FIA!!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR ☆

requests: open

latest project: wish you were sober - a nico hischier imagine !

WRITING ☆

masterlist + who i write for !!

fia’s fave !!

will smith x perreault!sister au - au tag

macklin celebrini x hughes!sister au - au tag

beckett sennecke x bookstore!girl au - au tag

600 celly !! (love love love ygs)

"pulling me close, begging me to stay over / but i'm over this rollercoaster" - conan gray, wish you were sober

nico hischer x reader

summary: nico only loves you when he can't remember it

warning(s): drinking, pushy a little? but not that bad

wc: 3.5k

fia's notes 💌: hiii i havent written a fic in so long lol so sorry if this sucks lmfao but i go back to school tomorrow so just wanted to put something out before i leave <3

THE BASE OF the music thrummed through the house like a heartbeat, loud and relentless. It was as if it was mirroring your own. The party was packed to the brim—bodies pressed together and drinks spilling as people shouted over the noise. Had half the party not been famous hockey players, the police would have had this place shut down within the first 30 minutes. 

You lingered in the kitchen, your cup held loosely to your lips as you scanned the crowd. You sat atop the cold marble countertop, knowing exactly who you were looking for—though you told yourself you weren’t. It wasn’t your fault, though. It was like your eyes were just attracted to him. Like you could sense him from a mile away without even seeing him. He was that intoxicating. 

And there he was. Right in the middle of the room. 

Nico.

He was surrounded by his teammates, his head thrown back in laughter as he listened to some joke Jack had said. He had this effortless way of commanding attention, of making people want to be around him. Maybe it was his everpresent smile, or the way he pushed back his soft brunette hair every couple minutes, or the way he towered over anyone in his presence, like he was protecting them. Nico was always the protector. Maybe that was what drew you to him the most. 

But that was also the worst thing about him, because who was there to protect you from him?

You tried to tear your gaze away, but it was impossible. You were caught in his orbit, just like always. 

As if sensing your eyes on him, Nico turned, his dark gaze locking on yours. His lazy, drunken smirk molded upon seeing you—his best friend. You knew how this would end. Save the heartbreak—and leave. But before you could get the chance to slip away, he was making his way toward you, weaving through the crowd with the kind of determination that made your stomach twist.

Nico wasn’t a bad person. He never hurt you, or blatantly tried to make you feel bad. He was honestly the nicest guy on the team when he wasn’t making fun of your skating, or the way you try to pronounce certain German words. He was your best friend. The one guy in the whole world who you would trust with your life. But tonight, and other nights just like these, you weren’t sure who he was.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice bright with excitement as he reached you. He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear, sending chills down your spine. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

You looked down towards the pulsating floorboards, turning away from his gaze. This happened—a lot. He’s your best friend one night—coming over to your apartment just so you two could watch funny TikToks at 2AM, critiquing your Tinder profile (“Your favorite dog breed is a golden retriever? That is so basic. We’re coming up with something better than that.”), and pushing you in shopping carts as you run away from angry employees—and other nights, he was like this. He was “in love” with you.

“You’re drunk, Nico,” you muttered, your heart stuttering in your chest.

It wasn’t like you didn’t want this. You’ve been wanting this since the moment you started working for the Devils and saw him walk down the tunnel in his full gear. He gave you a smile, gave you a rundown on every single player on the team—who to avoid (dating-wise), who to keep your camera on, and who gave the best answers— and wished you luck. A year later and you’re still waiting on him. It felt pathetic at this point, but every party gives you a little spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he feels the same.

“And you’re insanely gorgeous,” he countered, his grin fading into something softer but more dangerous. His hand slid to the counter beside you, nestling himself in the spot between your legs. He leaned in so close, you could feel the heat radiating off him. The move wasn’t casual—it was intentional, like he wanted to make sure you couldn’t look anywhere but him. He knew he was etched on every single fold of your brain. He knew you were his.

Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes searched yours, dark and glassy from the alcohol but holding something deeper, something that made your heart twist. It was something you’ve felt time and time before. Something out of reach, something fleeting, something unreal.

“Nico,” you said, your voice trembling as you tried to inject some steadiness into it, “you’re drunk. You don’t mean that.” You never mean it.

“Don’t I, though?” he challenged. His free hand hovered near your waist, hesitating, before brushing against the fabric of your dress, sending a shiver up your spine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You should’ve walked away, should’ve pushed him back and created distance between the two of you, but you were frozen in place, unable to move—unable to do anything. Nico Hischier, your best friend, was looking at you like you were the only person in the room, like you were something worth chasing.

And it wasn’t the first time—but it still hurt like it was.

Two weeks ago it had been the same. A late night after one of his games, Nico’s arms slung lazily over your shoulders as you sat on your couch, giving in to him. You two had just came back from a bar Mercer had coaxed you all into hitting up after the game. Nico was drunk, warm, and inviting. He’d leaned in closer than usual, his voice low as he told you how much he appreciated you, how you made everything easier, how he didn’t know what he would do without you. 

He’d kissed you that night. Just once, soft and fleeting, but enough to leave you staring at the ceiling long after he’d passed out on your couch. 

The next morning, he’d woken up with a groan, running a hand through his messy hair and complaining about his hangover. 

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” he’d said casually, like nothing happened, like your lips hadn’t still been burning from his the night before.

You had waited, hoping—praying—he’d bring it up. Hoping he’d say something. Anything.

But he hadn’t. And you hadn’t dared to either. 

Then there was last summer. Jesper Bratt’s birthday party. Nico had been drunk, but not sloppy—just enough to let his walls come down.

“You’re it for me, Y/N,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours as you sat on the back porch, ignoring the sounds of shouting and laughter from inside. “No one even comes close.”

You’d let yourself believe him, let yourself imagine for one stupid, passing moment that he meant it. 

But the next day, when you’d texted him, he responded with nothing more than a meme and a casual, “What time are you coming to the rink?”

No acknowledgement. No follow-up. Just the same old Nico, acting like your heart wasn’t caught somewhere between confusion and disappointment. 

And then there was the time he had pulled you onto his lap at a party. His hands rested on your thighs, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured sweet nothings, the kind of thing that made your stomach flip and your heart race.

“You’re everything, Y/N,” he’d whispered. He kissed you, allowed his arms to roam around your body, for his eyes to trail over every part of you that made you insecure. Maybe that was part of the rouse. He had pressed his lips, branded every single surface of your body, had seen all the parts of you that you absolutely hated, and somehow convinced you that they were beautiful.

But the next morning, just like all the times before, he’d acted like it hadn’t happened.

“Did you see that dog I sent you on Instagram? Gotta update that Tinder answer—that is your new favorite breed,” he’d said, flashing you that charming grin as you two sat in a diner for breakfast, like you hadn’t spent half the night replaying the way he’d held you—like maybe he actually meant it this time.

Your chest had tightened, you forced a smile and nodded, choking down your disappointment like it was something that you could just swallow and forget—but you never did, and you probably never will.

You swallowed thickly, staring at the boy in front of you. His dark, glassy eyes held yours as if searching for something—some unspoken permission, some proof that this wasn’t just a one-sided game he liked to play when the alcohol made him bold.

But you knew better by now. Didn’t you? You’d spent too many nights like this, caught between the boy who claimed you were his everything one night and the one who pretended none of it mattered the next morning.

But still, your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat when he leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. His lips finding the soft skin of your neck, placing delicate kisses in the places he knew drove you crazy.

"Nico," you whispered, the word trembling in the air between you. You couldn’t keep doing this to yourself. You shouldn’t keep doing this to yourself.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low and rough, almost pleading. "Come home with me tonight."

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn the world stopped spinning. The music faded, the room blurred, and all that existed was him—his soft brown eyes, his messy hair, the faint scent of cologne mixed with alcohol.

You wanted to say no. God, you wanted to say no. But the way he was looking at you, like you were the only thing keeping him here, made it impossible. He always did this—always made you feel like you were the center of his universe for one fleeting moment before tearing it all away the next morning.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was because you were simply weak, but you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away. Not when he looked at you like this.

"Okay," you said softly, hating yourself for how easily the word slipped out.

Nico grinned, a lopsided, boyish smile that made your stomach flip despite the ache in your chest. His hand wrapped around yours, pulling you off the counter and guiding you through the crowd with an urgency that felt all too familiar. The buzz of the party seemed to drown out, replaced by the rapid beat of your heart, the quickening of your breath.

When you reached the door, Nico was already pulling out his phone, ordering the Uber without a second thought. You didn’t stop him. Maybe part of you was still caught in the warmth of his hand in yours, or maybe you were just too tired to argue.

Once the Uber arrived, the two of you slid into the backseat, his arms already encircling you as your head laid on his slow-rising chest. The peacefulness of it all made you feel both content and terrified at the same time. How was he so good at this? At making you believe that he wanted you? How was he so steady and still, knowing that he was shaking up your entire life with this moment alone.

He felt safe, and warm, and inviting. And you hated that because you knew it was wrong. This whole thing was wrong. So why couldn’t you let go?

He planted flowery kisses to the crown of your head, his lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His entire body was so close, you could feel the heat and the tension radiating from him. This moment—it felt like everything and nothing at the same exact time. 

"You’re so beautiful," Nico murmured against your hair, his voice rough but sincere. "Every time I look at you, I just... I don’t know how to explain it. You’ve got this way about you that drives me crazy. You’re everything."

You closed your eyes, trying to block out the knots of confusion twisting in your stomach. It felt too good, and that scared you more than anything. His kisses continued, delicate and tender, each one making your heart race in a way that both calmed and terrified you.

You knew this wasn’t real; that he had done this countless times before, but was it so bad to believe it was—just for tonight?

You allowed for your eyes to close, for your body to rest and mold against him, for him to take you completely..He shifted slightly, his fingers running through your hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips. “You’re always like this,” he murmured, his voice warm with affection. “You just always make everything feel... easier, I guess.”

You couldn’t help but notice the softness in his tone, the way he seemed to genuinely mean it, even though you both knew this wasn’t it—not really.

The car hummed quietly around you as he leaned his cheek against your head, his breath warm on your skin. It was easy to let yourself get lost in the moment, his presence so familiar, so comforting. But then his voice broke the silence again, the words so casual they almost seemed like an afterthought.

“I always remember you, Y/N.”

The words hung in the air, soft but heavy, and it hit you like a tidal wave. Your breath caught, your chest tightening so suddenly it felt like you’d been punched. You glanced at him for half a second, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore, his gaze fixed out the window, a faint smile still playing on his lips, like he hadn’t just shattered you with a few careless words.

You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift in your thoughts. The feeling of his arms around you didn’t feel the same anymore. His closeness had always been a comfort, but now it felt like a reminder of everything you were trying to avoid.

He didn’t even realize what he’d just done, how his lighthearted, offhand comment had sent you spiraling. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t do anything. His hand continued to lightly trace circles on your arm, his presence close, but something about it now—it felt toxic, like the entire thing, all that you two had built in the last few minutes had just blown up on you. 

Because he wasn’t just talking about tonight, not just the alcohol clouding his thoughts. No, he’d remembered you all along. Even when it felt like he hadn’t been there, like it was just something that happened when he was caught up in the moment, he always remembered.

But he pretended like he didn’t.

Before you could say anything, the Uber pulled up to his apartment, and you both got out of the car, the night air doing little to settle the emotions swirling between you.

Nico smiled softly, his hand brushing yours, pulling you into the building. He looked at you like nothing had changed, like he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb on your heart. 

When you arrived, he held the door open for you, his grin softening into something more intimate as he led you inside, his hand lingering on your lower back as he guided you past the threshold. The apartment was familiar, but it felt different tonight—distant, colder, almost suffocating. Nico wasn’t just a boy in front of you anymore; he was a reminder of everything you couldn’t quite make sense of.

Once you were in, he closed the door behind you with a soft click. He stood there for a moment, his eyes still on you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, steady breath, as though he was waiting for something.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do. But just like everything Nico did, he pushed forward like he didn’t even have to try, like he never did anything for the first time. He just always knew. 

And before you knew it, his hands were on your waist, hungrily exploring your body like he had never traversed around it before. His lips pressed gently against yours, like he was giving you time to back out, to tell him that this wasn’t what you wanted. He was testing the waters with you. And you knew you shouldn’t be here; that you should’ve taken that moment, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not yet.

He backed you up against the couch, the soft, plush arms hitting the back of your thighs as he groaned softly into your mouth. His hands slid under your dress, the heat of his palms on your skin making your breath hitch, his kisses growing more urgent as if he was trying to steal something from you. You could feel the tension building between you, his desire so palpable, so intense, that it was almost suffocating.

You could feel it, too—your own heart pounding, your body responding despite the part of you that was screaming to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him. You did. Maybe too much. But this wasn’t right. Not like this.

He kissed down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Y/N…” His hands found their way to your back, slipping the straps of your dress down your shoulders, his lips trailing after them. "Come on, just let go tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and pleading. "Tell me you want this."

The weight of the situation settled over you, and suddenly everything felt wrong—too fast, too much. You pulled back, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing. His eyes were dark, clouded with desire, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t what you needed.

“I can’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling, but firm. “I don’t want this.”

The words hit him like a switch. As soon as you said them, Nico froze.. His hands, still hovering near the straps of your dress, stilled. His lips parted, but no words came. His hands dropped to his sides, and he took a deep breath, like he was trying to steady himself, like he was struggling to understand. You could almost hear the shift in his thoughts—the reality sinking in as the alcohol seemingly cleared from his system in an instant.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered, the words low, raw, and full of regret. He reached for you as if to stop you from leaving, but then he hesitated, pulling his hand back like you might vanish if he touched you. "God, Y/N, I didn't—"

“You didn’t do anything,” you murmured, placing your hand on his wrist. “It’s me.” Before he could protest, you were already looking into his eyes with something he’s never seen from you before. Remorse? Sadness? Regret? “I like you more than you will ever like me. I just wish…you wanted me when you were sober," you whispered like you had just revealed your entire hand.

And in the scope of it all, you had. You were completely bare.

There was a long silence, his lips parted as though he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, his hands hanging at his sides as if the life had drained out of him. And you knew he wasn’t seeing you, not really. He was seeing someone else—the girl he could keep at arm’s length, the girl who would give him what he wanted when it was easy, when he was too drunk to remember what it really meant.

You didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

“I’m leaving,” you said quietly, already stepping toward the door. Nico didn’t try to stop you this time. Instead, he watched, his eyes following you as you reached for the handle.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

The words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, you could almost hear his sincerity, though you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol wearing off or the realization that he had truly pushed you too far. But that didn’t matter anymore.

You opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, the weight in your chest only growing heavier as you walked away. You knew leaving was the right choice—no matter how much it hurt. It was time to stop pretending, to stop chasing something that wasn’t meant for you.

By the time you were back home, the tears were spilling over, and his words were echoing in your head. You leaned against the wall, your body crumpling into a pile on the floor of your kitchen. You had made the right choice—leaving before it went too far, before you let him make you feel like you were disposable again. But that damn line, "I always remember you"—it haunted you. Lighthearted. Careless. Yet somehow, it felt like the cruelest thing he’d ever said. 

After a while, you stood up, wiped your tears, slid off your dress, sat in bed, and hoped that one day, Nico would wish he’d been sober too.

beckett sennecke headcanons!! ⭐️🩰🪞💌🛁

💌 author's note: wait im literally obsessed with headcanons now i wanna do so many more LOL

bf!beckett is such passenger princess energy it's insane and he's ALWAYS on aux. like he'll literally fight for it.

also, he can only sit in the front or else he'll start complaining that there's either no space for his long ass legs or that he'll get car-sick and barf all over everyone lmfao

bf!beckett whoo buys you literally everything. like you don't even have to tell him you like something, like if you look at something for too long, he's already at the cash register buying it for you

bf!beckett who loves playing with ur hair. he's like a little cat with a ball of yarn. he tried braiding ur hair once and it just created a bunch of knots and he was TERRIFIED he was like "oh my god, babe. i think i just fucked up your hair."

bf!beckett who loves sharing updates on his day. like he'll be send pics of him and his teammates at a sandwich shop and be like "just ate the best sandwich of my life! we're coming here together next time!" or he'll be at a dog park and send a picture of all the dogs and be like "take your pick. i think i can steal one when they're not looking."

bf!beckett who calls you pookie in a teasing way because he knows how much you hate it. he says it the most in public because he likes to see ur cheeks turn pink.

bf!beckett who orders 3 entrees at restaurants and also eats the food you can't finish he's literally a human vacuum

bf!beckett who always shares his food with you even if it's his favorite. he just wants to share everything with you <3

bf!beckett who's drama is ur drama. like anytime he gets a piece of information and he has to swear not to tell a single soul, he always ends up telling you and it's technically not breaking the rules because you're basically an extension of him, so...

bf!beckett who is just the sweetest subconsciously. like he wont even realize he's doing things like pulling out your chair and carrying your bags and opening the car door for you. sometimes when you're at his apartment and he sees your cup is empty, he'll go refill it before you even ask. he just knows

bf!beckett who misses you all the time. even if it's just for a day, he'll start sending you texts about how much he misses you and your pretty face. roadies are the worst. he is always facetiming you and talking about you to his teammates, like "y/n would love this. let me send her a pic" or "what do you guys think y/n is doing right now?"

bf!beckett who gets your entire family gifts on their birthdays and christmas. even on valentines day, he'll get your mom some flowers and a note like "thanks for welcoming me into your family, mama l/n!"

bf!beckett who is super close with your younger siblings. like he loves playing video games with your little brother or playing tea party with your little sister. he'll even pretend to be a prince while your sister plays a princess. he'll be super into it to like calling her "your highness" and wearing a crown and cape.

bf!beckett who sends you a stupid meme every morning before you wake up. it'll be like a seal saying "top of the morning!" and you roll your eyes every time but you never want him to stop

bf!beckett who made you a playlist after your first date (which was at a diner and had one of those tiny juke boxes on the table. you chose "here comes the sun" and that was the first song he added to the playlist)

"it's time for you to get real about life and sort out who you really are."

☼ pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader

☼ summary: one last princeton party with your beloved boy...

☼ fia’s note 💌: waittt we're lowkey on a roll. i literally have not done any school work simply because i'm so tapped into this LMAO. but i hope u enjoy Saturn Returns Interlude <3

eternal sunshine hq ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

prev part: don't wanna break up again ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

*₊ ° .　. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

You weren’t always like this. You didn’t believe in the standard ideology of making money, owning a nice house, creating a family, growing old, and dying. You were fun. Maybe that’s why Jack liked you; what drew him to you in the first place. 

As you sat strapped in the chair at the Lacuna Inc. office, items were being placed in front of you, inciting some sort of reaction in nerves—good or bad. But this one, this one was good.

“You can’t possibly think that Space Invaders 2 was better than Space Invaders 1,” Jack asked incredulously, his head tilted up towards the space you sat, perched on his back, your arms entangled around his neck as he piggybacked you to the parking lot.

“It was way better!” you laughed. “Tell me Dylan O’brien doesn’t make a hot astronaut.”

“Well,” he replied, earning a grin from you.

“See! Even you can’t say no.”

“Hey!” he poked your side before he let you down, allowing you to slip into the passenger seat before he rounded the car and plopped into the driver’s side. Pecking your lips, he eagerly strapped his seatbelt to himself. “You would have to be blind to think he didn’t look at least okay in that,” he chuckled, reversing out of the parking spot and onto the main road. 

Laughing, you slipped off your shoes, leaving them on the rubber mat of his car. Looking over at him, you watched him eye you quickly before looking back at the road. He smirked, feeling your eyes on him. When you were around, there was always a giddy feeling in his chest. His family told him that it was a symptom of the honeymoon phase. “It’ll fade with time,” his aunt told him during Thanksgiving dinner last year. But even when you’re screaming in his face, dark mascara running down your burning cheeks, and hiccups stuck in your sore throat, he still felt that feeling. 

As long as he was alive, he’d still feel that feeling.

You pulled your knees to your chest. “There’s a party,” you murmured.

He hummed in response but you knew he already knew about it. He knew about every party that happens in New Jersey. Not because he was some party fiend—well, yes he was—but because he was also invited to every party in New Jersey. If Jack Hughes was at your party, then it must be good. And, if Jack Hughes was at your party, it must mean his girlfriend was there too, because at that stage of your relationship, wherever he was, you were too. 

“I wanna go,” you whispered softly, running your hands through his hair as he stopped at a redlight. He threaded his fingers through yours, bringing them up to his lips, and gently kissing your knuckles. 

“Then let’s go.”

*₊ ° .　. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

It was a Princeton party. Jack hated those parties. He always felt so dumb around everyone else, but you loved this shit. Call yourself immature, but this was the one place you felt like you had a one-up on Jack. This was the one place you felt like you weren’t just Jack Hughes’ girlfriend. Here, you had a name. 

“Y/N!” Sam shouted over the music as he slid past drunk partygoers and sweaty, dancing bodies. 

Jack clung to you. His chest touched your back and his hands held your waist the entire time. He wasn’t going to let you go, not even for a second. 

“Sam,” you smiled. “This is Jack. You remember him from Cade’s party, right?” 

“The hockey player,” Sam recalled, holding his hand out to Jack.

Jack briefly nodded, sticking out his right hand, keeping his left attached to your figure. “Yeah. Just Y/N’s boyfriend tonight.”

You looked up at him, leaning back, and resting your head on his chest as he pecked your grinning lips. Sometimes you couldn’t believe how good he was at this—at being yours. Jack could navigate any room, whether it was a crowded party full of Ivy League kids or a packed arena filled with screaming fans, and still make it feel like you were the only person he cared about impressing. It wasn’t an act, either. You could see it in the way his fingers lightly drummed against your hip to the beat of the music or the way his eyes always flicked back to you, like he needed to confirm you were still there.

Sam kept talking, something about his startup idea or his summer internship—honestly, you weren’t paying attention. Jack wasn’t, either. His focus stayed on you, his thumb brushing lazy circles into the soft fabric of your top, grounding you to him. His chest was warm against your back as the conversation with Sam dragged on. You glanced over your shoulder and caught the slight twitch in Jack’s jaw, a telltale sign of how much longer he could take of Sam’s 15-minute monologue that soon became all about NFTs.

You smirked, slipping your fingers into his hand. “C’mon,” you whispered, tugging him gently toward the kitchen. “Let’s get you a drink before you die of boredom. See you later, Sam!” you smiled, waving goodbye to him as you dragged Jack through the party.

Jack’s low chuckle followed you as he let himself be pulled away. His free hand slipped into the back pocket of your jeans as you maneuvered through the crowd. 

In the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, watching you walk around like you just knew what to do, where everything was, like you never had a single question in your mind. You just knew.

“I owe you one for that,” he said faintly, his grin softening.

“You owe me plenty,” you teased, grabbing two red Solo cups from the counter and flashing him a grin over your shoulder. The kitchen was littered with cans: beers, seltzers, Yerba Mates (for some odd reason). A few pizza boxes were stacked on the counter near the half-opened fridge and a large plastic bin filled with ice sat, a few stray cans of unopened beers slowly sinking in the melting water. “Pick your poison.”

Assessing the limited variety, Jack picked up a beer from the cooler, handing it off to you—not forgetting to do so without a quick kiss. He watched as you popped open the lid, pouring in the bubbly liquid with ease. He didn’t take his eyes off you, even as you handed him his drink and started mixing your own. You felt his eyes on you as you bent down, grabbing a bottle of half-drunken vodka from one of the lower cabinets. You had bought Sam a handle two weeks ago for his birthday. You were surprised it wasn’t all gone by now. 

To be honest, Jack didn’t even like beer, but he didn’t say anything. He just watched you, a soft smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he got to have this—got to have you.

“Hm?” you hummed, still feeling his eyes bore into the back of your head.

“Nothing,” he said after a long pause, his voice quiet enough to make you spin around. “I just… you’re good at this.”

You chuckled. “At pouring drinks?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you mixed the vodka with some cranberry juice you found on the counter.

He shook his head, taking a sip. “You’re just… good at making everything feel easy.” His words were soft, almost lost under the bass thudding from the next room. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to mask the flutter in your chest. “You’re ridiculous, Hughes.”

He scoffed, his grin widening as he reached for your hand again. He nodded, prompting you to push away from the counter and follow suit. “Come on, gotta show me those moves you’re always bragging about.”

He led you toward the living room, where the music was loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards. You slid easily into the crowds, finding the beat without hesitation. Jack stayed close, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you just enough to feel the heat of him on your back. 

You laughed, your drink still secure in your hand as you turned your head slightly, watching him watch you. He always said he was never a dancer, but with you, it felt like he could do it forever. 

Your free hand slid up, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make him lean down toward you. He didn’t hesitate, his arms tightening around your waist, grounding you against him as if you might slip away.

You leaned back, resting your head against his chest, your laughter soft and breathless as his lips brushed close to your ear. He grinned down at you like the crowded room had disappeared, like you were the only thing that mattered. And for that moment, it felt like you were.

You two stayed like that for a while. Laughing, touching, whispering in your little bubble. And as the music swelled, his hands steady on your hips and his eyes locked on yours, he made you believe how much he really loved you—that his love was not limited, and that you’d always be his, in every lifetime.

Growing hot, you tugged on Jack’s hand, weaving through the crowd and towards the front door. He didn’t question it, just followed, like he did most things with you. He’d follow you to the ends of the earth if he could.

Outside, the cool night air hit you, sharp against your skin, and you sighed in relief. The world felt quieter out here, with only the muffled thump of bass and the distant hum of crickets filling the space between you.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low as he leaned against the porch railing across from you.

“Yeah,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself, the chill creeping through the thin fabric of your top.

Jack noticed immediately. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and stepped closer, draping it over your shoulders. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing your collarbone as he adjusted the fit. 

You glanced up at him, the jacket swallowing you whole as the smell of faint cologne surrounded you. You didn’t even need to ask, you just let him pull it tighter around you. It was always like this with Jack—he knew what you needed before you could even say it.

“What about you?” 

He shrugged, slipping his hands into the back pockets of your jeans as he stepped even closer, his body radiating warmth. “Guess I’ll just have to stay here,” he said, his voice teasing but low enough to make your breath hitch. “Besides, it looks better on you anyway.”

You rolled your eyes but your smile gave you away.

Everything about this moment was perfect and effortless and just so right. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to hold you like this, like you just fit together. 

For a while, you just stood there, and when the cold started to bite a little harder, he nudged you gently. “Ready to head back in?”

You hesitated, pulling the jacket tighter around you. You wish you had stayed longer; that you didn’t crave the need to see your friends inside; that you were fine just standing there with him, listening to his breathing, and every time he pointed out a constellation. (He didn’t really know what a constellation was—he just pointed at random stars, and you didn’t want to explain it to him, so you let him have at least that, just like you always let him have the little things.) You wish you had stayed. 

So now, you said, “Not yet.”

And in another universe, he would’ve said, “Okay.” He would’ve leaned in until your shoulders touched, waited until you were ready to move, and stayed with you on that porch until morning.

You could feel the jacket growing heavier on your shoulders, like it knew it was the last time you’d ever hold this moment. 

And then, so suddenly, just like all of the memories before, it began to . . .

f a d e .

The edges of the memory began to blur. The cool breeze softened into a dull hum. The laughter between you grew distant, and the stars he’d pointed to were disappearing one by one, swallowed by the thick, dark sky. You tried to hold on, tried to keep the details sharp—the sound of his voice, the heat of his touch—but the harder you clung, the faster they slipped away.

Wait, you wanted to shout. Please. Let me hold onto this for a little while longer. Please, just wait.

But then, the stars above turned to nothing. The porch faded, the thump of music dissolved into silence, and the memory slowly unraveled, thread by thread.

Until it was gone,

“it's breaking my heart to keep breaking yours again.”

☼ pairing: jack hughes x fem!reader

☼ summary: the memory-erasing process leads you to rethink what you could've done differently in your relationship...

☼ fia’s note 💌: omg i've had this sitting in my drafts for so long but i've been debating whether to post because i didn't know if i wanted to continue this series, but i lowkey love it. also, you kind of need to understand the movie to get what's happening, but here's like a little tip: y/n's conscious during this, like yes, it's a memory, but at the same time she's reliving it as if it's real and she's there. also, i've been soooo busy with college but i'm trying to find time to write!!

eternal sunshine hq ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

prev part: bye ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

*₊ ° .　. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

You didn’t break up that night. He had made his way to your doorstep with flowers in his hands: white tulips, to be specific. He had bags under his red eyes, his nose was stuffy and gross, and his lips trembled uncontrollably. You had never seen him quite like that. Sure, you had seen him sad after a tough game, or the time his childhood dog died, but you had never seen him like this over you.

It gave you hope—false hope.

“I brought flowers,” he announced, holding them out to you as if he had dug them from the ground with his bare hands, like a child. You laughed. You were always laughing with him.

By now, the flowers were shriveled and wilted in a small Ziploc bag at the bottom of the white box you had brought to Lacuna. But then, just as you had remembered, you accepted the blooming white bouquet graciously. It was like you were blinded to everything he had previously said about you. It all went in one ear and out the other.

And for a while, you were happy that way. You were happy pretending to be happy. And some part of you blames that on being too lazy to restart; to break up with another person and restart again because the process was draining. It was impossibly hard. With Jack, all you had to do was settle. You were happy with him sometimes, most times—and that was enough for you.

“Have you been crying?” you laughed, pulling his neck towards you.

“Baby,” he replied, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

“I know, the big macho hockey player doesn’t want to show emotion, but I think it’s a good thing, you know?” you said, pulling his face out of your neck. “It shows that you care.”

“I do care. I care a lot about you.”

I care a lot about you.

I        care     a lot       about you.

I care       a lot      about       you.

care a lot       about    you.

care     about     you.

about    you

    you

you

     you

you 

     you

you

His words echoed in your mind, as if you were really there, experiencing the moment in real time. As if you were reliving it again. Maybe it’s because you were. You were fully present. This wasn’t a past you. You were in your head; in your memories. You were truly reliving it again.

“Stay the night?” you offered, cracking the door open. 

“Is that what you want?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

It was like that for a couple of more months. You fight, you storm out, he comes crawling back. Everyday felt recycled. You felt it for a while, and you wondered if he felt it, too. You had suspected he had, he was just too tired to change anything.

You fell asleep crying again. He heard. He could hear your sniffles and he felt your movement on the other side of the bed. He put on headphones.

And in the morning, you were fine. You were making pancakes in your underwear and an oversized shirt—one of Jack’s. He rubbed his tired eyes as he walked out of your bedroom in nothing but shorts. 

“Dr. Mitchell called. She said we can come in at 3:15 today if you’re free,” you spoke, tossing a pancake over in the pan. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, taking in the aroma of the food mixed in with the smell of your shampoo.

“I’m there,” he smiled, kissing your cheek.

He wasn’t. He was never there. You two had decided to go to couples therapy after your third argument. You were unhappy, he was too, but you wanted to work it out. You knew it was just a rough patch in your relationship. It didn’t mean anything. 

But couples therapy just became you sitting in a chair, venting to Dr. Mitchell about how you were feeling in the relationship. And after a while, she stopped asking if Jack was coming. 

“Where have you been?” you asked one night as Jack came back to his apartment, drunk and confused.

“What are you doing here?” he questioned, squinting his eyes and grabbing a beer from the fridge. Great, more alcohol for the already-drunk guy. You wanted to scream.

“I was waiting for you. You said we would go out tonight,” you said softly. You sat on his sofa, your highest black heels and shortest shimmery black dress adorning your body as mascara ran down your pink cheeks. 

He shook his head, walking into the living room. “I never said that.” His words were slurred. You wanted to slap him in the face. He did say that. He said it that morning. You had gotten dressed. You were excited. You waited.

“But you did, Jack,” you whispered. You paused, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “I thought you wanted to get married.”

“And I thought you didn’t. Huh?”

You furrowed your brows as you stood up from the sofa, meeting him in the middle of the living room. “Why are you doing this?”

He laughed. For some reason, he laughed. “You’re fucking doing it again.”

“Doing what again?” you exclaimed.

“You’re making me the fucking villain again!”

You shook your head, your eyes stinging. “I never said that.”

“Yeah? You might as fucking well.”

“Where is this coming from, Jack? What,” you stammered. “What are we doing? What the fuck are we doing?”

He looked tired. His face was printed into a frown. It’s been like that for a while now. You missed seeing him smile. “I don’t know,” he answered, sitting down on the sofa as you followed. “I don’t fucking know,” he muttered.

“This is hard,” you whispered, laying your head onto his shoulder. He held your hand as if it was the last time, and you squeezed it as if you were never going to see him again. Because this time, it really was the last.

“I know.”

“I’m not happy anymore.”

He nodded slightly. “I know.”

You bit your lip. You wanted to prolong your time here. You wanted to stay with him for as long as you could, but you knew that wasn’t right to either of you. It was time to let go.

“I don’t see a life with you anymore.”

A tear hit your fingers, and at that moment, you realized it was over. Jack was crying. He wasn’t arguing because there was nothing left to save. There was no you left in his life. It was over.

“Can we say goodbye this time? You didn’t do it last time,” he murmured. 

He was right. You broke up with him and left. You didn’t say goodbye. You wished you had.

You held onto his neck, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Goodbye, Jack.”

The walls were fading. The paintings were gone, the table was chipping, the ceiling had a large hole, showing the stars twinkling in the pitch black sky.

You were forgetting what his apartment looked like. The pictures of his family were morphed into people you had no clue as to who they were, the jersey on the chair in the corner of the room was blurry. You couldn’t see the number or the last name on the back. It was all fading away.

Quickly, as if he could see you forgetting, he said, “Goodbye, Y/N.”