just a little. jack's roadtrips felt longer and more lonely than auston's ever had.

jack ran his thumb along your bottom lip. "what's that for, baby?" he asked.

you shrugged. "just gonna miss you, 's all," you told him honestly.

something sweet bubbled up in his gaze, but the moment was effectively interrupted by trevor's voice coming from behind you, now shockingly close.

"oh?" he said, dramatic, "what's this? is that - mistletoe?" he emphasized all of his words with dramatic pauses. you briefly thought that maybe, if he hadn't been all in on hockey, he would have made an excellent theater kid.

you both turned to find trevor standing right behind you, holding an alarmingly large branch of something that resembled mistletoe.

"where did you find that?" jack asked his friend.

"never mind that," trevor said, waving him off.

you elbowed jack lightly. "looking for an excuse not to kiss me, are you?"

he shook his head incredulously, as if you had said something funny. you were about to tease him again, but he didn't give you the chance, immediately taking your face in his hands and angling his head down slightly to meet you in a kiss that seared every bit of chill from the air.

would you ever get used to this? would his lips ever not feel like they belonged on yours? would your heartbeat ever not thrum, like some perfect harmony?

the warmth of his hands on your face, the security of yours against the plane of his chest, all of it, everything - it was so perfect you wanted to stay here, just like this, forever. and the thought didn't even scare you as want began to pool inside of you, hot and heavy.

a mixture of a cough and a laugh had the two of you pulling away from each other. one of jack's other friends who had tagged along let out a low whistle, making you blush deeper.

jack just slung a heavy arm around your shoulders and pulled you close, pressing his lips to the top of your head.

luckily, trevor's attention had already strayed, as he was now holding the branch over his own head and the head of the other friend. "don't fight it!" he was calling out as the friend broke out into a light gait.

"get away from me, you scumbag," the poor kid called out over his shoulder.

your eyes were stuck on jack's face, still hazy from your kiss. he turned to you, his mouth quirking up. "staring, baby?" he said, low enough for only you to hear.

you nodded, shameless. "want you," you told him plainly, barely recognizing the tone of your own voice.

the fire in his own eyes welled up as you placed your hands flat on his chest. "fuck, now, baby?" he asked, looking around to where his friends chased each other around.

you bit your lip, pleaded him with your eyes. "please, jack," you said, "please take me home."

he took your hand in his immediately, tossed some parting words over his shoulder to his friends, who paused, watched the two of you stumble into jack's car with urgency.

as he started the engine and pulled away, you heard a faint the hell are we supposed to do with this tree?

the car ride back felt longer than it really was, both of you practically buzzing with want. you kept a hand in his hair, his palm planted firmly on the inside of your thigh, close but not close enough.

you let out a sigh of relief when he pulled into the driveway, let him pull you into the house, push you up against the closed door, kiss you again with heat and force and somehow, such softness.

it was the softness that filled you with want. his desire was obvious, especially when he pressed his hips up, hard against you, but that didn't mean he wasn't just so gentle with you, so in tune to what you wanted.

you fisted your hands in his hair, pulled until his posture faltered, until his lips parted further and he moaned into your mouth.

you hooked a leg around his hip to bring him closer, relished the way he began to rock against you.

"fuck, baby," he breathed out, strained, stuttering in places, "don't wanna fuck you against the door."

later, you would think about how auston had never had such a problem. he had never cared where you were, how uncomfortable a position had made you. sometimes you had thought he found his own bed boring.

but jack just pulled you into his room, lightly rocked you back onto the bed, pressed soft kisses down your jaw, your neck, your stomach. you both pushed and pulled clothes aside, looking to give the other as much access as possible.

"so fuckin' pretty," he mumbled against your stomach, making you flush all over.

"please, jack," you whined as he slowly dragged his fingers through your folds, making you shiver.

"what do you need, baby?" he asked, pumping himself a few times, up and down, his voice low and rough.

you sat up for a moment, took hold of his hand, peered up at him through your lashes as you spit into it.

he groaned, ran his hand over his cock, now glistening with your spit. desire glowed in your eyes like fireflies. "tell me," he begged.

you laid back on the bed again, the smell of him everywhere. another time, you would insist on feeling him in your mouth, maybe on feeling his mouth on you, but you knew the both of you were far too desperate for that.

"just need you inside me, baby, please," you said, your eyes raking over his figure above you, all gentle slopes and hard lines together.

"ask me so good, baby, so good for me," he said, a careful rasp. he thumbed your clit, making you jolt, dragging his fingers through you again before bringing them to his mouth. "and so ready, hm?"

you nodded feverishly, your mouth falling open as he finally pushed into you, his groan deep.

you whined, the stretch so surreal as you reached forward to grasp at his forearm, anything to ground you.

staying still in the stretch for a second, you waited for the feeling to weaken, but it didn't, not really.

he dropped his head, his exhale coming out shallow, the muscles in his shoulders constrained.

you tightened your grip on his forearm, let your nails dig into him to pull him back to you.

"fuck, baby, i can't," he bit out, "can't, i swear."

you rolled your hips back and forth, trying to will some movement from him. "please, jack, please move," you begged. "please fuck me, baby."

never one to deny you, he began a slow pace, the friction and depth almost unbearable. one of his hands dug into your hip, so hard you could feel bruising, the other beginning to rub careful circles on your clit, making you cry out in pleasure.

"you're so deep," you choked, "faster, baby, need you faster."

he obliged, picking up the pace of his rhythm, moving his hand faster against your clit, making that wave well up within you, forcing moans from your throat.

"fuck, sound so pretty, baby," he said, a glistening sheen now painted across his brow, his collarbones. "so pretty, squeezing me so perfect."

the muscles of his stomach began to contract as you felt yourself dangerously close.

his rhythm continued, bruising in depth and force, so lovely in softness. you tugged his hand from your hip, placed his fingers on your tongue, desperate for something to do with your mouth. you sucked, pulling a guttural moan from him. "don't stand a chance when you do that, baby, swear," he said, "fuck, don't stand a chance with you, hm?"

you felt yourself smile around his hand, your eyes watering, glazed over.

"gonna make me cum, baby," he whined, his motions becoming jerky, his voice little more than a plea. "cum with me, baby, hm? make me feel so good, yeah?"

you fell over the edge at his words, felt his orgasm follow yours almost immediately, the air warm and sticky around you. he collapsed on top of you, his exhales like liquid on your skin, yours like dreamy sighs as he pulled you to him, held you close as you waited for the rise and fall of your chests to settle.

he drew his fingers lazily around the flesh of your thigh, your hip, you pushed his hair back from his face as you both fought sleep, wanting just a few more seconds in the conscious presence of the other.

everything was so lovely you could barely stand it.

you should have known it wouldn't last long.

a day into jack's time away, you received a text from one of your friends in toronto. it was a picture from auston's instagram with the message just thought you should know. we miss you.

something cracked in your chest at the photo of your ex-fiance and this new girl. it wasn't really jealousy, definitely not desire, no, it was harder to pinpoint.

maybe it was the fact that after four years of being together, and after a whole year of being engaged, auston had never once even thought about posting a picture of the two of you.

and you had always chalked it up to the fact that you didn't have any social media, but now, you realized there was something to be said about letting the world know that you were taken.

and you also knew, now, that that was a statement auston had been unable to make your entire relationship.

a voice in the back of your mind, tone watery with tears, wailed. what makes her so special? it pressed. what makes her so much better than me?

it didn't help that she looked absolutely nothing like you. you wondered passingly if you would have preferred a look-a-like to be staring back at you through your screen. you didn't really know, but you did know that her features were sharp to your soft, your eyes are hair completely different in coloring. her face had you questioning if he had ever really found you beautiful, or if you had been the exception to his regular type. the idea weighed heavily on your shoulders like a cape made of cement.

but you knew, at the end of the day, that it was not about her.

and so you decided that as much as your relationship with jack had become genuine, maybe it was time to bring back the plan, just a little.

it can be two things, you told yourself, jack doesn't need to get hurt.

so when jack arrived back from the road, your relationship now teetered on a tightrope, balancing between two things, two motives like a trapeze artist.

still, you tried your best not to let your desire to rip out the heart of your ex-fiance stand in between you and jack. you could be bloodthirsty and gentle at the same time, you told yourself. two things.

the idea became easier when jack began to ask you to come to his games.

at first, you had been skeptical. auston hadn't wanted you there until maybe a year and half into your relationship. you didn't want to push this, press your luck, make yourself a burden, in fear of him abandoning you.

"are you sure you want me there?" you had asked the first time, a little timid, your face resting on your clasped hands, sitting at his kitchen counter, keeping him company as he made something on the stove.

he had turned to you, head tilted, confused. "of course i do, baby," he had said, calmly and clearly. "i want you everywhere i am."

and that had been the end of that.

so you began to become a regular attendee at his games, getting to know the people of his life more closely, becoming a fixture in his life more solidly.

you let him post a picture of the two of you, so touched that he would even ask. he showed you the post when he was done.

you kissed his shoulder in response. "your eyes are closed, jack," you said, half-laughing at the fact that he had chosen this picture, so flawed in nature.

"hm?" he looked at the picture again, then shrugged. "hadn't noticed. no one's gonna be looking at me, anyways."

you shook your head, disbelieving. he was making it hard for this to be two things. he was making it really, really hard to care if your ex-fiance even saw this post. he was making it really hard to care about your ex-fiance at all.

"i don't believe you, sometimes," you mused aloud.

he twirled a lock of your hair, mesmerized. "how?"

you tilted your head back to allow him easier access. "you're pretty perfect, you know that?" you smiled up at him, blissful. "too perfect."

seeing his face go pink with your praise made you make a mental vow to tell him more often.

and he gave you every opportunity to be surprised by his perfection, over and over.

every kiss was something teenage you would have dreamed about, every time he led you into his bedroom was something current you dreamed about. how he seemed to enjoy every moment no matter what you were doing, even how clearly he communicated with you during your first fight, all of it astounded you.

he made all of your friends jealous, but so happy for you. he met them, one time, when he dropped you off to get coffee with them after class.

he was so respectful with them, asked them genuine questions, but never anything that told you that he wasn't in on you one hundred percent.

when auston met your best friend in toronto, he had dropped your hand that he had been holding.

"didn't tell me she was so pretty, angel," he had said, and you had hoped it was just to show you he was putting in an effort to impress the people that were important to you.

when jack said he had to be going, to get to morning skate, he just kissed your cheek. "use my card, yeah, baby?" he called out, waiting for your nod and smile before he drove away.

how had you stumbled into this? was it possible that it wasn't too good to be true?

jack had asked you to come to toronto when the devils headed up north to play the leafs, because he knew you had lived there, because he had lived there, too, and wanted to show you around. and it had reached a point where refusing him when he offered a piece of himself to you seemed cruelly impossible.

you told yourself that it was just another game, just another day. it helped that you honestly didn't feel any attachment to this rink, even to this city. you had watched jack play plenty, now, and you were determined to treat this game just the same as any other, if not rooting for jack with just a little more urgency, a little more emotion.

you loved how easy he was to cheer for. you loved how you could see how much he loved the game, how he smiled after every good play, how he saw things you could have never seen on the ice. you could practically hear his laugh in the rafters, see his imperfect teeth in the glass. he was everywhere, here, are you loved it.

of course, you noticed that your ex-fiance was here, but it honestly wasn't even that bad. if anything, it was confirmation that you were over him, that what you had with jack was real, that you weren't in for revenge anymore. you weren't in this for auston at all.

until he scored, and his goal song echoed through the arena. you knew that this year, the leafs had decided to try out individual goal songs after players scored, songs that they chose before the season started.

you did not know, however, that auston matthews' goal song was the song that, months ago, was set to be the soundtrack to your first dance.

the crowd was eating it up, of course they were, the juxtaposition of auston's dynamic scoring ability with the old-fashioned crooning of you're just too good to be true, can't take my eyes off of you.

the song seemed to reverberate off of the walls, into your head, behind your eyes, where it settled like thick fog. it smelled like champagne, waxy makeup, hairspray. your eyes began to water, which made your throat constrict.

like a dream, maybe a hazy memory, your first dance that never was flashed across your mind. an ornate, almost gauche white dress, the beautiful heels you had been practicing to wear. his pressed suit, slicked back hair, stupid designer socks that used to make you laugh. his hand on your waist, your arms around his neck, the two of you lost in each other, swaying, swirling around the floor to this song, surrounded by loved ones, high on laughter and the future and love.

slowly, the image blinked out of your vision as the song faded and the puck dropped, play starting up again.

it blinked out like a dying star, and then it was exactly that. dead.

because as you trained your eyes back on the ice, never once did they stray from 86 in red. never once did anything like regret or nostalgic desire well up in your heart, because you were not the one who lost. you were not the one with something to prove.

finally, you buried that wedding dress, laid it six feet under, let the soil spoil it, knowing one day you would wear a white dress and it would mean something to both parties involved.

in a breath, the game ended, and jack won, and he was truly all you were thinking about.

waiting for him, though, practically bouncing up and down, you were suddenly pulled into a side hallway by a grip you would recognize anywhere.

you were not surprised to look up and see the calculating eyes of auston matthews looking down at you with some lethal combination of heat and arrogance.

"angel," he said, a greeting that made you grind your teeth.

you pulled your arm away from him, shook him off of you, willed strength and stone into your posture and tone. "cool goal song, asshole," you bit out.

"i missed you too," he cooed, not taking you seriously, even now. his frame seemed so imposing now, looming large, too large for someone you didn't trust.

you rolled your eyes. "if you'll excuse me, i'm waiting for someone." you turned to leave the hallway, go back to the exit where jack would surely be walking out of any minute.

auston grabbed at your wrist, and it burned. "what, you mean that kid?" he scoffed, but didn't let go. "c'mon, angel, you know he's nothing to you." he rubbed a circle into your wrist that once, might have been soothing, but now made you feel sick. "you know you're all for me."

and you could have said so many things. like how that kid was your age, actually, so what did that say about him? like how that kid was twice the man he would ever be. like how this would be the last time you ever saw him, the last time he would ever have your attention.

the opening of a door ripped you from your thoughts as both you and auston glanced up to see jack in the doorframe, his bag slung over his shoulder, his face flushed from the game, tired blue eyes caught on auston's hand around your wrist.

time froze for a millisecond as you felt like you were pulled between worlds. it can be two things, you had told yourself once. it was never two things.

you watched as painful realization settled in jack's eyes as he simply turned away, let the door close behind him.

you ripped your arm from auston's grasp. "you've never taken me seriously," you told him then, looking him square in the face, your tone steady and serious as anything. "but if you believe anything i say, let it be that you are nothing to me, and you never will be again."

for the second time, you were the one to leave, this time running towards something worth saving.

you cursed under your breath, looking around for that head of soft brown hair.

you found him in a different hallway, sitting on the ground, his bag slumped next to him, his back leaning against the wall, his feet flat on the ground.

for a single moment, it was so quiet you swore that your exhales echoed against the walls. he didn't turn to face you, but obviously knew you were there.

"so you're with him, then?" he practically whispered, his tone like a cleaver to your chest, so defeated and blindsided, almost like he was talking to himself.

you slowly made your way over to him, sat down next to him, mirrored his position. side by side, but he felt so far away. "i'm not," you said back to him.

he let out some kind of bitter laugh, a sound you hated, a sound you hoped you would never have to hear again. "so that was you making friends?" he picked at a thread on his dress pants. "just meeting new people, 's that it?"

you turned to face him, then, but he still faced forward, as if looking at you would ruin him. "it's not what you think," you said, softly.

"well, what is it?" he paused, looked at you, then, and he wore his sadness like a suit fit for mourning. "be honest with me, please."

you took a shaky breath, knowing that this, very possibly, might be the last time you would ever be so close to him. knowing that your next words, your explanation, it might drive him away from you forever, before you had even really had the chance to have him.

you savored this breath, this liminal space between the truth and the now.

"i was going to marry him," you said, and the confession felt like letting go of every single vengeful thought you had ever had, like all the spite and disdain in your body had evaporated into dust.

"you were going to marry auston matthews," jack murmured, his face blank, his tone confused.

"yes."

"but you're not anymore?" he asked, looking at you, leaning his cheek onto his knees like an impatient elementary school kid waiting for recess.

you shook your head. "no. he cheated on me."

there was a pause, brutal silence, as his brow furrowed in confusion, his fists clenched briefly before letting go. his gaze fell to his hands for a moment, and when he spoke again it was so cautious, so pointed, that your stomach sank. "and then you just happened to start dating me?" he looked so tired. "same job, same goals, pretty much same life." he let out a breath. "you can't tell me that's a coincidence."

you sighed, prayed to whatever god would listen that honesty would count for something. "no, it wasn't a coincidence." your heart felt like it was lulling itself to sleep. "you were never a coincidence."

he dropped his head between his knees, and hurt vibrated through the air like sound waves. you could feel his hurt in your fingertips, could have melted in down, frozen it, wielded it like a weapon. "tell me something, baby," he pleaded, muffled by his legs. "please."

you knew it was unfair, but you laid a gentle hand on his fingers. "let me tell you all of it, please, jack, and then you don't have to see me again if you don't want to."

he took a breath that you felt in your bones, then in an act of mercy you cherished, gave a soft nod.

so you did. you told him the whole story - how you had been so devastated and hurt that you were blinded by a desire to make auston suffer. how you had chosen jack on purpose, because you knew it would cut the deepest. how you had not simply shown up randomly at that bar, all that time ago, how all of it was part of a plan, down to flirting with his friend, down to that first game of pool.

he didn't push your hand away, actually leaned his leg into your arm as you told him the story. the scary part's over, you wanted to say, you can stop hiding under the covers, now.

and so you told him about how he had hijacked your plan entirely. how you never expected to determine how good your day was based on how often you heard his laugh, how no one could have predicted how often you dreamed of his smile, how days when he was away truly felt like a loss.

"if i had known you, i never would have put you through this," you told him, finally, honestly. "i would have left you alone."

he was quiet for a moment, and then he picked his head up and looked at you, genuinely, thoughtfully. "you never would have used me to get back at your ex-fiance?" he asked, but there was not really any bite in his tone.

you tried your luck, reached up, brushed his damp hair from his forehead. "i did use you," you admitted. "and i don't have an excuse." he looked at you with clear eyes. "it was mean, and cruel, and all i can do is say that i'm so, so sorry and i will never hurt you like that again. i promise, that's the truth."

in the silent moments after you finished speaking, you closed your eyes for a brief moment, waiting for his reaction.

when you opened your eyes, he was looking at you. he opened his legs and knees wide, held open his arms, waiting. "i believe you."

it took no convincing for you to settle into the space he had created for you, to lean back against his chest, feel his heartbeat between your shoulder blades, his arms coming around your sides to clasp in front of your middle.

"you believe me?" you said, almost a whisper. you picked up his hand, held it to your chest, shocked that he was letting you. shocked that he was still here, making space for you.

you let the smell of him engulf you. it felt similar to walking into your mother's closet - the evidence of her living, loving, everywhere around you. the evidence of jack was everywhere, now, all over you, growing like some carnivorous plant over your heart.

"you promised," he said simply, into your hair.

and how spectacular it felt for someone to take you seriously, to take your words at face value, to understand that when you promised something, you meant it.

it felt like words were failing you, so you brought his hand to your mouth and pressed your lips to his palm lightly.

he hummed into your hair. "tell me about now," he said, voice steady and patient.

"hm?" you twisted your neck to look him in the eye, leaned back further until the back of your head rested on his chest.

"you told me about before. about him," he said, his eyes swimming with home, with hope. "tell me about us. tell me about now."

you searched for words, wondering how you could convey just how important he was to you, just how deeply you cared.

you could have said that his eyes were the most beautiful ocean you'd ever swam in. you could have said that kissing him felt like swallowing stardust, that listening to him talk about his day was a privilege and honor.

you could have said how you loved his voice after a long day, how he wore his emotions openly, shamelessly, how kind he was to those around him, how he didn't let you leave his house in doubt for even a second about his feelings, how he let laughter come easy, how he was many things but never, ever, indifferent.

you could have said so many things, but sometimes poetry and fancy words are inadequate, just diluting the true meaning, make it taste like watered-down juice, faint and lacking.

you could have said so many things, but you just told him the truth.

"i wake up every morning and i think of you," you said. "every moment you're not with me, i wish you were." you willed every ounce of meaning into your gaze. "you are my first choice, every time, jack. and it's not even close."

there was a silence as he processed what you said, and something like adoration dawned in his gaze like a springtime sunrise.

he tilted his head down, pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that told you he understood.

that no matter how you had gotten here, you were here, now.

"tell me again," he whispered against your mouth, and you smiled into his. that, you could do.

fin.

1K notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

i know i'm getting way ahead of myself but i finished watching my life with the walter boys and i miss the summer i turned pretty and it has me thinking about an au with either jack and quinn OR jack and luke and reader (i would create a name) fall in love with one of them. but i might be getting ahead of myself.

#cvpiddszn thoughts

1 note · View note

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

4 for 4 | mat barzal

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; mat barzal x single!mom reader

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 1.4k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ; none!

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 ; amelia wants to watch mat play hockey for her fourth birthday.

a/n — here is me feeding everyone's request for more mat and baby amelia. if you want more lmk :)

If you asked Amelia what she wanted for her birthday, it was to watch Mat play hockey. Not toys or books, she wanted to watch Mat play hockey. Amelia had watched him play on TV and always requested to go see him play in person.

The only thing keeping her from watching in person was you.

You and Mat had been dating for around a year by this point. A year filled with laughter and love. You appreciated the true feelings that were built in the relationship. The only thing that had not happened was you and Mat going public. Of course, it wasn’t that big of a deal. On social media, Mat was popular with the ladies. The thought of getting hateful messages from the media was lingering in your head.

But frankly, how could you say no to your daughter’s only birthday request?

You had met some of Mat’s friends before, along with their wives. In general, they were so kind to you. When some of the wags found out you were attending a game, they were ecstatic. They had invited you to join them to the pregame get together. Of course, you accepted.

“Are you gonna cheer me on, Milly?” Mat asked, grabbing his jacket from where it was hanging.

Amelia had a bright smile on her face, digging her fork into the cake you had made. “Yes!” She replied, food falling out of her mouth.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” You reminded, leaning against the lip of the counter.

“It’s my birthday, don't get mad at me.” Amelia shook her finger at you, sassiness filling her tone.

Mat disappeared back into his bedroom, coming back with a box in his hands. You furrowed your brows, curious what was in the box. Amelia had already opened all her presents from you and Mat. So this last box raised some confusion in your brain.

“What’s this?” Amelia asked, pushing the plate forward towards you.

“Open it,” Mat stated, his eyes flickering between you and Amelia.

Amelia ripped open the box, staring at the blue and orange jersey in the box. Amelia pulled the item of clothing out. It was an Islanders jersey, on the back Barzal was etched into the fabric.

“It’s just like yours!” Amelia looked up to Mat with bright eyes. “Mommy, look! It’s just like dads!”

“It is!” You watched as your daughter excitedly laid the jersey out on the table.

Amelia looked so happy while staring at the jersey. You noticed it immediately. It was such a hearty feeling to see Amelia joyous over a hockey jersey.

“Thank you! ThankyouThankyouThankyou!” Amelia looked at Mat, holding her arms out to him.

Mat catched the hint, pulling the small girl out of the chair. Amelia tightly wrapped her arms around his neck, giddy of delight. Mat held the girl in his arms, placing a kiss to her head.

“You’re welcome,” Mat replied, putting her down on the ground. “I’ve got to go, you are meeting up with the other girls, right?” Mat asked, walking over to you.

“Yes, I am. Good luck, alright?” You smiled.

“I will-”

“Matty, you better play good! If you don’t, you won’t play with dolls with me for a week!” Amelia sternly told him, a serious look on her face.

“I will, Milly. Don’t you worry.” Mat replied, turning his attention back to you.

He placed a quick kiss on your lips before rushing out the door. Amelia had the jersey clutched in her hands, starting to dance around the kitchen of Mat’s house. You were watching her as you cleaned up her mess of cake. Amelia was continuously chanting, “I’m gonna be just like dad.” while parading around the room.

You quickly learned of her new name for Mat, still not necessarily knowing when it started. You just woke up one morning and heard Amelia call Mat ‘dad’. You were shocked, to say the least. More than shocked, you were thankful. It made you think of all the things that Mat had done to help you and Amelia.

It made you feel loved, finally learning what it was like to be treated well by a man. A lot of your previous insecurities fleeted away after Amelia called Mat dad. The insecurities being replaced by love and safety.

The other girls were piled into two cars, Amelia (unsafely) sitting on your lap. Emma, Anthony’s wife, was seated next to you. Emma was the WAG you were exceptionally close to. This was due to the fact that Anthony and Mat were close as well. You met Emma before any of the other wives and girlfriends.

Emma was sweet and babysat Amelia a handful of times.

“We should get there when warm ups are starting, so we will go down to the boards first.” Emma informed the group of girls.

“I swear if they lose today, I will lose my mind. I’m tired of Adam coming home in a crappy mood.” Jen complained, physically face palming.

“Mat’s team better not lose.” Amelia grumbled, looking up at the girls. “Not on my birthday.”

The girls laughed. “I’m sure they will play better just for you, princess.” Jen smiled, patting Amelia’s head.

Once parked and inside, the arena was filled with fans. The Islanders were playing the Capitals tonight, Mat was sure they’d win. Jen led the girls to security, which led to them getting ushered down to the boards to avoid the crowd. Amelia clutched onto you tightly, nervous from the large number of people.

Amelia wore the jersey Mat gave her, a black long sleeve underneath to combat the cold. Amelia told everyone in the group about the jersey, always bringing it up. She was the top entertainment of the night for the group.

You stood next to Jen, who pointed out where Anthony and Mat were. Amelia squealed, placing her hand against the glass.

“There! Momma, there’s daddy!” Amelia cheered, pointing at Mat across the ice.

“I see, Mils.” You held her tight to your body. Though you refused to admit it, Amelia was getting bigger, so holding her for a long amount of time started to tire out your arms. “I’m gonna set you down, okay?”

You sat Amelia down, her head barely popping over the boards. Matt Martin skated over to Mat and Anthony, nudging them. Matt pointed over to you and Jen, leading to both boys skating over to the three.

“He’s coming over, mommy!” Amelia squealed, standing on her tiptoes to look over the boards.

Mat stopped before he collided with the boards, squatting down to look at Amelia. He held his hand against the glass, Amelia placing her hand on the opposite side.

“Better play good, daddy!” Amelia shouted, a bright smile on her face.

Mat let out a laugh, saying something inaudible before joining his team. You scooped Amelia back into your arms, following Jen back up to the main area of the arena. Security guards found you guys, leading the group up the box. Everyone got comfortable, chatting before the game started.

It was now nearing the end of the third period, Islanders leading 5-2. Mat had scored three goals so far, he was playing an amazing game. The girls kept commenting about how you were his good luck charm.

In the last minute of the game, Mat scored his final goal. It clicked in your head quickly, four goals for Amelia. You noticed it quickly, watching as he played more aggressively on offense. He was making lots of attempts throughout the night, hoping to score as many goals as possible.

Amelia cheered for the goal, jumping around in front of the glass.

“That’s four! Four points!” Amelia cheered, clapping her hands. You took out your phone, recording a video of her excited reaction.

“Four goals for the big four year old!” Emma smiled, fist bumping Amelia.

The box erupted in cheers, you just taking a sip from your drink. The whole game, the smile on your face was never once erased. All your nerves about taking Amelia to a crowded arena filled with rowdy men seemed to cease to nothing.

The game ended, the Islanders winning 6-2. The girls waited in the box for another twenty minutes before going down to the tunnel. Most of the boys were leaving already. A few were stuck in the dressing room, doing media. Mat was one of them, considering he played one of his best games all season.

Another ten minutes passed, Amelia starting to get grouchy. Soon enough, Mat exited the room, Amelia instantly perking up. She reached out of him, a cheesing smile plastered on her face. Mat took her into his arms, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“You did so great!” Amelia smiled, pressing her hands against Mat’s red face. “You got four goals, Matty. I guess you can still play dolls with me.” Amelia leaned her head against Mat’s shoulder.

“You guess?” Mat let out a laugh. “Got four goals just for you, Milly.”

Your face warmed at his words, your suspicions being quickly proven. You pulled out your phone, quickly snapping a picture of Mat and Amelia. You loved to capture little moments like this, always enjoying looking back at them.

“Four goals for me? Oh! Cause I’m four now! You got them for me!” Amelia squealed, her excitement seeping from her small body. A yawn fell from her mouth, her mood quickly shifting. “I’m tired.” She mumbled.

You and Mat both let out a laugh. “Time to put the princess in bed.” You commented. “For sure, you guys are staying with me again tonight?” Mat asked, leading you out of the hallway.

“Yes.”

By the time you guys got out to Mat’s car, Amelia was asleep in his arms. Mat safely buckled her into the carseat, tossing his bag into the trunk of the car. The radio was kept at a low volume as you guys drove home.

Mat had his hand tightly clasped in yours.

“She wouldn’t shut up about you all night,” You spoke quietly, careful to not wake the sleeping girls.

“Is that right?” Mat raised his eyebrows, glancing at you quickly.

“Yup, every other word was your name.” You replied, your eyes fixated on the man. “She had a lot of fun.”

“Did you have fun?” Mat asked, his focus on the road in front of him.

“I did, you make it hard to not have fun.” You admitted, a small smile on your face. “The girls think I’m your good luck charm, they are silly.” You shook your head, a small laugh falling from your mouth.

“You are, baby. You give me a reason to play good,” Mat replied, causing a small blush to form on your face.

“Better keep me around for a while, so that you’ll always play good.” You playfully replied.

“I planned on keeping you around for a while.”

Your face glowed a bright red, though the dark atmosphere kept it hidden. Your body filled with the feeling you thought you’d never feel again. A feeling that had been long forgotten since you’ve been with Amelia’s biological father. After he left, you swore to never fall in love with someone.

Then Mat showed up and he became your only exception.

502 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

━ 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄

˗ˏˋ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˎˊ˗

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — best friend!jack hughes x reader 𝐰𝐜 — 2.3k 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 — in order to avoid the annual interrogation into his love life, jack hughes enlists his longtime friend to be his totally platonic plus-one for the holidays.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — this is so cavity-inducing it makes me sick (affectionate) and why did i do the boys so dirty in this oml

“Why is Luke hitting on your girlfriend?”

Jack Hughes groans.

Not this shit again.

Was it really that strange for him to bring a friend home for the holidays?

A strictly platonic, no ulterior motives friend. A good friend, one who also saw him as nothing more than a friend.

He didn’t think so, but with how his family reacted, you would have thought he rode in on a unicycle dressed like a clown. All he did was invite a plus-one.

Sure, it was the first time since high school, but still. The sky didn’t turn purple, and Jack was pretty sure the planet would keep spinning. Not to mention, this is exactly what they wanted.

His family pestered him relentlessly about his love life—or, more accurately, a lack thereof—so he assumed they’d shift their interrogation to one or both of his brothers if he brought someone home, romantic or not.

The whole point of a “holidate” (you) tagging along was to avoid questions, not elicit more. His plan was back-firing.

Epically.

Though less evident in your presence, not once had anyone asked him something unrelated to you.

His great-aunt wanted to know how he asked you to be his girlfriend, and Husband #4 wanted to know how he tricked you into going out with him in the first place.

(Jack was offended by this. He thinks himself to be quite a catch.)

His gaggle of younger cousins needed to know when the wedding was and if they’d get to be in it, a line of questioning that quickly evolved into an open audition for Flower Girls and Ring Bearers.

The older ones weren’t any better. Their onslaught was overtly critical and lacked the endearing innocence of its predecessor. One had a problem with the gift he picked out for you (it wasn’t “romantic enough,” as if a sixteen-year-old even knew what that meant), and another was disappointed he hadn’t taken advantage of the mistletoe above the garage door. A few swiftly agreed you were too good for him after Jack let slip you decorated his apartment because he was too busy—and aesthetically-challenged.

His nana asked if he had "acquired a ring yet." When he told her he hadn’t, she offered one straight off her finger before he could explain why jewelry wasn’t necessary. She then launched into a spirited pitch for “finally getting some grandbabies.”

Apparently, the rest of his family had a hefty bet going on who out of the three brothers would settle down first. Quinn, by default as the eldest, seemed like a sure thing for a few years, but seeing as his date for this year’s Christmas Eve dinner was a six-pack of Bud Light, it wasn’t challenging to put Jack, unwittingly, in the lead.

“For the millionth time, she is not my girlfriend,” Jack replies, not bothering to water down his irritation.

His older brother was annoying, so that did factor into his sour mood, but Jack was mainly frustrated with his younger brother for robbing him of his holidate and monopolizing her charm for his gain.

If Luke wanted someone to cart around the room, he should’ve brought one of his own instead of stealing his. You agreed to be Jack’s smoke and mirrors, not his little brother’s.

The thief has you roped into a conversation with a second cousin’s fiancé surrounding her impending nuptials. He knows this because the interaction began with her holding out her left hand so you could admire the massive rock weighing down her ring finger. You’re listening attentively as she goes on and on about the frivolous details. At one point, she pulls out her phone to show you something, and you visibly and genuinely gush, a hand over your heart.

Luke looks bored but satisfied with himself.

Jack would be, too, if he had you as a human shield. Without a buffer, he was fair game.

Quinn smirks. “True, but you want her to be. Oh, that reminds me. If you are actually as platonic as you claim to be, you might want to remind Mom you need separate beds before she auctions off our guest room to the drunkest bidder. Unless, of course, curling up on Spider-Man sheets directly in front of a lifesize cardboard cutout of Crosby is some kind of freaky kink of yours.”

“Fuck off,” Jack hisses as he shoves his brother away from him.

“What? I don’t think it's that crazy to assume you’d get off on that, given how much of a die-hard you were growing up. You hero-worshiped the guy,” Quinn says between bouts of laughter. "I don't judge. Whatever foreplay you need, dude."

“Do me a favor, would’ya?” Quinn nods, too tipsy to see he’s walking straight into a trap. “Go bother literally anyone else before I dunk your head in the eggnog.”

He does, head thrown back, cackling at his younger brother’s melodramatic threat. Jack doesn’t care if Quinn makes fun of him so long as he does it from six feet away. At least.

“Thank you, again, for doing this. I know my family is a lot—and don't really understand the concept of boundaries," Jack says in greeting when you manage to slip away from Luke and back to his side.

Your expression lifts into a pretty smile.

“There’s no need to thank me, Jack. I’m enjoying myself. Everyone’s been so warm and welcoming.”

“Really?”

“Really,” you affirm with a nod. “Your family has been on their best behavior.”

That’s because they want you to join us indefinitely, Jack muses.

However, now that he’s thinking about it, you becoming a more permanent fixture of Hughes holidays wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It might devolve into that for you eventually, but Jack would never tire of having you as an anchor.

He was already planning on asking if you were interested in tagging along next year, but why put an expiration date on the invitation? It's not like he would have an actual date to bring.

Before Jack can broach the subject, you’re pulled away by the herd of Flower Girl hopefuls. He expects you to look back with a pleading “Save me!” look in your eyes, but you don’t. You don’t even glance over your shoulder, already too engaged in whatever game of make-believe his cousins conjured up this time.

Jack's body warms as he stands in the corner of the living room. The happy kind of heat that spreads from your chest down to your toes and out to your fingertips. The kids are having a blast dancing between the couches and around the other guests, but you’re having just as much fun twirling them around. There’s so much giggling and smiling; it's infectious.

“Your girlfriend is a natural,” his dad says fondly as the children crowd you like their very own celebrity.

“Huh?” Jack murmurs, only half listening.

He’s too busy watching you hoist a giggling five-year-old into the infamous Dirty Dancing lift. Your arms are straight, glued to your ears. Jack smiles. He taught you that in his living room.

“Don’t let her be the one that gets away, okay?”

Jim wanders off to help his wife gather everyone for dinner, leaving Jack to chew on his dad’s request in solitude.

He winds himself so deeply into his head that he doesn’t notice you coming towards him until you’re face-to-face.

“Shall we?” you ask, eyes as bright as the tree behind you.

Jack nods, gulping down the strange feeling, and holds out his arm. He thinks he hears your breath catch as you thread your arm through to rest a hand in the crook of his elbow.

You’re probably just surprised and maybe even a little confused. He’s never overtly chivalrous with anyone unless it's for a bit. Or in front of his mom. Neither of which is at play presently. You're alone in the hallway.

Jack just felt like being a gentleman. It's the least he could do after talking you into spending the holiday weekend with his nutty family and their big mouths.

As Jack guides you through his childhood home, he does his best to ignore how much he likes the feeling of your shoulders brushing.

In the dining room, he pulls out a chair for you. While tucking you in, he catches his brothers mocking him in his peripheral vision.

Sensing his vexation, you snatch the bottle nearest you and fill a glass with wine. Wordlessly, you slide it into his palm. He takes half the heavy pour in one gulp and affectionately squeezes your shoulder. Immediately, Jack wishes he would’ve waited to do that until he could blame it on a buzz. It’s one simple touch, but that’s enough to make him feel like a complete weirdo.

He didn’t want you to misinterpret the gesture. Your friendship works so well because neither of you has tried to make it more. Maybe it was his anxiety talking, but Jack’s reasonably certain he’s wrecked everything.

The remainder of the wine goes quickly.

“But I wanted to sit next to her!” Jack’s youngest cousin whines to his aunt from across the table.

“You’ve hogged her all night, honey. She’s Jack’s date; we should let him spend time with her. Maybe she’ll help you build your fort later if you behave during dinner.”

You nod and wink at the little girl. She, aglow with glee, claps her little hands together. Her mother quietly mouths her gratitude to you.

“Who knew I was such a hot commodity?” you lean over and whisper to Jack.

It’s a lighthearted joke, but Jack feels a twinge of jealousy. He wasn’t a jealous person, especially with you. And, objectively, it was stupid to be upset over the demands of a child.

The sole purpose of a “holidate” is to shift the attention away from him and, presumably, onto you. Jack hadn’t thought about how possessive the blatant division of your attention would make him feel.

Something shifted tonight; he wants to be selfish with you.

As his mom pulls you into a conversation about your plans for New Year's Eve, Jack takes your hand in his. He waits for you to pull away. Instead, you squeeze his hand. Once, twice, then a final time. The fluttery nerves in his stomach dissipate.

Luke nudges Quinn, pointing his fork at your conjoined hands resting atop the table. They grin but say nothing.

Throughout the meal, his thumb absentmindedly rubs over yours. He hadn’t meant to, and when he realizes, Jack is hit with a sudden rush of clarity.

He isn’t bothered that everyone assumes you’re together; he’s bothered that you aren’t.

The epiphany terrifies him.

The feeling of falling in love is very much like the feeling of a nightmare, like being sucked into an all-consuming black hole, entirely at its mercy and unable to save yourself.

He worries that once he starts falling, he might never stop. He’ll lose his bearings and his mind along with them. Jack couldn’t handle that kind of uncertainty. He couldn’t imagine forfeiting so much control over his own life.

Jack never wanted to fall in love, but he already had.

After dinner, Ellen sends the two of you to fetch more firewood from the shed. He can feel your unease as he trudges through the snow ahead of you.

It rose to the surface when he yanked his hand away before dessert and mounted steadily the quieter he became. You attempted to coax him into small talk with witty jokes and anecdotes from the time you spent separated tonight, but he couldn’t bring himself to participate much, if at all.

Eventually, you gave up and turned back to his mom for conversation. Jack didn’t blame you. He wasn’t the best company.

“Jack?” Your voice quivers.

It’s distant, literally and figuratively. He wonders when you stopped walking, but it doesn’t matter.

He halts his movements, but he’s too afraid to turn around. If he sees your eyes, he might say something he won’t be able to take back.

“Did I do something wrong? I feel like you’re mad at me. Or, at the very least, upset with me. Please, Jack, tell me what’s wrong so that I can fix it.”

His heart sprinters at your sincerity. In an instant, Jack relinquishes his fears and strides across the yard to cup your face with his hands. Your cheeks are freezing, but so are his palms. There are tears in your eyes threatening to spill over and meet his touch. He’s so close he can smell your perfume, perforated by his shampoo that you borrowed this morning.

Strange look on his face, he whispers as though divulging his most intimate secret, “You’re my best friend.” Because, in every way that matters, he is.

The dam breaks, then. Salty streams escape your eyes, slipping between your lower lashes to pool on his fingers. If it weren’t for the faint smile pulling on your lips, Jack would’ve thought you didn’t understand what he meant or that you didn't feel the same.

“I know,” you tell him softly. “You’re mine, too.”

Jack doesn’t even get to react before your lips catch his. He repays your courage so instantaneously and urgently that your mutual admission hasn’t fully sunk in when his tongue slips in to greet yours.

You fist his sweater as if he might pull away any second. Jack strokes his thumbs over your skin to assure you he won’t. Now—or ever.

This kiss—wonderful and everything—is the culmination of every smile shared in confidence, every terrible karaoke duet, countless movie marathons, and too many midnights to count. It feels so natural, so obvious. How he never once thought you’d arrive here is an enigma.

A chorus of whistles and applause erupts from the back porch.

Embarrassed, you attempt to separate from him, but Jack’s insistent lips persuade you to stay despite the growing audience. Now that he’s gotten a taste—of both your mouth and honest affection, Jack’s not budging for anything.

When he was a kid, his mom told him that people only get a few “snow globe moments” in their lifetime. Perfect glimmers of happiness that you want to encase in a bubble and keep pristine forever. Jack never knew what she meant, not really.

Not until you kissed him.

“Fucking finally!” Quinn shouts.

Behind your back, Jack flips him the bird.

my lovely patrons gained access to this piece on DEC 20, 2022. learn more HERE!

asks, reblogs, and comments are very welcome and greatly appreciated! the best way to support the creators you love (and encourage them to post more for you to read) is by engaging with their content in a meaningful way!

thank you for reading, and happy holidays <3

────────────

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2023 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

⤑ to my inbox 💌

⬸ back to the catalog

⬸ back to the main blog

900 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

SWEET AWAKENINGS

WARNINGS: hair pulling, extreme domination, mentions of insecurities, oral performance, innocence kink, loss of virginity, etc. 18+ readers only

PAIRING(S): Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: in which Fem!Reader loses her virginity in a night of passion.

Y/N knew she should dress sexier for their special night, but she didn't really have any sexy clothes. She'd never really had a reason to dress that way until now. She'd had a few boyfriends, but not that made her feel the way that Jack did, and she certainly never felt sexy in her own right. Jack was changing that.

Everything negative she said about herself, Jack countered. She said she was short; he said she was petite. She said she used a lot of mascara to distract from her plain eyes; he said she used just enough mascara to add some flash to her eyes.

All of her self-consciousness was being turned into self-respect, and she loved Jack for that. All of his physical compliments were matched by emotional and intellectual ones. Y/N wasn't shy, she was reserved. She wasn't a bookworm, she was intelligent. She wasn't clinging to her childhood; she was in touch with the little girl inside her.

And for all that, Jack never pressured her to have sex. She loved him for that, too. She was a virgin, and while she had no moral commitment to staying that way, she did have a personal commitment to being the one to decide when she lost it, and to whom she lost it. The easiest way to drive Y/N to a breakup was to pressure her into sex. Jack hadn't done that for the year they'd been dating, and tonight he was going to reap the reward for that patience.

Her nerves were a wreck, and she didn't handle nervous anticipation well. Her pulse raced all day, and her breathing was rapid. Her stomach was so knotted she couldn't eat, and couldn't drink anything but water. It was impossible for her to focus on anything. Y/N wanted this to happen, but she also needed it to get over.

Y/N had a lot of built-up sex drive. She had all the normal hormones and drives, more than some of her friends she thought, but she had literally never gone further than kissing and she didn't even masturbate much. She had never masturbated to a point of orgasm. Her drive was super charged at this point and the thought of finally being so close to release was more than exciting.

Additionally, she was nervous. Jack was much more experienced. Y/N was sure her naked body would be a disappointment to her boyfriend, and equally certain that her inexperience would make her a poor girlfriend. That fear made the prospect of the night as much terrifying as it was exciting.

When she drove over to Jack’s apartment, lacking sexy clothes, she was wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeved top with a low v-neck. Her panties and bra were simple a simple matching set in pink cotton with subtle lacy frills that were more just girlie than they were alluring. She wore her hair pulled half-back. It was his favorite style, so at least she could do that for him even if she didn't have lingerie or a scandalous skirt.

The walk up to his apartment was the longest walk of her life. Half of her wanted to run to the door. Half of her wanted to run away. They balanced out into a slow, careful walk. Y/N was trembling enough that her legs felt unsteady. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was pounding. She was about to have sex with the man she loved. She could hardly believe it.

Jack opened the door as soon as she texted that she was close. Y/N looked at the smile on his face and smiled back, even through her anxiety and excitement. He pulled her into an easy embrace and kissed her mouth deeply but softly. She felt arousal flame inside her.

"I love you so much.” Y/N breathed into his mouth.

"I love you, too.” Jack managed to reply through an increasingly wet flurry of tongues and lips. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I don't want to pressure you."

Y/N clutched at his chest. "Jack, I promise that I am more than ready."

She was, too. She was still scared of what he would think of her, but she both wanted and needed this to happen. She had wanted him badly for a long time. There was no way she was turning back from this moment.

Jack pulled his girlfriend into the apartment and shut the door. He pressed her gently against it, now kissing her more aggressively. His hands massaged her breasts through her clothes. She eyelids fluttered closed and she hummed, relishing the feeling of his palms soothing over her breasts.

Jack was patient, never did he ever want to make her feel rushed or uncomfortable. He’d learned from the mistakes he made in the past, and was determined this time to not screw things up. He loved her too much. She’d made up her mind long ago about him; she was in it for the long run. And she knew that he was what she wanted, she wanted him, to love him, to have sex with him.

"I've never wanted anybody like I want you.” Jack told her, placing his hand underneath her top.

Y/N could feel her cheeks flush at the sudden realization that she’d soon be revealed fully to him, that she’d stand nude in front of somebody else for the first time. A sudden wave of insecurity surged through her. "Don't be too disappointed.” Y/N whispered her breath catching as she felt his hands on the cool, soft skin of her stomach.

"In what?" Jack asked, kissing her throat just underneath her chin and then kissing just underneath her ear.

Y/N made a gentle noise of arousal. Her body had never felt like this before. It was already almost more than she knew how to handle. "In me.” She said. "I know you love me anyway, but please don't be too disappointed."

Jack hoisted his girlfriend by the hips, pressing her against the door with all his strength. Her legs instinctively spread for him, then wrapped loosely around his waist. He bent down to kiss her chest through her shirt. His mouth was open and wet, the kisses obscene enough to soak the fabric with his saliva.

"Y/N, baby.” Jack told her. “First of all, I've never met a girl with as pretty a face or as gorgeous a body as you." He groaned, placing gentle kisses all over her chest. She felt her nipples hardening in response to all this attention, even through the barrier of clothing. "Second of all, don’t hide yourself from me.” He ordered her softly. “You’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever, ever seen. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

"Jack.” Y/N whimpered, and then said nothing more. She was beyond words at that point. Her body was in one pleasure zone, her heart was in another, and her mind was torn between the two.

Her boyfriend gently lowered her to her feet and then took her to the bedroom. For several minutes, the couple rolled around on top of the covers, kissing and groping with the intensity of long-built passion finally having a release and finding that release inspiration for even greater passion. It was a spiral that captured them in a mad tangle. Hands exploring bodies. Mouths tasting skin and flesh. Bodies pressed together.

A moan escaped her lips as Jack slipped one hand between them to squeeze her breast. Y/N twisted under the weight of his body, so hot and wanting to feel more of him. She ran her palms down his back and clutched his shirt in both hands. With a sharp yank, she pulled his shirt from his pants so that she could get her hands underneath. When she touched the hot skin sliding over his taut muscles, she moaned again.

"Y/N.” Jack hissed her name as she slid one hand around to his front. "I'm supposed to be undressing you."

She giggled, feeling like a carefree teenager again. "So undress me.” Y/N replied playfully and shivered when his eyes narrowed.

Jack pushed himself onto his hands and knees and she gazed up at him, both her hands on his hips now. He raked her half-naked body with his eyes and Y/N swallowed at the lust burning in his gaze. One of his hands slid down her side and around to her stomach. She caught her breath as he pressed his thumb into her belly button. Before she knew what was happening, he flicked open the button on her jeans and separated the zipper with ease. Oh shit, she thought, her mind whirling.

With a wicked, wicked grin, Jack shifted to her side and ran his palm along her stomach, below her belly button and just above the line of her jeans and panties. He continued to run his hand back and forth over her stomach, teasing her with his lower two fingers. Then he leaned over her, capturing one erect nipple in his mouth as he slid his hand into her jeans, inside her panties and down to cup her where she felt him the most.

Y/N’s mouth opened on a silent cry as he separated her moist folds and stroked her. Her body jumped under his touch and her pulse began to race with renewed energy. The blood pounded in her ears and he stroked her again. His breath was hot as he moved to her other breast, his body pressing into her side and his arm flexing as he pushed further between her legs. One finger teased her opening and she moaned.

Jack’s mouth disappeared from her breast and she felt his breath tickling her ribs before moving lower. He moved his hand from her clothes and grasped her jeans and panties at her hips. She knew what was coming and her body reacted instinctively, her hips coming up off the bed as he slid the pants over her legs. His hands singed a path down her legs and she shivered as the cool air touched her everywhere.

With her naked before him, Jack lifted her leg and planted a kiss to the inside of her left ankle. She raised her head to watch him as he repeated the caress on her right leg. He moved between her legs as he kissed higher up on her calf. He inched up her body, leaving hot, moist kisses on the skin of her legs, his fingers caressing the backs of her knees and lifting goosebumps over every inch of her body.

Jack’s breath was higher between her legs in the next moment and she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from making any embarrassing noises. His hands were gentle and she concentrated on breathing as his fingers brushed through her damp curls. Then, he parted her lips and dragged one finger through the moisture there. She shuddered, unconsciously squeezing her legs together.

“Y/N.” Jack’s voice was soft and rolled through her like a wave. His hand was still between her thighs, his fingers still sliding between her folds. "Y/N, baby, I promise not to hurt you."

His words made her open her eyes to stare at him. Y/N thought he must mean he wasn't going to hurt her in bed. It was a tiny concern in the back of her mind when compared with all the others; that he might physically cause discomfort. But as she looked into his eyes, and saw the gentle smile on his handsome face, she realized he meant more than that.

"Do you trust me?" Jack asked. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak and felt her insides turn to liquid fire when his smile turned devilish.

In a flash, his mouth was back at her crotch, this time with no panties intervening. The pleasure was even sharper, even more intense. The intimacy of feeling her boyfriend's mouth on her sex was something she had not been prepared for. Y/N knew people did this. She had not expected to do it and had not anticipated what it would feel like to look down and see the gorgeous man she loved tasting the most secret part of her.

His hands clamped down on her hips, holding her in place and she worked her fingers around her bedspread, clutching frantically at it. A long-forgotten tingle started in her toes and rushed through her body in the next second. She trembled as Jack shifted, moving his hands to hold her open to his lips and tongue. His breath was so hot on her, seeping deep inside her body. He rubbed his thumb over that one spot, then again, then a third time as he dragged his tongue through her wetness.

Jack’s tongue worked her lips apart with firm strokes. He hummed and breathed and cooed. He told her how good she tasted. How beautiful she was. He sucked and licked and stabbed with his tongue. Y/N wanted to push him away, wanted to tell him she couldn't handle this, but she was too lightheaded to do anything more than lay back and squirm. Besides, she was almost as scared of him stopping as she was of him continuing.

"Oh, God.” Y/N moaned and arched off the bed, the tingling spreading.

She moved one hand up to slide her fingers through his hair, unaware of what she was doing. Her eyes may have been open, but she couldn't be sure if the stars she was seeing were real or imagined. All the while, Jack’s lips and tongue and fingers didn't stop moving. He stroked and teased her, delved inside and lapped at her. She gasped and moaned, wondering if the noises in the room were all coming from her.

Jack brought her to that point by slipping her clitoris between tightly pursed lips and sucking repeatedly while flicking it hard with the underside of his tongue. His fingers inside her slit moved each in a different random pattern, rubbing every part of her throbbing insides and working up a volume of wetness that she didn't know she was capable of producing.

As Jack drove her ever closer, Y/N was overcome by something like vertigo. Her body was flushed with warmth and her mind reeled as it felt as if she were being pushed, ready to flip head over heels on her way down from the top of a building.

"Fuck, Jack.” Y/N squealed, hating how scared she sounded. Embarrassed by how corny it sounded. But she couldn't help it.

Jack sucked and lapped at her clit as if it were his favorite candy. His two fingers inside her formed a single blade with which he gently but firmly stabbed underneath her cervix. Every thrust, every lick, every suck, pushed her closer and closer to tumbling, head over heels.

"Please, Jack.” Y/N whimpered. Then, without warning, she flipped, and she cried out, "shit,” as everything inside her felt liked it turned inside out and upside down. Her body charged and twitched. She was so warm. Her thighs were soaked. She felt herself spasm within herself. As the adrenaline subsided just a little, the no turned to a pleading yes, and begging for more.

“Doing alright, baby?”

Y/N’s chest was heaving, her panting breaths from the intense orgasm and pleasure leaving her absolutely breathless. She was still a bit foggy, but managed to nod before she spoke.

“Your mouth needs to come with a fucking warning label.” Y/N panted.

Jack let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Just don’t let it go to your head.” She teased, giving him a quick peck.

Jack smiled and moved back up her body. His hands replaced hers on her breasts. He was hard inside his boxers, and he began to grind against her naked wetness. He sucked gently on her lower lips. Y/N could taste herself on his mouth and it was shocking, but she wanted him too bad to be turned off by it.

As she ran her tongue over his lips and worked more deeply into the kiss, she realized that the taste was not the taste her own body but the taste of the deeply personal pleasure her boyfriend had just given her, and suddenly it became arousing to her. Y/N drew his tongue into her mouth and relished all the flavor of their lust.

Y/N could feel the head of Jack’s cock now rubbing against her, its erection finally forcing its way through his clothing. He slid his hand under the small of her back. She nibbled on his upper lip.

At last he released her, he pulled her thighs together and kneeled beside her. Y/N stared up at him, breathing hard and smiled when he ran the back of his hand down her cheek. Her eyes slid down his body and she reached for his arms, pulling herself up.

"You're still dressed.” Y/N complained and pulled at the front of his shirt.

Chuckling, Jack held his arms up as she commanded and she lifted his shirt over his head, throwing the garment to the floor. Greeted by the site of his broad chest, Y/N couldn't help the giddy grin that spread across her face. She splayed her hands out on his chest, sliding her palms over the firm muscles and groaning inwardly when he flexed for her.

"Better?" Jack asked and she was glad that his voice came out sounding strained.

"Not quite.” Y/N replied and winked at him. She didn't know what had come over her, but she suspected it had something to do with what he'd just made her feel.

Y/N moved her hands lower, dragging her fingers over his nipples and across his firm abs. Clutching the waist of his pants, she released the button and slid his pants down as he kicked them off of him. She rolled over on top of him, loving the feeling of his body naked alongside hers. She reached up and touched his face, running her fingertips along the contours of his eyebrows, cheek and nose.

Pausing at his lips, Y/N parted her own and slid her tongue along her bottom lip. Jack made a low noise in his throat before drawing her close and kissing her. She draped herself over his chest and kissed him back, eagerly thrusting her tongue against his.

His kisses made her feel intoxicated. His hand swept her hair up from her neck and he held it in a messy bundle at the back of her head as he wrenched his lips from hers. She stared down at him, her vision a little blurry around the edges.

"Y/N.” Jack murmured her name, his voice thick and drawing out the syllables of her name like a caress. “You sure you’re ready?”

Y/N could barely make out what he was saying. He has been between her thighs for what seemed like hours. She knew it was to make you more comfortable with losing her virginity to him, but part of her wondered if he took pleasure in ruining her like this.

“Baby, you know I need your consent.” Jack reminded her, and she licked her lips. She look up at him, and those gorgeous eyes of his just pulled her into a trance.

“Ready for you, Jack. I promise I’m ready for you.”

“That’s my good girl.” Jack smiled. "How do you want it?" He asked.

"However you want it."

Jack rolled her onto her stomach and kissed her lower back several times. "You're so fucking beautiful.” He told her. "I can't believe I'm lucky enough to be the first person to see you like this."

"I love you.” Y/N managed to whisper. "I couldn't hold back anything from you even if part of me wanted to."

Jack gave her a few light kisses on her back and then she could hear him wrestling his way out of his boxers. As soon as those were out of the way, his hands were on her hips and he was pulling her up onto all fours. She strained to look beneath herself, between her hanging breasts, to see his manhood working its way into position.

Jack pressed it in slowly but firmly. His manhood plowed forward through her moisture and heat, forcing its way between her swollen walls. It was shocking to feel something filling her insides down there. It was even more shocking to think that it was her boyfriend's body, actually inside her.

“You’re doing so good, baby. Can you take a deep breath for me?” Jack rubbed her sides as she did so, pushing fully in as she took a deep breath.

“Fuck.” Y/N whimpered, not entirely sure in the moment of the sentiment was from the discomfort or the fact it did feel good.

“Still with me?” Jack asked, taking extra time to take sure she was okay before moving.

“I won’t be if you give me another mind blowing orgasm.” Y/N mumbled sarcastically and he laughed in return.

After he had settled in and let her muscles recover, Jack began to slowly stroke, his hands on her hips for stability and guidance. There wasn’t one simple feeling, but a complex experience of sensual and sexual sensations that was kept dynamic and changing by the movement of his cock within her. It felt like nothing she'd ever dreamed it might, and Y/N’s head jerked back in surprise. With a thumb, Jack swept away her tears.

“Jack.” Y/N’s voice was a quavering lament, her face contorted in pain as he breached her, breath hitching; her walls blazing in sweet agony.

“You’re doing amazing, pretty girl.” Jack tugged down her lower lip, eyes droopy, leaden with love and lust. “I love you so much.” He spewed and captured her lips with his. His face reeled back enough to take a glimpse of her face, to make sure she was okay and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

Her own vision transformed, and Y/N began to see her own body the way he did, and what she thought of as her shame became her beauty. Her breasts swayed underneath her with every stroke. She looked at his straining abs, his tense arms, his clenched thighs.

As Y/N watched their sex, strangely entranced, Jack watched too, mostly looking at her face. His body was taking care of the rest of her. His thrusts were precise and firm. She could feel herself being pushed towards flipping again, and she could tell from his face and from the increasing force of his hips as they rocked her body that he was heading in that direction, too.

"Hold on tight, pretty girl.” Jack suddenly said.

There was nothing for her to hold onto, but Y/N quickly understood that he just meant for her to keep as steady as she could. He pressed himself as deeply into her as he could and then slid his arms around her waist.

With a controlled strength she had not quite realized he possessed, Jack that slowly eased himself onto his back, pulling her with him so that without her knowing it was going to happen, she was straddling him, feet planted flat on the bed. He was still buried inside her. On arm still held her waist for stability. The other dipped down to frig her clitoris as he bounced violently under her.

"So fucking gorgeous.” Jack softly gushed. "You're so beautiful, Y/N." He whispered. “That’s my good girl, taking my cock so well.”

Y/N did her best to bounce on top of him, too. She smiled as she looked in the mirror. Soon the smiling and the looking both took more effort than she was capable of. She was so close. The excitement and fear were building again. One hand rubbed her face, trying to stop from passing out. The other tugged hard on her nipples. Jack’s finger pinched and twisted her clit. His erection found new ways to open her up and find deeper places.

“Gonna fill this pretty pussy with all my cum. First and last cock you’ll ever have, how does that sound?” Jack beamed, almost spilling his seed just at the thought of watching his cum leak out of her tight little hole. “You’re about to cum for me, aren’t you, baby? Let go for me. I’ve got you, pretty girl.”

Y/N’s face screwed up tight and her body shook as she launched into climax. Her spine felt like it was being inverted and she could feel the adrenaline releasing in her body in a series of waves. She cried out helpless as she collapsed onto her back against his chest, her body trembling. Her eyes were open just enough to see his erection pop out of her as she fell and to see it swell and burst, spurting white cum into the air.

Y/N wasn't aware of much else until she realized that they were cuddling on the bed. Their bodies were stained with sweat and sex. The blanket beneath them was soaked and ruined. Their muscles ached. There was no shame, no disappointment. There was only love and satisfaction. She smiled and rolled into him to kiss his lips softly.

“You still with me, Y/N?” Jack asked softly, sounding as drained as she felt.

“Get back to me on that in about 3 to 5 business days.” She groaned, face breaking into a grin when she heard him laugh. Her eyes opened and he gazed at her, concern still lingering in it.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Jack frowned as he stroked her jaw.

“No, you were wonderful.” Y/N smiled shyly. “Just one complaint. I’m gonna be walking with a limp for days.”

Jack pulled back to cheekily smirk down at her, and he decided to busy himself with a few peppered kisses over her features, quick presses of his lips along her cheeks until she was giggling and pushing him away as they turn ticklish.

Y/N felt him tangle his fingers loosely with hers before he was pulling back to send her a pink cheeked pout. Jack found himself taking a breath before he held it, because he realized that love looked just like this, just like her.

Instinctively, Y/N curled up next to Jack, feeling his arm immediately find its place around her, pulling her in to smear a lazy kiss against her forehead. Her hand traced his skin, letting her fingernails smooth along the plains of his toned abdomen as he whimpered.

"Hey, keep doing that. Just for a little longer, feels too goddamn good." Jack whined, giving her a softer sort of look that made her heart bloom in her chest, because he looked a lot like he was in love.

Y/N did, she pushed herself closer until her lips were pressed against the dip of Jack's shoulder, bathing him in featherlight touches along his chest and stomach until his breathing turned a little softer. Her hands traced to his sides and he twitched slightly at the ticklish touch before he was groaning and sending her a drowsy, lidded look and a pout from over his shoulder.

"That's mean." Jack murmured, but she watched him inch closer to her before nuzzling into her neck, placing a few soft kisses against the skin between sleepy grumbles and obnoxiously loud kiss noises, while the low hum of his voice rumbled in his chest.

"You're ticklish?" Y/N giggled as she pressed her lips into her boyfriend's neck from behind and he pressed back into her again before he turned to send her another look, one that she recognized as a wordless little request for a kiss despite the way his messy hair rested along his features.

"No, I'm not." Jack huffed against her lips when she leaned in, but he almost whined when she pulled away a few moments later, his hand around her own squeezing slightly like he was trying to bring her back into him. "Why'd you stop? No fair." He sighed, followed by another pout and she couldn't help but smile at how needy he seemed to get when he was sleepy before she was giving him another.

"Okay, Jack." Y/N smiled, but the tender moment only lasted a second longer before she was deliberately swiping her fingers along his sides again, laughing when it made him jolt slightly followed by a long, drawn out huff.

"Fuck, Y/N. You're such a pain in the ass sometimes, you know that?" She felt Jack pull her hand away from him before his huge figure was turning to face her, sleepy features pulled into the cutest frown before his arms were looping around her waist and he was pulling her close so he could nuzzle into the crook of her neck instead.

"You're so mean." Y/N replied and she heard him grumble something into her skin when she pinched at his before it was followed by a featherlight press of his lips against her lips, like he was doing damage control despite the way his words were a joke.

"Yeah? And yet here you are, still so in love with me." Jack drawled, his usual teasing tone returning to his words and she rebutted with a laugh.

"Of course I am." Y/N sighed, and the weight of her words seemed to catch Jack off guard when pink dusted his cheeks, blinking at her and puffing out his chest because he was a lot more than just in love.

"Keep saying things like that and I'll just have to marry you." Jack grinned, letting his hands settle into the dip of her waist before he was kissing her again on the lips and she smiled into it. The way he kissed her was enthusiastic, rushed in a way that is was uniquely him as she felt him grin into her lips.

"You doing okay, pretty girl?" Jack drawled as he pulled away, fatigue evident in his tone.

"Tired, Jack." Y/N replied and his lips upturn softly, his other arm coming around to gently grab her thigh. His cheek was smooshed against her skin, sighing sleepily above her while his words were muffled against her but they still drawled so dreamily.

"Well, I'm right here, baby. Get some sleep." Jack’s words were a low drawl, muffled slightly against her skin but there was an honesty to them when he pulled away to meet her drowsy gaze with his own, pulling her in for a kiss that lingered and made her feel hazy with how sweetly he held her close.

530 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

it's november first - quinn hughes

notes: i hope you guys like this, fourth fic for 'it's the most wonderful time of the year' celly :))

likes are good, reblogs are better <3

part of naqia's end of the year celly!

gif not mine

"is there a reason you're inside the closet?"

you looked up at quinn's voice, seeing him standing outside the walk-in closet, brow raised as he tried to determine what it was you were trying to do.

you were buried knee-deep in all of the different things you and quinn stored in this extra closet, trying, but failing, to find what you were looking for.

"i need to find the christmas decorations," you told him.

"why?" he asked you. "it's only november first."

"exactly!" you told him. "it's november first, which means it's time for christmas."

"mhm, and thanksgiving is just not important, i suppose," he muttered, a fond grin on his face.

"quinn, i'm canadian," you reminded him. "we're in canada right now. turkey's gone. that happens during october, remember? now that halloween is done, there's nothing left to stop me from christmas."

"oh yeah," quinn muttered. he shook his head to himself, "the decorations are on the higher shelf. let me help you."

you moved to the side, letting him walk through the mess you made, and pull out the boxes of christmas decorations. you moved like a train, taking the boxes from him and dropping them outside the closet. quinn left the box of hanukkah decorations, including the menorah, inside. you'd be decorating a little for hanukkah closer to the days.

"alright, that's the last one," quinn said, carrying one of the larger boxes outside. "what now?"

"now we decorate!" you grinned happily.

"see, that's a wonderful idea... but what are we decorating?" quinn asked. "we didn't get our tree yet."

"oh yeah," you remembered.

overexcited to decorate for christmas, you'd forgotten about the process of buying a tree to decorate.

"it's okay," you shrugged it off. "we'll start putting the lights up. and we can get the christmas tree... later this week?"

"works with me," quinn smiled.

the two of you carried the box of christmas lights outside, ready to decorate the front lawn. you pulled the wreath out of the box while quinn untangled the lights. together, the two of you wrapped them around the wreath, creating a cute design.

"ready to hang it up?" you asked.

quinn nodded, the two of you reaching up to hang it over the door. you grinned, admiring your work. it was still daytime, so you'd be lighting it up later.

"time for the arches?" quinn asked.

you nodded, causing him to grin widely.

he loved putting the arches over your door for some reason. they were simple, made like the wreath, but there was a mistletoe that hung from the center of it.

the two of you sat on the porch, wrapping the arch with the christmas lights.

"no, no, you need to wrap it looser," quinn said. "otherwise we won't have enough lights. remember last year?"

"oh yeah," you muttered sheepishly.

last year you'd gotten a little excited with the christmas lights, tying them so tightly that they were bunched up at the bottom of the arch, and that there was nothing left towards the top end.

quinn helped you untie the christmas lights, and you wrapped them looser this time, grinning as you finished towards the top of the arch.

"done!" you showed quinn your half of the arch.

quinn finished tying the mistletoe in the center, getting up as he finished. "all right, now it's time to put it up."

he grabbed a ladder, hooking the arch up as he went. you stood below, making sure it was levelled and proper.

"perfect!" you smiled as quinn finished, climbing off the ladder.

he looked up, grinning mischieviously.

you followed his gaze to the mistletoe, rolling your eyes. he did this every year, and you never got tired of it.

"mistletoe," he pointed.

"i know," you muttered.

"it's christmas law to kiss," he added seriously.

"i said i know you goof," you grinned, pulling him in for a kiss.

quinn smiled against your lips, knowing he'd never get tired of this. he'd put the christmas decorations up on november first every year if it meant he could kiss you like that.

577 notes · View notes

cvpiddszn · 5 months

Text

invisible string L. Hughes

Luke Hughes x fem!reader

synopsis - Luke had been one of your closest friends since childhood. Somehow, everything in both of your lives just came back to each other.

wc - 3.8k

contains - cursing, literally nothing, extremeeeeeeeee fluff, kissing, hugging, cuddling, (im just a girl ok), obliviousness, this is a bittttt cliche... THEY CONFESS AND KISS IN THE RAIN OK???? idiots in love, eating and drinking. TAKES PLACE SUMMER 2023 (like end of May???)

an - SLIGHTLY EDITED!!! im hunrgy. anyways THIS WAS SO FCUKINF CUTE TO WRITEEEEEEE. my luke baby is so invisible string😇😇😇😇. ugh i miss him. i (possibly intoxicatedly) karaoked better man by Taylor Swift the other night just fyi. my author notes are like my personal diary because i assume no one reads them. i could prob say my ss number and full name address and no one would ever know. do u guys know how fuckign embarrassing it is to reread a fic u posted a few days ago and find typos like u guys probably think im stupid and hate me now. this was not at all about Luke Hughes or Invisible String... ENJOY BABIES!!!!

green was the color of the grass, where i used to read in centennial park. i used to think i would meet somebody there.

You were what some would call a hopeless romantic. You loved love. You loved reading it, watching it, seeing it in real life, it was just beautiful to you.

You'd grown up with the Hughes boys. They were your neighbors during the summer, your family's lake house being next to theirs. You were the same age as their youngest son, Luke. You two were ride or dies during the summer, and when you finally got a phone in seventh grade, you two texted the rest of the year.

It was finally summer, your school year at Notre Dame had come to a close and you were able to fly home and go to the lake with your family all by May 13th. You watched the final Canes games against the boys, you were sad for them, but so proud of your best friend.

It was nearing June, and you were alone in the lake house, opting out of the afternoon boat ride for some peace and quiet. You walked through the halls, stopping at the dresser covered in summer photos. You and your brother, you and Luke, more you and Luke, and some of your brother and the Hughes.

teal was the color of your shirt, when you were sixteen at the yogurt shop. you used to work at to make a little money.

You noticed one of your favorite photos wasn't there, the one of you and Luke when you were about 16, you're both standing behind the counter at the ice cream place you two worked at during that summer. You spent all day with Luke during those days, and it was the best.

You opened the dresser the photos sat on, seeing more photos. The ice cream shop one, and one you weren't anticipating. You didn't know your mom had printed and framed it. It was you and Luke the summer you were 18, both smiling at the camera with the sunset in the background as you sat on his lap in an Adirondack chair in the backyard of the Hughes' house.

The photo gave you crazy butterflies. That summer was the last time you saw Luke during the summer. Last summer you two were both at the lake at different times, you'd seen his whole family, minus him. His mom told you how he was still with his college teammates on a different Michigan lake. You had to act like you didn't really care, even though you did, so much.

Since the picture was just sitting in the dresser, not on display, you decided to take it to your room. You placed it gently on your bedside table, smiling then leaving to go down to the pool.

time, curious time. gave me no compasses, gave me no signs.

It was weird how you and Luke always seemed to be pulled together. There was some driving force between you two that was unbreakable, not even if you wanted it to. When it wasn't the summer, you lived three hours from the Hughes family, so randomly bumping into Luke was even more bizarre than anything else.

You remember when you were 15, you and your mom were picking up dinner one night at a local place and in walks Luke, Jack, and Ellen. You squealed when you saw him, running over to say hey. The boys had been in town for hockey, weirdly enough.

Interactions like that happened way more often than normal, you randomly bumped into the boy at least once every two or three months for years.

were there clues i didn't see? and isn't it just so pretty to think,

You remember when you were surprised by Luke at age 17. He came and surprised you as your prom date and you were floored. He had flowers and a corsage for you, and his tie matched your dress perfectly. Your moms thought it was the cutest thing ever, how you both blushed and giggled when near each other.

all along there was some invisible string, tying you to me?

Even though you two couldn't seem to get away from each other, neither of you ever made a move romantically. It just didn't seem realistic, you already lived hours away from each other and were going to colleges even farther, well Luke was going to the NHL but you get the point.

You guys were just best friends, always best friends. Your families knew, especially his brothers. They were your biggest fans, probably because they saw how you made their baby brother, how soft he was with you. You made him gentle, but also made him more comfortable and talkative, which Quinn and Jack loved.

ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

Luke made you weak, and your family noticed. You could jokingly bicker with him, but when it came down to real disagreement, you never could with Luke. He just gave you those deep hazel eyes and you were melted on the floor. He was just that person for you. The one who could ask you to do anything under the sun and you'd do it for his praise.

You spent long nights with Luke, sitting in the backyard of one of your lake houses and watching the moon and stars and talking about anything. You could listen to Luke talk about property tax for hours and probably never get bored, that's how much you admired him.

bad was the blood of the song in the cab, on your first trip to L.A. you ate at my favorite spot for dinner.

You remember the weirdest instance of your bumping into each other, you were in Los Angeles with friends during the very beginning of winter break and saw Luke eating in the same restaurant as you with a couple of his friends.

You texted him, not believing what you were seeing. You asked him if he was in L.A. When he responded 'Yes just for a few days why' you were shocked. You stood and made your way across the noisy restaurant and went up to his table, where you put your hand on his shoulder and when he turned around, he was the most surprised he'd been in a long time.

You remember he jumped up, hugging you so tightly, pulling away with his jaw still dropped. You guys always told each other you had to stop meeting 'like this', but it never seemed to stop.

The next day, you two planned to branch out from your friends and meet up for lunch. You guys drove a little ways from Los Angeles, east into the country, and ate at the cutest restaurant that had a view of a lake. You two always found yourselves together by lakes.

bold was the waitress on our three year trip, getting lunches down by the lake. she said i looked like an american singer.

You remember how bold your waitress was at that restaurant, immediately boasting about how she thought you two were the cutest couple she'd ever seen. Your face was burning hot, trying not to have a breakdown in the middle of the restaurant. It got even worse when Luke didn't correct her and just said 'Thank you', instead.

That was the last time you saw Luke, you were hoping to see him very soon, though. It had been almost two weeks since the loss to the Canes, so it made sense for the boys to be arriving soon. You'd already seen Ellen and Jim a couple of nights on the back porch with your parents, but no 6'2 boys named Luke were to be seen.

time, mystical time. cutting me open then healing me fine. were there clues i didn't see?

You'd had two boyfriends in your life. One in your 8th-grade year and freshman year of high school, then one in your junior year of high school. You'd broken up with boyfriend #2 because you realized you compared him to Luke, every move he made, you compared to Luke. It made you feel terrible, but you were head over heels for another boy.

You and Luke had your senior sunrises on the same day during your senior years, and decided to skip them and drive to the lake to watch the sunrise together. Your moms were furious, but it was one of the best memories you had with him.

Your interest in each other was so painfully obvious that most of your and his family referred to you as his girl during the summer. 'Where's Luke's girl?', or 'We're just waiting for Moose's girl.' It was never when you two were in the same room, so your reactions were always priceless.

and isn't it just so pretty to think, all along there was some invisible string, tying you to me?

Your family was back from their afternoon boating escapade and you could hear them all bustling in. The second they walked in you heard your brother shout for you.

"Moosey's girl! Come down here!"

ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

You blushed madly, getting up from your bed and walking down the stairs with an annoyed look on your face. When you got to the bottom of the stairs you could see your sister-in-law slapping your brother across the back of his head, telling him to leave you alone.

"What do you want?"

You immediately went from annoyed to overjoyed when your almost two year old niece ran over to you, shouting out your name. You picked her up, giving her a kiss on her tubby cheek, embracing her sandy and salt water ridden love.

"We're going out to dinner in like, an hour and a half? Honestly just whenever we can get that little monster bathed and dressed."

You nodded but immediately jumped to defend your little best friend.

"This thing? This baby is an angel, aren't you?"

The little girl nodded, a sassy smile on her face as she tried to say 'angel, dada.' in her slurred toddler speech.

"See?"

Your brother have you both a look, before springing into action to grab his baby, tickling all the giggles and sqeals out of her.

You talked and played for a little longer before getting ready to go. You quickly showered and dried your hair, putting on a little linen white summer dress, and your old pair of Birkenstocks. You drove with your brother and sister-in-law on the way to dinner, sitting next to your niece in the backseat.

a string that pulled me out of all the wrong arms, right into that dive bar.

You guys were seated immediately at the restaurant, you sat between your sister-in-law and dad at the table, just close enough to talk to your favorite niece.

The restaurant was a popular spot for locals and tourists near the lake. It had a big bar in the middle and lots of tables surrounding, it was loud, but not obnoxious, and very homey. You'd probably been there over a hundred times in your life.

You were watching a random golf tournament on one of the many TVs in the bar when your brother called out your name. You looked up and the look on his face was excitement and shock.

"Look who happened to show up!"

something wrapped up all of my past mistakes, in barbed wire. chains around my demons. wool to brave the seasons.

He pointed behind him, and your eyes followed the trail to the entrance, where you saw none other than Luke Hughes standing with his family, waiting to be seated. Your jaw dropped, and a smile came over you. You saw Quinn hit Luke and then point directly at you, and when your eyes met Luke's, you could've fainted. He was in khakis and a white polo and looked so handsome.

You stood up, mumbling something to your family before practically running over to the entrance, throwing your arms around Luke.

one single thread of gold tied me to you.

"Holy shit."

Luke had his arms wrapped around you so tightly, he was so surprised to see you. He knew he would have seen you tomorrow if not tonight but he still just missed you and was shocked.

"We have gotta stop meeting like this."

You giggled when you pulled away from him, as reluctant as you were on the inside. You quickly hugged the rest of his family, not without Jack whispering, 'hey Moose's girl' to you.

You pleaded with the bar staff to push more tables together so you could sit with the Hughes, and it didn't take much convincing, seeing they'd known you since you were 6.

You sat next to Luke after the readjustment for the new tables, now sitting between him and your niece, who had all but thrown a fit about how she wanted to sit by you, not her dad, which made you laugh in his face.

At some point, you'd taken the baby from her high chair and brought her into your lap. You and Luke were both in your little world with her, she was so cute and loving. You guys didn't notice how practically the whole table stared at you with knowing eyes, they all knew, everyone except for you two.

The food came, and the baby was back in her seat. You just talked and talked and talked to Luke. You'd last seen him in December, and there was just so much to say. You'd both had tons of stuff happen to you, his NHL career, your career, everything was so exciting to tell him about.

Luke was so heavily infatuated with you, it was funny. His brothers watched as he folded for you so easily, admiring every syllable that left your mouth, nodding like a man possessed. They mumbled to each other, making fun of their baby brother's obliviousness.

cold was the steel of my axe to grind, for the boys who broke my heart. now i send their babies presents.

At some point, dinner got a little bit boring so you pulled out your phone, and what popped up was the baby registry you were buying something off of for your ex-boyfriend's pregnant wife. It was funny, how everything boiled down. Luke saw the infant clothing on your phone and gave you a questionable look.

"'S there something you're not telling me?"

You looked up at him, then back to your phone, your eyes going wide at the insinuation.

"Oh my God, Luke, no! This is for Darren's soon to be born baby, with his wife.

"Darren? Like your ex boyfriend Darren?"

You nodded, laughing and explaining the whole thing to him. You'd somehow become friends with his now wife in your freshman year of college, her junior year, and with the way the world worked for you of course she was married to your ex-boyfriend.

The rest of the night was perfect, and ended with your whole family, minus your sleeping niece, in the Hughes' backyard around the fire pit. That night you ended up right back where you were in the picture on your nightstand, right in Luke's lap in your favorite Adirondack chair.

You spent the next week with the Hughes boys, specifically your Hughes boy. You drove the boat out on the lake, wake surfed, Luke even convinced you to go golfing, not that it took him very long because you would say yes to anything he asked.

gold were the color of the leaves, when i showed you centennial park.

You sat by Luke at the end of the dock while you two watched the very cloudy sunset. There was supposed to be rain soon, but it didn't mean the sunset wasn't still pretty. Your thighs were pressed together with how close you sat to each other, giving you both warmth in your chest.

Neither of you said anything, but you both felt something when you let your head rest on his shoulder.

"This is so pretty, Lukey. I missed this with you."

It wasn't much, but it was a way to say that you loved him without saying the real words. I missed watching the sunset with you, I've always loved you.

hell was the journey, but it brought me heaven.

"I missed you."

You closed your eyes, you just wanted to be with him, didn't matter where. You could be watching a super on the lake or climbing a mountain, if you were with Luke you were happy.

"Think it's gonna rain soon?"

You looked up at him when you asked, your head never leaving his shoulder. He looked down for a second, before looking out at the sky.

time, wondrous time. gave me the blues and then purple-pink skies.

"Probably, but let's just stay for a few more minutes, okay?"

"Okay."

You relaxed into him further. His arm went to your back, rubbing back and forth. It could probably be pouring down rain and you wouldn't even notice, not when you had Luke with you, like this, you were Moose's girl after all.

It started sprinkling, causing you to look back at Luke, waiting to see if he reacted. He didnt, so you just stayed. Rain never hurt anybody, you'd be the last person to ruin this moment complaining about rain.

This was so strange. It felt like you were stuck in time, the gentle rain made you feel encapsulated in the moment. You sat there, staring off at the sky, the sunset was not as clear now with the thick clouds rolling in, but the colors were still there. The rain kept on passing through, the drops gaining weight and speed.

Luke didn't mind the rain, but he didn't want you to feel like he was forcing you out here, so he shifted to stand, grabbing your hand.

"C'mon, you can't get sick during summer."

You sighed, letting him pull you to your feet. He didn't let go of your hand as he turned to pull you back to your house. You don't know what came over you, but the circumstances seemed perfect, you felt like you had to tell him. You pulled him to a stop, and he turned to look with a confused face.

"What's wrong?"

You looked from him to the ground, looking at your feet, the worn dock you'd run around on summer after summer, the lake you grew up swimming with him in. This place was so full of Luke, of you and Luke.

"I, I really like you Luke. Like literally since we were 12, and I, I just.."

You trailed off, looking anywhere but those eyes.

Luke was flabbergasted. That's the only word to describe how he felt. The girl he was in love with, just said she liked him since they were little. He just stared at her, not believing what he heard.

"Are you for real?"

You would've been embarrassed, had you not heard the pure hope in his voice. You nodded, feeling your face heat up. You covered your face with your hands self-consciously. If you could look at Luke's face, you would’ve seen how he was red all from his neck to his ears.

Luke gently grabbed your hands, pulling them away from your face, and replacing them with his own. He tilted your head back so you looked at him, staring at you for just a second before pulling you in, kissing you, finally.

and it's cool, baby, with me.

Holy shit. You were freaking out, you were probably gonna be jumping up and down whenever he decided to stop kissing you. He did pull away, after a long while, when the rain started pouring. The colors of the sunset had been drowned out by the thunderclouds but you two still felt all sunny on the inside.

There was a rumble in the far distance, while you stared at him, and him back at you. You couldn't contain your excitement, you felt like running a marathon.

"Oh my God."

Your hands went back to your face, and you literally jumped. Luke laughed as you surged with happiness. He felt the same way, his smile bigger and brighter than ever before.

You grabbed his hand, tugging him back to your house quickly. You were finally under the cover of your back porch, out of harm's way. You grabbed two towels from the outside cupboards and wrapped yourselves up, you dried your feet off before running up the stairs, Luke hot on your tail.

You two got upstairs and sat on your bathroom counter while you dried off. You talked quietly, giggling an awful lot.

Once you got dry enough, you led him to your bedroom. You grabbed one of his sweatshirts you had before going to take a pair of your brother's shorts, throwing them to Luke when you got back to your room.

"Here, go change so you don't get sick."

You noticed he had more than the stuff you'd just thrown at him in his hands, he had the picture that previously sat on your night stand.

and isn't it just so pretty to think,

"I like this picture, you have to send it to me, baby."

Baby? You could've died. You nodded, mumbling out an butchered agreement, gesturing for him to leave and get dressed again.

While he was gone, you changed into some sweatpants and another one of Luke's sweatshirts, one you'd had for almost two years. When Luke came back into your room, he'd noticed your sweatshirt immediately. It was from his travel team when he was 16, and it made him so happy.

all along there was some invisible string,

You smiled at him sweetly as he walked back over to you, grabbing your face and kissing you for the second time in the last thirty minutes. You got the same butterflies you'd had living inside you since you were a little girl. This boy had been living in your head since you'd known him, and he was finally yours after you'd been his girl for so many years.

tying you to me?

You both pulled away, wrapping each other in a hug. Luke rocked you two back and forth, leaving kisses on your head.

"I love you, Moosey."

"I love you."

ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh he-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh

1K notes · View notes