Hey as someone who reads you fanfics please block kathrinesblog1202 she stole all her work from other writers.
I seen that her and her fake accounts are rebooting and liking your stuff I just wanted to warn you so she and her fake accounts don't take your work. The fake acount are the likes on her pinned post one isn't fake but she supports her even after being provided with proof that the work was stolen so l'd block all those accounts just to be safe.
Hiii, thank you so much for letting me know about this. I really appreciate you taking the time to warn me and look out for my work.
I've now blocked her and hopefully no other works will be stolen. Thank you again for bringing this to my attention and for keeping me informed. I really appreciate your support!
summary: You ignore Jack after his toxic confession, but when his brother Luke shows up at your apartment to talk, Jack arrives at the worst possible moment.
CW: Emotional distress, jealousy, toxic Jack again, verbal conflict.
Part 1
Three days of silence. Three days of ignoring Jack's texts, letting his calls go to voicemail. Each buzz of your phone is a small betrayal of your resolve, a reminder of the raw, angry words exchanged in that arena hallway.
You've been replaying it all, the venom in Jack's voice, the shock of his confession, the cold fury that surged through you in response.
A knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts. You're mid-way through making pasta, the sauce simmering on the stove. Through the peephole, your see Luke, standing in your hallway, looking uncharacteristically serious.
You open the door slowly. "Luke? What are you doing here?" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so similar to his brother's it makes your chest ache.
"Can I come in? I just… we need to talk."
You step aside, gesturing toward your small dining table. "I was just making dinner. If you're hungry…"
"Actually, that'd be great," he says with a weak smile. "Haven't eaten yet." You set another place at the table, pouring him a glass of wine. The silence stretches, but it is not uncomfortable.
"Jack's been miserable," Luke finally says, swirling the wine in his glass. "I mean, next-level miserable. Barely eating, snapping at everyone. He won't talk about it, but I know it's about you."
You push pasta around your plate, appetite gone. "He was horrible to me, Luke. The things he said… how he acted toward you. It was so toxic."
"I know," he says softly. "He can be… intense. Especially about you. He's been in love with you for years, you know. It's been eating him alive."
Tears prick at your eyes. "That doesn't give him the right to treat me like property. Like I did something wrong by wearing your jersey."
"He knows that now," Luke says. "He's just… not good at expressing things without turning them into a disaster."
You reach for the wine bottle at the same time Luke does. Your hands collide, knocking over his glass. Red wine spills across the table, splashing onto your white shirt.
"Shit!" you both say simultaneously. Luke grabs napkins, dabbing frantically at the mess. "I'm so sorry."
"It's fine," you say, though the shirt is ruined. "I'll just change." When you return in a clean top, Luke has already cleaned up most of the spill. He shrugs off his own sweater, offering it to you.
"Here, in case you're cold." You accept it gratefully, pulling the soft fabric over your head. It smells faintly of his cologne.
"The thing is," you say slowly, settling back at the table, "I have feelings for him too. I always have. But I hated how he talked to me. How he acted toward you, like you were some kind of rival."
Luke nods understandingly. "He's an idiot. But he's my idiot brother. And he loves you more than he knows how to handle."
"Maybe I should talk to him," you admit. "Tell him how I feel, but also that his behavior was unacceptable."
"I think that's a good idea," Luke says with a small smile. "He needs to hear it from you."
You're about to respond when another knock sounds at your door. You glance at Luke, then at the clock. It's nearly ten. "I'll get it," you say, rising from your seat. "Maybe you can start with the dishes?"
Through the peephole you see Jack, looking even more wrecked than when you last saw him, his split lip now a dark scab. You open the door a crack. "Jack? What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you," he says, his voice rough. "Please. Can I come in?"
"Now isn't a good time," you say, your hand on the door to keep it from opening further. "It's late. I'll call you tomorrow."
His eyes narrow. "Why won't you let me inside? What's going on?"
"Nothing," you say quickly. "I just have company."
"Company?" he repeats, his voice dropping dangerously. That's when you hear it from the kitchen, the clink of dishes, Luke muttering something softly to himself. Jack's face transforms. Recognition, then disbelief, then pure, unadulterated rage. He shoves past you, stepping into your apartment with enough force to make you stumble back.
"Luke?" he calls out, his voice like ice. Luke appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
"Jack? What are you doing here?"
Jack's eyes scan the apartment, taking in the two wine glasses on the table, the half-eaten meal. Then his gaze lands on you, really lands on you and his expression darkens further. He recognizes the sweater you're wearing.
"Is that your sweater?" he asks Luke, his voice dangerously quiet. Luke looks down at your attire, then back at his brother.
"I spilled wine on her shirt. I offered her mine."
Jack lets out a bitter laugh. "Right. Wine. That's what we're calling it now?"
"What are you talking about?" you ask, your voice trembling.
"I'm talking about this!" he gestures wildly between you and Luke. "I pour my heart out to you, tell you I love you and three days later you're fucking my brother?"
"Are you serious right now?" you exclaim. "Jack, I'm not sleeping with Luke!"
"Don't lie to me!" he yells, his face turning red. "I see how it is. I finally tell you how I feel and you run straight to him. Was this your plan all along? Playing us both?"
"That's enough, Jack," Luke says, stepping forward. "You're being an asshole."
"Stay out of this!" Jack rounds on his brother. "Of course you'd defend her. You're getting what you want, aren't you? The girl I love, wearing your clothes, eating dinner with you while I've been going out of my mind."
"Jack, listen to yourself," you plead, tears streaming down your face. "Nothing happened between me and Luke. He came here to talk about you. To help me figure out how to fix things with you."
"Fix things?" Jack scoffs. "The only thing that needs fixing is whatever's broken in you that makes you think it's okay to lead me on then fuck my brother behind my back."
"I'm not leading you on!" you cry. "I told you I had feelings for you too! But you ruined it, Jack! You ruined it with your jealousy and your anger and your possessiveness!"
"Because I love you!" he shouts back, his voice cracking. "Because the thought of you with someone else, especially him, drives me insane!"
"Get out," Luke says, his voice low and dangerous. "Get the fuck out of her apartment, Jack."
Jack turns to face his brother, his chest heaving. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not here, not now."
"I'm not asking," Luke says, stepping between you and Jack. "You've upset her enough. Leave."
For a moment, it looks like Jack might physically push past his brother. Then, all the fight seems to drain out of him. He looks at you, really looks at you and something in his expression shifts, rage to anguish to despair. Without another word, he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoes in the sudden silence, leaving you shaking with sobs in Luke's protective embrace.
"I'm so sorry," Luke murmurs into your hair. "He's just… he's not himself right now." You nod against his chest, tears soaking his shirt.
"I know. But that doesn't make it okay." Luke holds you tighter, rubbing soothing circles on your back.
"I know. And I'm sorry you had to go through that." As your sobs subside, you pull away slightly, wiping at your eyes.
"Thank you, Luke. For being here. For defending me."
"Always," he says with a small, sad smile. "That's what friends are for."
But as you look at the closed door, at the remnants of your ruined dinner, you can't help but wonder if anything between you and Jack can ever be fixed after this.
hiii I saw that you write for Fraser and I wanted to ask if you could write something about him and reader getting into a nasty fight and reader wants to sleep on the couch that night
Empty Space
pairing: Fraser Minten x female reader
summary: After a fight with Fraser you decide to sleep on the couch.
The slam of the bedroom door echoes in the small apartment, a final punctuation mark to the ugly words that passed between you. You stand in the living room for a long moment, your chest tight with unshed tears, the silence pressing in on you. Going back in there feels impossible.
Without making a conscious decision, you find yourself pulling a throw blanket from the back of the armchair. The couch is lumpy and uncomfortable, but it's neutral territory. You arrange the pillows just so, creating a small nest away from him, away from the tension that still crackles in the air. You lie down, facing the back of the sofa and curl into a tight ball, willing sleep to come and rescue you from the ache in your chest.
Hours later, Fraser stirs in bed. The space beside him is cold, empty. He reaches out, his hand patting the mattress in search of your warmth, but finds only rumpled sheets. Panic, sharp and sudden, pierces through him. He sits up, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. "Babe?" he calls softly, but there's no response.
The apartment is quiet as he slips out of bed, his bare feet silent on the cool floor. He checks the bathroom first, then the small office, a growing dread tightening in his stomach. Then he sees it, a familiar blanket peeking over the arm of the couch.
He finds you there, curled up, your breathing soft but uneven in sleep. Even in the dim light from the streetlamp filtering through the blinds, he can see the tension in your shoulders, the tear tracks glistening on your cheeks. His heart clenches painfully. The fight replays in his mind—the careless words, the stubborn pride, the way he'd watched your face crumble. It all seems so stupid now, so meaningless compared to the sight of you sleeping alone, seeking comfort anywhere but with him.
He sinks to his knees beside the couch, his hand hovering over your hair, wanting to touch you but afraid to wake you, afraid you'll flinch away. "Hey," he whispers, his voice thick with regret.
Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, confusion clouds your gaze before memory returns. You shift away from him slightly. "Fraser?"
"What are you doing out here?" he asks, his voice barely audible. He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. "The bed's empty without you."
You sit up, pulling the blanket around you like a shield. "I just... I needed some space."
His expression crumbles. "Space? From me? In our own home?" He looks around the small living room, at the inadequate couch, the thin blanket. "I hate this. I hate you being out here. I hate that we fought and this is where you ended up."
"Well, I wasn't exactly welcome in our bed," you retort, the hurt still fresh.
"That's not what I meant," he says quickly, his voice desperate. "I don't care if we're fighting. I don't care if you're so mad at me you can't even look at me. I still need to know you're there. I need to fall asleep knowing you're next to me, even if we're not touching. The bed feels wrong without you. The whole apartment feels wrong."
His words chip away at your anger, revealing the raw emotion beneath. "Fraser..."
"I'm sorry," he continues, his eyes pleading. "I'm sorry for what I said. It was stupid and I didn't mean it. But I'm even more sorry that I made you feel like you had to sleep out here, alone. I can't... I can't do this. I can't be in a fight where we're in separate rooms. It feels like you're already gone."
A tear escapes and rolls down your cheek. He catches it with his thumb, wiping it away gently. "Don't cry," he murmurs. "Please don't cry. I can't stand it when you cry because of me."
"I'm not crying because of you," you whisper. "I'm crying because I didn't want to be out here either."
His shoulders slump in relief. "Then come back to bed. Please. We don't have to talk. We don't have to touch. We don't have to solve anything right now. Just... come back to bed. Let me hold you, even if you're still mad at me. I need to hold you."
You look into his eyes, seeing the sincerity, the love, the desperate need for you that transcends the anger of a few hours ago. You nod slowly.
He stands up, holding out his hand to you. You take it, letting him pull you to your feet and lead you back to the bedroom. He doesn't let go of your hand as you both slide under the covers. He turns to face you, gently arranging the pillow under your head.
"I love you," he whispers, his hand finding yours in the darkness. "Even when I'm being an idiot and we're fighting, I love you. That never changes."
"I love you too," you whisper back, the tension finally leaving your body. "Even when you're an idiot."
A small smile touches his lips. "Fair enough." He tugs you closer, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest. You rest your head on his heartbeat, steady and reassuring beneath your ear. The fight isn't forgotten, but it no longer matters. What matters is this, this space between you, filled not with anger, but with love.
"Better?" he asks softly, his lips brushing against your hair.
summary: You decide to punish your whiny boyfriend Will during a team dinner by teasing him under the table.
CW: Smut, mdni, public teasing, orgasm control, power dynamics, established relationship.
The restaurant buzzes with conversation and clinking cutlery, but all you can focus on is Will's perpetual sigh from beside you. He's been insufferable all day, complaining about practice, about his equipment and about the weather. When Coach announced the mandatory team dinner, Will's dramatic groan was the final straw.
Now, as you sit between Will and his teammate Mack, you decide enough is enough. If he wants to act like a brat, you'll treat him like one.
"Everything okay, babe?" you ask, placing your hand innocently on his thigh under the table.
"Fine," he mutters, pushing his vegetables around his plate.
Your fingers begin slow, deliberate circles against his dress pants. "You've been quiet."
"Just tired," he replies, but you feel him tense beneath your touch.
Mack leans across you. "Smitty, you still coming over to watch tape tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Will answers, his voice slightly strained as your hand drifts higher.
Your fingers trace the growing bulge in his pants, applying just enough pressure to make him shift in his seat. When the waiter comes to refill water glasses, you increase the pressure, watching with satisfaction as Will chokes on his response.
"You alright, man?" asks Misa from across the table.
"Fine," Will manages, shooting you a warning look that you pointedly ignore.
As conversation flows around you, you become bolder. Your palm rubs firmly against his length, feeling him harden beneath the fabric. His hand covers yours under the table, attempting to still your movements, but you push against his grip.
Coach's voice cuts through the noise. "Smith, I need to talk to you about your power play positioning."
Will nods stiffly, his knuckles white where he grips the tablecloth. "Yes, Coach."
Your fingers work at his zipper, slowly, carefully, until you can slip inside. His sharp inhalation is masked by a burst of laughter from down the table. When your hand makes direct contact with him, his whole body goes rigid.
"Your face-off percentage has been stellar this month," Coach continues, oblivious. "Keep that up."
You begin slow, deliberate strokes, base to tip, using his pre-cum to ease your movements. Will's breathing grows ragged, his free hand clenching into a fist on his thigh.
"You listening, Smith?" Coach asks.
"Yes," Will grits out, his voice tight. "Face-offs. Power play. Got it."
His teammates are deep in discussion about tomorrow's game against Vancouver, but Will is barely present. His hips make an involuntary thrust into your hand and he quickly coughs to cover the sound. You smile sweetly at him as if nothing is happening.
"Will, you're looking a little flushed," notes the team's nutritionist from two seats away. "Feeling okay?"
"Perfect," he bites out, glaring at you when no one's looking.
You pick up the pace, thumb circling his tip, feeling him twitch in your palm. His thighs tense, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. He's close, you can tell by the way his jaw clenches, by the desperate look in his eyes as he pleads with you silently.
As dessert menus are passed around, you feel him begin to pulse in your hand. His orgasm builds and right at the edge, you slow to a maddening crawl. He almost whimpers aloud, quickly covering it with a cough into his napkin.
"Smitty, you want dessert?" asks Mack.
"No," Will manages, his voice hoarse. "I'm good."
You continue your slow torture, bringing him to the edge again and again, each time denying him release. His face is flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. When Coach finally announces they can leave, Will practically shoots up from his seat.
"Nice to see everyone," he says through clenched teeth, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the exit.
The car ride home is silent, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The moment the apartment door closes behind you, he has you pressed against it, his mouth hot and demanding on yours.
"You're going to pay for that," he growls against your lips.
"I'm counting on it," you reply, already working at his belt buckle. "Someone needed to teach you a lesson."
He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom as you laugh against his mouth. "Oh, I learned my lesson. And now it's my turn to teach you yours."
summary: Connor returns to his hometown during the off-season and runs into you, the childhood friend he secretly had a crush on but never had the courage to approach.
CW: Fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, mutual pining.
The North Vancouver community center hasn't changed much in the years since you've been away for college. The same scuffed floors, the same faint smell of chlorine from the nearby pool, the same bulletin board cluttered with local announcements. You're scanning it for a yoga class when you hear a familiar voice.
"Hey, is that...?"
You turn and freeze. Connor stands there, taller and broader than when you last saw him, but with the same slightly awkward smile that used to make your teenage heart flutter. His Blackhawks hat is pulled low, but you'd recognize those eyes anywhere.
"Connor Bedard," you say, a grin spreading across your face. "Look what the cat dragged in."
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous habit you remember well. "Yeah, back in town for a bit. How have you been?"
"Good," you reply, stepping closer. "Just finished my second year at UBC. You know, studying boring stuff while you're out there being an NHL superstar."
Connor's cheeks flush slightly. "I wouldn't say superstar. More like just... really fast and good at skating."
You laugh. "Humble too, I see. Some things never change."
The conversation flows easily, as if no time has passed. He asks about your studies, you ask about his season. When he mentions the pressure of playing in Chicago, his shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
"It's... different," he admits. "Good, but different. Sometimes I miss just being able to walk around without people staring."
"Must be tough," you say sympathetically. "Though I have to admit, seeing your face on billboards is pretty weird."
His flush deepens. "Yeah, my mom has way too many of those cut out. It's embarrassing."
"You want to get out of here?" you ask suddenly. "I was just about to grab some ice cream from that place by the water we used to go to."
Connor's eyes light up. "Yeah, absolutely. Let me just..."
He trails off, fumbling with his phone as if checking for messages. You hide a smile at how endearingly awkward he still is around you.
The walk to the ice cream shop is filled with comfortable silence and occasional small talk. When you reach the counter, Connor insists on paying.
"I make big money now, remember?" he says with a grin. "I can afford two scoops of ice cream."
You roll your eyes. "Wow, big spender. Don't go crazy now."
You find a bench overlooking the water, the late afternoon sun glinting beautifully. For a while, you just eat your ice cream and watch the boats go by.
"Remember when we tried to build that raft here?" Connor asks, pointing toward a small cove. "It sank within five minutes."
You laugh. "And you blamed me because I didn't distribute the weight properly. As if ten-year-old you knew anything about physics."
"Hey, I was a smart kid," he protests, but he's smiling.
The conversation drifts to more serious topics as the sun begins to set. He talks about the loneliness of being away from home, about the weight of expectations.
"You know," you say softly, "you don't have to pretend with me, Connor. You never did."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch. "I know. That's why I always liked talking to you."
The air between you shifts, charged with unspoken history. He sets down his ice cream and turns to face you fully.
"There's something I never told you before I left for juniors," he says, his voice slightly unsteady. "I had this huge crush on you. Like, embarrassingly huge."
Your eyes widen. "Really? I had no idea."
"Yeah, well," he rubs his neck again, "I was kind of awkward around you for a reason."
You reach out and place your hand on his arm. "For what it's worth, I had a crush on you too."
Connor's face lights up, a genuine, unguarded smile that makes your heart skip a beat. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," you confirm. "I just figured I wasn't cool enough for the hockey prodigy."
"You were always cooler than me," he says, his voice soft.
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don't. When his lips meet yours, it's tentative at first, then deeper, sweeter than you'd imagined. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin softly.
When you finally pull apart, the sky has turned pink and orange above the water.
"Wow," Connor breathes, his forehead resting against yours.
"Yeah," you agree, your heart racing. "Wow."
He smiles, that same slightly awkward smile that first caught your attention years ago. "So, uh, I'm in town for another month..."
"Good," you say, leaning in for another kiss. "Because I think we have a lot of lost time to make up for."
As the sun sets over North Vancouver, you realize that sometimes the best things in life are the ones that were right in front of you all along.
summary: Jack hates seeing you wear his brother's jersey.
TW: Fluff, jealous Jack, toxic Jack, arguments, hockey fight.
The jersey isn't in its usual spot.
You tear through your closet, a growing sense of panic twisting in your stomach. It's not on the hook where it belongs, not draped over the chair in the corner, not buried in the pile of clean laundry on your bed. It's nowhere.
"Where is it?" you mutter to yourself, frantically pushing aside hangers. Jack had given it to you at the start of the season, a shy, hopeful smile on his face as he told you he wanted you to be his good luck charm. You'd worn it to every home game since.
You're going to be late.
With a frustrated groan, you sink onto the edge of your bed, your eyes scanning the room wildly. And then you see it. Tossed over the back of your desk chair, a forgotten piece of laundry from the last time the Hughes boys had been over. It's a Devils jersey, but it's not Jack's. The number on the back is 43.
Luke's.
It's just a number, you reason with yourself, snatching it up. It's still a Devils jersey. Jack won't even notice, not really. You and Luke are friends too, he won't mind. You pull it on, the fabric slightly too big, just like Jack's and grab your keys. You throw on a jacket and head out.
The roar of the crowd is a familiar comfort as you find your seat, a few rows up from the glass. You keep your jacket zipped up, a strange unease niggling at you. During warm-ups, Jack finds you immediately, his face lighting up as he skates over. He taps his stick against the glass, a goofy, lopsided grin on his face.
"You came!" he mouths, his voice lost in the arena's noise.
You beam back at him, giving him a small wave. "Always!" you mouth back, your heart swelling. He winks and then he is gone, swallowed by the flurry of pucks and players.
Sometime during the first period, the arena warms up. You shrug off your jacket, draping it over your seat, completely forgetting about the number on your back. You're too caught up in the game, too busy cheering and laughing with the fans around you.
It's during a TV timeout that you feel it. A stare. A hot, heavy glare that burns into your skin. You glance down towards the Devils bench and your heart plummets.
It's Jack. And he looks furious.
His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking in his cheek. His eyes, usually so warm and playful when they look at you, are narrowed into icy slits. He's staring right at you, his gaze dropping from your face to your chest, then to the ice where Luke is skating, before snapping back to you with a look of pure, unadulterated venom.
What the hell is his problem?
Your confusion quickly turns to worry. He's off his game. He's sluggish, missing passes he'd normally make in his sleep. He takes a stupid penalty for hooking, earning him a scowl from the ref and a glare from his coach. Then, with five minutes left in the second, he gets into a scrum behind the net. It's not a real fight, just a lot of shoving and angry words, but the other player gets a lucky punch in, splitting Jack's lip.
You're on your feet, your hands clasped to your mouth, a knot of dread tightening in your stomach. He skates to the bench, blood trickling down his chin and doesn't even bother to wipe it away. He just stares at you again, his eyes blazing with an emotion you can't decipher. All you know is that it's directed at you.
Somehow, the Devils manage to squeak out a win. You wait for him by the family and friends entrance, your stomach in knots. Luke is the first one out, his hair still damp from his shower, a tired but happy smile on his face.
"Hey!" he calls, spotting you. He pulls you into a quick, friendly hug. "Crazy game, right? Jack's been a beast out there."
"He got hurt," you say, your voice tight with worry. "His lip..."
Luke waves a dismissive hand. "He's fine. Just a little scratch." He grins, his eyes dropping to the jersey you're wearing. "Hey, look at you. Repping the right number for once." He nudges your shoulder playfully. "Looks good on you. Way better than it does on me, that's for sure."
Before you can respond, a sharp, cold voice cuts through the air. "It looks fucking hideous on her."
You both turn. Jack is standing there, his bag slung over his shoulder, his split lip a dark, angry red against his pale skin. His eyes are fixed on Luke, a storm raging in their depths.
Luke's smile vanishes, his posture straightening defensively. "Dude, what's your problem?"
"My problem?" Jack scoffs, stepping forward. "My problem is my best friend is wearing my little brother's jersey to my game."
"It's just a jersey, Jack," you say, stepping between them, your voice trembling slightly.
"No, it's not," he snaps, his glare finally landing on you, and it's so full of hurt and anger it makes you flinch. "What were you thinking, showing up to my game looking like that? You look fucking ridiculous"
Luke puts a hand on your arm, his expression concerned. "Hey, don't talk to her like that."
Jack's head whips back to his brother, his eyes flashing. "Don't fucking touch her. And stay out of this. She's my fucking best friend. Go wait by the car."
Luke looks from Jack's furious face to your worried one. He hesitates, then gives your arm a gentle squeeze. "You okay?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours.
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
"Alright," Luke says reluctantly, backing away slowly. "I'll be at the car." He gives Jack one last warning glare before disappearing down the hall.
The silence that follows is thick with unspoken words. Jack stares at you, his chest heaving.
"So," he says, his voice dangerously low. "He's your boyfriend now or something?"
"What?" you exclaim, your shock giving way to anger. "Jack, are you insane? Luke is my friend! Just like he's your brother!"
"Right, your friend," he sneers, taking another step closer until you have to crane your neck to look up at him. "The friend whose jersey you just had to wear tonight. The one you were smiling and laughing with while I was getting my face smashed in."
"I was worried about you!" you shoot back, your voice rising. "I had no idea why you were being such a psycho! I couldn't find your jersey, Jack! I looked everywhere! I didn't think it was a big deal, it's just a jersey!"
"It's not just a jersey!" he yells, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "Don't you get it? I hate it. I hate seeing another guy's number on your back. Especially his."
Your heart is pounding against your ribs, a frantic, chaotic rhythm. "Why? Why does it matter so much?"
"Because I like you!" he finally bursts out, the words torn from his throat. "I'm in love with you, you idiot! And it drives me crazy seeing you wear his number, knowing he gets to have his number on your back even for a night. It should be mine. It should always be mine."
The confession hangs in the air between you, raw and volatile. But the anger, the hurt, the utter bewilderment of the last hour doesn't just vanish. You stare at him, at his furious, desperate face, at the blood still drying on his lip and all you can feel is a cold, hard fury.
"You're a toxic asshole, Jack," you say, your voice shaking with rage. "You don't get to act like a jealous caveman and then expect me to fall into your arms. You don't get to treat me like that."
You turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him standing there, his confession crumbling in the empty space between you.
summary: Connor wants to learn how to braid your hair.
CW: Fluff
The first thing Connor registers is the quiet. It's too quiet. There's no gentle rustle of movement, no soft humming, no familiar click of your vanity drawers opening. He blinks his eyes open, the morning light filtering through the curtains just enough to illuminate the familiar landscape of his bedroom. And then he sees you.
You're still there, a warm, breathing lump tucked against his side, your hair a soft halo across the pillow. This is wrong. You, the human embodiment of a sunrise, is never still in bed this late. He gently nudges your shoulder.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. "You okay?"
You stir, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his side with a soft groan. "Mmm. 'm fine."
"You're still in bed," he states, a note of concern creeping into his voice. He props himself up on an elbow to look at you properly. Your eyes are still closed, your face soft and peaceful. "It's almost nine. You're usually up by seven."
"Sleepy," you mumble into his chest. "Don't wanna move."
He smiles, his heart doing that funny little flop it always does when you're like this, all soft and pliant and his. He runs his fingers through your messy hair, the strands silky between his fingers. "Okay, sleepyhead. But you're going to be late."
"Don't care," you sigh, content to stay right where you are.
A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence. Connor knows your routine as well as his own. He knows that the next step, the non-negotiable part of your morning, is for you to sit at your vanity and weave your hair into its signature French braid. The thought of you skipping it feels... wrong.
"You're not going to do your hair?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
You crack one eye open, giving him a sleepy look. "Don't have the energy today, Con. It's just hair."
He frowns. "No, it's not. You love your braid." He knows this with absolute certainty. He's spent countless mornings watching you, mesmerized by the graceful, practiced dance of your fingers. It's his favorite part of the day, a quiet, intimate ritual that calms him before the chaos of his own schedule begins.
"It's fine," you insist, though you both know it's not. "I'll just throw it up in a bun."
He hates the idea. Hates the thought of you not feeling like yourself today. A sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness washes over him. He wants to give you this. He wants you to have your perfect morning, even if you're too tired to create it yourself.
"Then I'll do it," he declares, his voice full of a determination that makes you open both your eyes this time.
You let out a soft laugh. "You? You can't braid hair, Con."
"How hard can it be?" he challenges, a grin spreading across his face. "I watch you every day. It's just... crossing some stuff over."
The sheer confidence on his face is so endearing that you can't help but agree. "Okay, Mr. I-Can-Do-Anything. Go for it. But don't blame me when I look like a tangled mess."
You sit up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You grab your brush from the vanity and sit on the floor in front of where he's now perched on the edge of the mattress, your back to him. He takes the brush from you, his touch gentle as he works through the tangles, his strokes long and smooth.
"Okay," you say, tilting your head back to look up at him. "You start at the top and take three sections."
"Right. Three sections." He gathers the hair, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Then... I cross them?"
"You cross the right over the middle, then the left over the new middle," you instruct, trying not to smile.
He follows your directions, his movements clumsy and unsure. The first attempt results in a lopsided knot that he has to undo immediately. "Okay, that wasn't it."
"No," you agree, trying to stifle a giggle. "That was not it."
He tries again. And again. Each attempt is more disastrous than the last. One braid is so loose it falls out immediately. Another is so tight it pulls at your scalp. He gets frustrated, letting out a huff of annoyance that makes you want to kiss him.
"This is impossible," he groans, dropping his hands. "Your fingers are like magic. Mine are just... dumb hockey sticks."
"You're not a quitter, Bedard," you tease, reaching back to pat his knee. "You can't be defeated by a little hair."
He's not deterred. He just shifts his strategy. "Hold on." He grabs his phone from the nightstand and you hear the faint, tinny sound of a TikTok video. "Okay, okay, I'm watching a tutorial. This girl makes it look so easy."
For the next ten minutes, you sit patiently as he mutters to himself, rewinding videos and trying to follow along with the influencers on his screen. He's so serious, so determined to do this one small thing for you, that your heart feels like it might burst.
"Okay," he says finally, his voice full of renewed confidence. "I think I got it. The secret is to add more hair each time. Let's try again."
This time, something clicks. His movements are still a little clumsy, but they're more deliberate. He's concentrating so hard you can practically hear the gears turning in his brain. He works slowly, section by section, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth in the way it does when he's truly focused. You can feel the braid taking shape, neat and tidy, down the back of your head.
When he finally ties the end with the elastic band you handed him, he lets out a triumphant whoop. "I did it! I actually did it!"
You reach back, your fingers tracing the length of the braid. It's not perfect, it's a little lopsided and there are a few bumps here and there, but it's beautiful. It's the most perfect, lopsided, bumpy braid you've ever seen.
You turn around, kneeling between his knees and look up at him. His face is lit up with pure, unadulterated pride, his smile so wide it could power the city for a week.
"Connor," you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. "It's perfect."
"Really?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.
"Really," you confirm, your hands coming up to cup his face. "You did so good. I'm so proud of you."
He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that's soft and sweet and full of love. When he pulls back, he's still smiling.
"See?" he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I told you I could do it."
"You're my hero," you declare, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. "My braiding hero."
He laughs, the sound warm and happy. "Anytime you need me, babe. Just say the word. I'll be your personal hair braider."
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