celly🐭

ceo of mitchmack for those who care!!!!

[falsejulia]

Will Smith Baseball universe where The White Sox know joy (and Mack is still a hockey player bc I can’t see him doing anything else I’m so not sorry)

3rd time i’m drawing wsh bc his face was made to be painted with oil and mack’s to be made into majestic sculptures. is this making sense?

[heymarns]

an orpheus who doesn’t look back is an orpheus that never loved eurydice.

[chailattewithwhippedcream]

I swear to fucking god if my beloved hockey rpf tag starts getting filled with Heated Rivalry AND OFF CAMPUS fics , I WILL ACTUALLY START THROWING A FUCKING FIT!!!!

[heymarns]

fresa, sabor fresa.

[heymarns]

oh but if i edit 1634 to Delincuente by Tokischa ill get slaughtered over on tiktok.

[heymarns]

to love is to turn around.

[illinoistollroad]

Choose your warrior: I want to see Auston daughter or I didn’t look over son

[duckyyee]

don't you turn like orpheus

1634 + orpheus by sara bareilles

[quinnerisms]

Mitch Marner + The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird

[vanityfaire]

thought i was being sneaky vs. i don’t know i didn’t see him

[heymarns]

“is she all that you want? is she all that you need? i’d be there in a hurry. baby, come back to me.”

[heymarns]

"si tú supieras lo que te quiero,

podría darte todo hasta mis ojos.."

"pero ya tienes otro.

un tipo frío y aburrido—

un tonto que es un reprimido.

eso no te pega a ti.

no te va."

“oye mi amor,

no me digas que no.

y vamos juntando las almas.”

[heymarns]

“my ass is so big it doesn't fit in my pants.” / dupa taka duża, że nie mieści mi się w spodnie.”

[phoebebrxdgers]

pov: macklin celebrini

[heymarns]

you know him inside out.

you know how he thinks, what plays he makes, his preferences in sticks and skates and helmet brands, his pregame rituals, superstitions, his playing style.

you may know other things, too.

how his gloves feel behind your helmet as he covers the back of your head to shield you from the glass's impact. you might also know how his sweaty skin feels against yours, pulled into a tight-grip hug after a particularly well played game.

he's smiling at you, flushed down to his chest, tape tearing over his game-worn pads, and he looks proud. you definitely don't smell good, and neither does he, but you still tuck your face under his chin.

your nose presses against his pulse, feeling the hot and erratic thump of his heartbeat. he smells like cold sweat and the ice and man, but you don't pull away. and neither does he.

you’re smiling hard, and so is he. your face hurts with the childish excitement you both feel at the simplicity of winning another game. playoffs are far into the future. the cup is even further.

but he isn’t. he’s as close as you want him to be.

in the end, it’s not something you did after all. (even if you’d been suspecting it to be.) in the end, you don’t raise the cup with him.

you don’t get to smell that post-game sweat and the sweet flash of his teeth you know so well. you don’t get his attention, the saccharine taste of his mouth, and you don’t get to pass that puck to him again—in the same way you know he’d sense your presence and that puck flying towards him without a glance.

2,252 miles away, you still know him.

except now, you use that knowledge against him.

you don’t talk again. he won’t even talk about you. and it’s jarring. you know the way he shuts down conversations means his voice is about to waver, except now it’s when he’s talking about you instead of with you.

you fit into the new locker room. you don’t tuck yourself into another teammate. and you trade blue for gold, white for black.

you toss a puck at him for warmups during the last minute, leaving at the same time like you used to when you were still draped in blue with him. you run down the hall before you can see him glance your way. if he did or didn’t, you don’t know. (you kind of want to)

after the game, you’re sweaty. there’s no one to press your skin to, and sure, you can smell the sweat of any guy in the locker room, but it’s not his and you’ve never wanted to do that before anyway.

so you drag yourself to your feet, grinning and bouncing across the arena to the home locker room, where you know every corner and hidden crevice where the guys shoved their tape or lost a mouthpiece.

you peek over reporters, trying to see past them for a glimpse of dark brown hair so that knot in your stomach can settle from that guilt through a phone call. and because you know him so well. you know where he sits. and where he is.

you said,

“I want to see Auston.”

[heymarns]

"i'm here for you , aus. see ? i'm real ."

[heymarns]

"It feels like almost yesterday, the rookie NHL duo was Mitch Marner and Auston Matthews.

That was 9 years ago.

Now it’s Will Smith and Macklin Celebrini."