Can you write something about Mack and reader getting into a really toxic argument because he gets jealous (maybe because reader barley paid him any attention at like a team event or something)
Baby, You´re Toxic - Macklin Celebrini
pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader
summary: Mack and you get into a toxic fight.
CW: Toxic relationship, Mack is really mean, jealousy, crying, established relationship.
The heavy oak door of your home clicks shut behind Macklin, the sound echoing in the tense silence that follows. The ride from the team charity gala had been suffocating, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his jaw set in a hard line. You had tried to fill the silence with observations about the event, but your words dissolved into the oppressive atmosphere between you.
Now, in the soft glow of the entryway light, his anger finally erupts.
"Having fun tonight?" he asks, his voice dangerously calm as he shrugs off his suit jacket and tosses it onto a chair.
You freeze in the act of removing your heels. "What do you mean? It was a nice event. Raised a lot of money."
Macklin turns slowly, his eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about."
"I really don't," you say, though a sinking feeling tells you exactly where this is heading.
He takes a step closer. "Will. You couldn't stay away from him, could you? Laughing at his stupid jokes, touching his arm every time he said something."
Your own anger begins to simmer. "We were having a conversation, Mack. It's called being social. Something you should try sometime instead of brooding in the corner."
His face darkens. "I wasn't brooding. I was watching my girlfriend flirt with my best friend in front of everyone."
"I wasn't flirting!" you retort, your voice rising. "You left me alone the entire night, Mack, talking with the coaches and forgetting all about me."
"That's my job!" he yells, his voice echoing off the walls. "What's your excuse? Throwing yourself at the first guy who gives you a little attention?"
"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone!" you scream back, your voice cracking. "Will is your friend, he's nice, he actually talks to me like I'm a person instead of just an accessory you bring to events."
"An accessory?" Macklin scoffs, advancing until he's towering over you. "That's what you think of yourself? That's what you think I think of you? After everything I've done for you?"
"Everything you've done for me?" you repeat incredulously. "You mean like controlling who I talk to? Like getting angry every time a man looks at me? Like making me feel guilty for having friends?"
"I don't make you feel guilty!" he shouts, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You do that to yourself because you know you're crossing lines!"
"I'm not crossing any lines!" you fire back. "You're the one with the problem! You're so insecure that any time I interact with another human being with a penis, you assume I'm cheating on you!"
"Maybe because you want to!" he retorts, his words like physical blows. "Maybe because you're bored with me already and looking for an upgrade!"
"That's disgusting," you say, shaking with rage and hurt. "How can you even say that to me?"
"It's the truth, isn't it?" he presses, stepping closer still, invading your space. "You love the attention. You love knowing that Will, that all of them, want you. It gets you off, doesn't it? Knowing you could have any of them."
Tears of frustration sting your eyes. "You're being cruel, Mack. You're saying horrible things just to hurt me."
"Maybe I want to hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "Maybe I want you to feel even a fraction of what I felt tonight, watching you with him. Watching you give him the smiles that are supposed to be mine. The touches that are supposed to be mine."
"You don't own me, Macklin," you say, your voice trembling. "You don't own my smiles or my touches or my conversations. I'm not your property."
"Aren't you?" he challenges, his eyes blazing with a possessive fire that both frightens and sickens you. "Isn't that what this is? You live in my house, you spend my money, you wear the clothes I bought you. You exist because I allow you to."
The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You stare at him, at the stranger standing before you wearing your boyfriend's face.
As the last word leaves his lips, something shifts in his expression. The anger in his eyes dissolves, replaced by immediate, gut-wrenching regret. He sees the devastation on your face, the way your lip trembles, the tears welling in your eyes, the way you physically shrink back from him as if struck.
"Oh god," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean that. I'm so sorry."
He reaches for you, his arms opening to pull you into an embrace, to take back the words that have caused so much damage.
But you flinch away from his touch, stumbling back as if his hands are fire. The rejection is a physical blow to Macklin, his arms dropping uselessly to his sides.
"Don't touch me," you whisper, your voice broken by sobs that finally break free. "I can't... I don't want to be near you right now."
You turn and flee, not even bothering to grab your purse or phone. The sound of the bedroom door closing, then the soft click of the front door opening and closing again, leaves Macklin standing alone in the entryway.
The silence that follows is deafening, more punishing than any argument. Macklin sinks to his knees, his head in his hands, the weight of his words crushing him. He replays the moment over and over, the flash of hurt in your eyes, the way you flinched from his touch, the sound of your broken voice telling him to stay away.
He had been so blinded by jealousy, so consumed by insecurity, that he had deliberately aimed his words to cause maximum damage. And now, seeing the wreckage he's created, he's filled with a self-loathing so profound it threatens to suffocate him.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to the empty room, though you're no longer there to hear it. "I'm so, so sorry."
Imagine Mack x reader where you´re both stranded at an airport overnight due to a blizzard and you end up sharing a hotel room because everything else is aready booked
Airport Delay - Macklin Celebrini
pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader
summary: You and Mack are stranded at an airport overnight due to a blizzard and you end up sharing a hotel room.
CW: Fluff, only one bed, blizzard.
The announcement echoes through the cavernous terminal, each word dousing your hopes in icy reality: "Due to severe weather conditions, all flights have been cancelled until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience."
You join the herd of stranded travelers making their way to the information desk, where a harried employee is doing her best to manage the chaos. You're not the only one with this idea, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with brown hair arrives at the same time and you both end up at the counter simultaneously.
"Excuse me," you both say at once, then share an awkward laugh.
"Sorry, you first," he says, gesturing for you to go ahead.
"I was just wondering if there are any hotel accommodations available? Or what we're supposed to do now?"
The employee sighs, rubbing her temples. "The airport has arranged for shuttle buses to take passengers to nearby hotels, but I have to be honest, most places are already booked solid due to the storm. We're doing our best to find rooms for everyone, but you might need to share."
The guy beside you clears his throat. "I'll take whatever's available. I'm not picky."
"Me neither," you add quickly.
The employee types rapidly on her keyboard, her expression growing more frustrated by the second. "Well, this is unexpected. There's exactly one room left at the Marriott down the street. One king bed. That's it."
You exchange a look with the stranger beside you. He's handsome, with kind eyes and a hesitant smile that somehow puts you at ease despite the circumstances.
"We'll take it," you both say simultaneously again, then laugh.
"Great," the employee says, clearly relieved. "Here are your vouchers. The shuttle is waiting outside door 7."
As you walk toward the designated door, the man extends his hand. "I'm Macklin, by the way. And I promise I don't snore. Much."
You laugh, shaking his hand. "I'm not worried about snoring. I'm worried about you trying to murder me in my sleep."
"Fair enough," he says with a grin. "I'll try to control myself."
The shuttle ride is silent, both of you lost in your own thoughts about this bizarre turn of events. At the hotel, the check-in process is mercifully quick and soon you're standing in a perfectly nice room with one very large bed dominating the space.
"You take the bed," Macklin says immediately, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. "I'll sleep on the couch."
You glance at the small armchair in the corner. "That's not a couch, that's a decorative piece of furniture that would break if you looked at it wrong. I'll sleep on the floor."
"Absolutely not," he insists, already grabbing pillows from the closet. "You're taking the bed. End of discussion."
"But..."
"No buts," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "I insist."
You sigh, knowing you won't win this argument. "Fine. But at least let me help you make a proper bed on the floor."
Together, you arrange the extra pillows and blankets into a makeshift bed next to the actual bed. The domesticity of it all feels strangely intimate, like you've done this a hundred times before.
After getting ready for bed in the bathroom you settle in for the night. The storm outside rages, wind howling against the windows, rattling the panes with increasing intensity. You try to ignore it, pulling the covers up to your chin, but your heart races with each gust of wind.
"You okay?" Macklin's voice cuts through the darkness.
"Just the storm," you admit quietly. "I'm a bit scared of storms."
He's silent for a moment. "Do you want to talk about something else? To take your mind off it?"
"Please," you whisper.
"What brings you to San Jose?" he asks, his voice calm and steady.
You tell him about your reason for traveling and as you speak, you find yourself relaxing, the sound of his voice a soothing counterpoint to the storm outside.
"That sounds… intense," he says when you finish. "I'm impressed."
"What about you? Why are you headed to San Jose?"
He hesitates. "I have a game tomorrow."
"A game? What kind of game?"
"Hockey," he admits reluctantly. "I play for the Sharks."
You sit up, turning to look at him in the dim light filtering through the window. "You're a hockey player? And you gave me the bed when you have a game tomorrow? No way. You need proper rest. Get in this bed right now."
He laughs, but it's clear he's uncomfortable. "I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."
"I won't take no for an answer," you insist, patting the empty space beside you. "We can build a pillow wall. A fortress of solitude. You'll never even know I'm here."
He considers this for a moment. "Only if you're sure you're comfortable with that."
"I'm sure," you say, already grabbing pillows to create a barrier between you.
He reluctantly gets into bed, maintaining a respectful distance despite your reassurances. The pillow wall rises between you like a miniature mountain range.
"So," you say, settling back against your pillows. "Hockey player for the Sharks. That must be… a lot."
"It is," he admits. "The pressure, the expectations… sometimes it feels like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders."
"What kind of pressure?" you ask, genuinely curious.
He's quiet for a moment, as if considering how much to share. "Everyone expects me to be the savior. The franchise player who's going to turn everything around. But I'm just a kid trying to do my best. I just wanna play hockey, you know? Some days I feel like I'm failing before I even step on the ice."
You're struck by his vulnerability, by the weight he's carrying at such a young age. "That sounds incredibly lonely."
"It is," he agrees. "Most people don't ask about that part. They just want to know about the goals, the wins, the stats."
"What do you wish they would ask?" you probe gently.
He turns onto his side to face you, the pillow wall between you suddenly feeling ridiculous. "They could ask if I'm happy. If I miss home. If I ever regret choosing this life. They could ask about the person behind the jersey."
You reach across the pillow barrier, your hand finding his in the darkness. "Are you happy?"
He laces his fingers through yours. "Some days. Other days, I miss being a normal kid. But tonight… tonight I'm pretty happy."
You talk for hours, about dreams, fears, families and futures. The storm outside gradually subsides, but neither of you notices, lost in conversation. At some point, you both drift off to sleep, your hands still joined across the now-crumpled pillow wall.
You wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the surprising weight of a leg draped over yours. Your eyes flutter open to find Macklin still asleep, his face peaceful, his body having migrated across the pillow barrier during the night. Your legs are tangled together, your arms still loosely joined.
Instead of embarrassment, you feel a strange sense of rightness, as if this is exactly where you're supposed to be. Macklin's eyes open slowly, a sleepy smile spreading across his face when he realizes your position.
"Morning," he murmurs, not moving to untangle himself.
"Morning," you reply, smiling back. "I guess the pillow wall wasn't very effective."
"Guess not," he agrees, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I'm not complaining."
You lie in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before reality intrudes. "We should probably get ready. The airport…"
"Right," he says, though he makes no move to get up. "The airport."
Eventually, you both untangle yourselves and prepare for departure. At the airport, you check in separately, but when you reach security, Macklin stops you.
"Come with me," he says, taking your hand and leading you to a different counter. "I need to to something."
Before you can protest, he's speaking with the agent, handing over your boarding pass. When he returns, he's holding a new one.
"Macklin, no," you say immediately. "Why would you do that? I can't repay you."
"You don't have to," he says, handing you the new pass. "I just… I wasn't ready to stop talking to you. This way, you're sitting next to me."
You look at the boarding pass, business class, seat 4A, right next to his 4B. "You're impossible," you say, but you're smiling.
The flight passes in a comfortable blur of continued conversation, laughter and the occasional brush of hands. By the time you land in San Jose, you feel like you've known Macklin for years rather than hours.
As you gather your things at baggage claim, he turns to you, suddenly looking nervous. "So… I know this is forward, and you probably have plans, but I'd love nothing more than if you'd text me. And if you're free tonight… I'd be the happiest man if you'd come to my game."
You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "I don't know… I've heard that there is this Sharks player that is a bit of a blanket hog," you tease, a playful glint in your eyes. "I'm not sure I can handle another night of that."
Macklin's face breaks into a relieved grin. "I promise to keep to my side of the pillow wall. Scout's honor."
"Alright," you concede, pretending to be put out. "I'll come. But only because I want to see if you're as good on the ice as you were at building that pillow fortress."
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Deal." He pulls out his phone, and you exchange numbers, your fingers brushing in a way that sends a small jolt through you.
With your bags claimed, you stand awkwardly for a moment, neither of you wanting this strange, perfect interlude to end.
"Well," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I guess this is it for now."
"I guess so," you agree, suddenly feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of parting.
To your surprise, he opens his arms. "Can I?"
You nod, stepping into his embrace. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close. The hug is warm and secure, smelling faintly of his cologne and the clean scent of hotel soap. You rest your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
"I'm really glad I got stranded with you," he murmurs into your hair.
"Me too," you whisper back.
You stay like that for a long moment, two strangers who suddenly feel anything but. When you finally pull apart, his eyes are soft, full of an emotion that makes your breath catch.
"Text me when you get settled?" he asks, his voice hopeful.
"I will," you promise. "Good luck at your game tonight, Macklin."
"Thanks," he says, his smile widening. "Having you there will be all the luck I need."
With one last look, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, watching until he disappears into the crowd. You touch your lips, still smiling from your last interaction, already looking forward to seeing him again.
As you make your own way out of the airport, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It's a text from an unknown number:
Didn't want to wait to hear from you. Already missing our pillow wall. - M
The drive to Luke's family home feels like the longest journey of your life. Your hands are clammy, your stomach a knot of nervous anticipation. Meeting the parents is one thing, but meeting the Hughes family is another level of intimidating.
"You're going to be fine," Luke says, reaching over to squeeze your thigh. "They're going to love you."
"I'm more worried about your brothers," you admit softly. "What if they think I'm not good enough for you?"
Luke's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "They'll think you're perfect. Too perfect, maybe."
The cryptic comment hangs in the air as he pulls into the driveway of a beautiful lakeside house. Before you can open your door, Luke stops you.
"Wait," he says, his voice suddenly serious. "Before we go in, there's something I need to do."
You turn to him questioningly, but he's already leaning across the console, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss that quickly deepens. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head to give him better access as his mouth trails down your jaw to your neck.
"Luke," you gasp as his teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. "We can't. Your parents are waiting."
"Let them wait," he murmurs against your throat, his hands already working at the buttons of your blouse.
Before you can protest further, he's maneuvering you into the backseat, his body covering yours as he spreads your legs with his knee. The confined space makes everything more intense, more urgent.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his eyes dark with possessiveness as he looks down at you. "And Jack… he has a thing for girls just like you. Pretty, smart, a little feisty."
Your breath hitches at the mention of his brother. "Luke, I would never.."
"I know," he interrupts, his fingers tracing the neckline of your shirt. "But they need to see. Need to know."
His mouth claims yours again, demanding and possessive. His hands slide beneath your skirt, pushing your panties aside to find you already wet and wanting.
"Always so ready for me," he growls, sliding a finger inside you. "This pussy belongs to me, doesn't it?"
You can only nod, your hips arching to meet his hand as he adds another finger, stretching you, preparing you. His thumb circles your clit, bringing you to the edge before pulling back.
"Not yet," he says, unzipping his jeans. "I want you to come on my cock."
He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. The angle in the backseat allows him to hit that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl. He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you closer to the edge.
"Look at me," he commands, his hand gripping your chin to force your eyes to his. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Only you."
"That's right," he growls, his mouth finding your neck again. This time, he doesn't hold back, sucking hard enough to leave marks, claiming you in the most primal way. "Everyone will see these. Everyone will know you're mine."
The possessiveness in his voice, the slight pain of his teeth against your skin, the relentless stimulation, it's all too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulsing around him as he continues to thrust into you, chasing his own release.
"Fuck," he groans, burying himself deep inside you as he comes, his release hot and pulsing. "Mine. All mine."
For a moment, you both lie there, panting heavily in the confined space. Then Luke slowly withdraws, helping you adjust your clothing before reaching into his pocket.
"Put this on," he says, pressing a delicate chain into your hand. You look down and see a small 'L' charm dangling from it.
"Luke, it's beautiful," you whisper, fastening it around your neck. The 'L' rests right above your collarbone, drawing attention to the fresh marks on your skin.
"Perfect," he says, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "Now let's go meet my family."
The front door opens before you can even knock, revealing a woman with kind eyes and Luke's smile.
"There you are! We were starting to worry," she says, pulling Luke into a hug before turning to you. "You must be the girl who's stolen our Luke's heart. I'm Ellen."
"It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Hughes," you say, your voice slightly shaky.
"Please, call me Ellen," she says warmly. "Jim's in the living room watching golf and the boys are around back by the lake."
Luke's hand finds yours, squeezing reassuringly as he leads you through the house. The living room is spacious and comfortable. A man who must be Jim rises from his chair, extending his hand.
"Luke's told us so much about you," he says with a warm smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hughes," you reply, your nerves slightly easing.
As they make small talk, you hear voices approaching from the back door. Your heart rate picks up again as two tall, athletic young men enter the room.
"And here they are," Ellen announces. "Quinn, Jack, this is Luke's girlfriend."
The older one, Quinn, steps forward first, offering a friendly smile. "Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
"You too," you say, relieved by his easy demeanor.
Then it's Jack's turn. His eyes sweep over you, appreciative and curious, before landing on the necklace around your throat. His smile widens as he notices the hickeys just above it.
"Jack," he says, extending his hand. "So you're the one who's been keeping our little brother so occupied he barely remembers to call home."
"Jack," Luke warns, his arm tightening around your waist.
"What?" Jack says with an innocent shrug, though his eyes linger on you a moment too long. "Just making conversation. It's not every day Luke brings someone home. Especially someone so…"
"Jack," Quinn cuts in, shooting his brother a warning look.
"What?" Jack challenges, his grin never faltering. "I'm just saying she's... pretty. You have good taste, little brother."
The tension in the room is palpable, but Ellen quickly defuses it. "Alright, that's enough. Dinner's almost ready. Why don't you all wash up?"
As Luke leads you toward the bathroom, he whispers, "See? I told you."
Dinner is a lively affair, filled with hockey talk and friendly teasing. Jack continues to flirt shamelessly, his compliments growing bolder as the evening progresses.
"You have a beautiful laugh," he says at one point, leaning across the table. "I bet you're fun at parties."
"Jack," Luke says through gritted teeth, his hand possessively on your thigh under the table.
"What?" Jack replies innocently. "Just giving a compliment. No need to get territorial."
After dinner, you find yourself alone with Jack in the living room while Luke helps with dishes.
"So," Jack says, sitting beside you on the couch. "How long have you and Luke been together?"
"About three months," you reply, trying to keep some distance between you.
"Serious, then?" he asks, his eyes drifting to the necklace again. "The 'L' is a nice touch. Very… declarative."
You touch the charm self-consciously. "It was a gift."
"Obviously," he says with a chuckle. "Luke's never been this possessive before. You must be special."
Before you can respond, Luke returns, his expression dark as he sees how close Jack is sitting to you.
"Time to go," he says abruptly, taking your hand and pulling you to your feet.
"But we just got here," you protest.
"It's late," he insists, already saying his goodbyes to his family. "We have a long drive back."
The car ride home is silent, Luke's knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"He was just being friendly, Luke," you say softly.
"He wasn't being friendly," Luke counters, his voice tight. "He was testing boundaries."
"And you were marking your territory before we even got there," you remind him, touching the hickeys on your neck.
Luke glances over at you, his expression softening slightly. "I had to. I had to make sure they knew."
"They know," you assure him, reaching over to place your hand on his thigh. "But Luke, you don't have to worry. I chose you. I'm with you because I want to be."
He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. "I know. It's just… you're everything to me. The thought of losing you, especially to him…"
"You won't lose me," you promise, your heart swelling with affection for this intense, possessive, wonderful man.
As he pulls into your driveway, he leans over to kiss you, deep and slow. "Good," he murmurs against your lips. "Because I will never let you go."
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.
The trend of dancing on a public street sign to Rihanna’s ‘Pour It Up’ as a stripper with Will and Mack
Street Sign Serenade - MC & WS
pairing: Macklin Celebrini x bestfriend!reader x Will Smith
summary: You shock your friends Mack and Will by dancing on a street sign, showcasing a hidden talent that leaves them both mesmerized and eager to try it themselves.
CW: Fluff, public dancing, alcohol consumption.
The night air is cool against your skin as you stumble slightly, leaning into Will's side for support. Macklin walks on your other side, his arm looped through yours, keeping the three of you steady as you navigate the San Francisco sidewalk.
"You're sure you can make it?" Mack asks, his voice laced with amusement as you nearly trip over an uneven crack in the pavement.
"I'm perfectly fine," you insist, though your words slur slightly. "Just had a few too many of those fruity cocktails at the bar."
Will chuckles, his breath warm against your ear. "A few? I think you had at least five of those 'Tropical Temptations' or whatever they were called."
You playfully shove him away, nearly losing your balance again. "They were delicious! And you're just jealous because I can handle my liquor better than either of you."
Mack raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you needed us to help you walk home?"
"Strategic assistance," you correct him, stumbling slightly as you step onto a different section of sidewalk. "Not necessity."
The street is mostly empty at this hour, save for a few cars passing by. As you approach an intersection, a street sign stands tall under the orange glow of the streetlamp, a simple metal pole with a directional sign pointing toward downtown.
Something about it catches your eye and suddenly an idea strikes you. Without warning, you release your hold on both men and approach the pole.
"What are you doing?" Will asks, confused.
You don't answer, instead placing both hands on the cool metal as Rihanna's "Pour It Up" begins playing in your head, the song that had been blasting at the bar just an hour ago.
With a mischievous grin over your shoulder at your friends, you begin to move. Your body sways to the imaginary beat as you grip the pole, twirling around it with surprising grace. Mack and Will watch with mouths agape as you execute a perfect spin, your legs extended in a flawless move that seems to defy gravity.
"Holy shit," Mack breathes out, his eyes wide with disbelief.
You continue your impromptu performance, transitioning into a series of fluid movements that showcase your strength and flexibility. With practiced ease, you slide down the pole, catching yourself just before hitting the ground before rising again in a smooth, controlled motion.
"I had no idea you could do that," Will says, his voice filled with awe as you execute a perfect split while holding onto the pole.
You finish with a dramatic flourish, winking at them as you rise to your feet. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
Mack approaches the pole, testing its stability with a tentative hand. "That was incredible. How did you learn to do that?"
You shrug nonchalantly. "Took a few pole dancing classes in college. It was supposed to be for exercise, but I actually got pretty good at it."
Will runs a hand through his hair, still looking stunned. "Pretty good? That was professional level. I've never seen anything like that."
"You guys want to try?" you ask, a teasing glint in your eye.
Mack looks uncertain but intrigued. "I don't think I can do any of that."
"It's not as hard as it looks," you lie smoothly. "Just give it a try."
After some coaxing, Mack approaches the pole, gripping it with determination. He attempts to replicate your spin but ends up stumbling sideways, catching himself just before he falls.
You burst into laughter along with Will. "Maybe start with something simpler?"
Mack blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, maybe that's a good idea."
Will steps up next, looking determined. "I'll do better than that, watch me."
He attempts a basic twirl but loses his grip halfway through, nearly toppling over before Mack catches him.
"Oh my God," you gasp between laughs. "You guys are hopeless!"
Will scowls playfully. "It's harder than it looks! You make it seem so effortless."
"That's because I've actually practiced," you tease, demonstrating a simple move that has them both staring again. "See? Just like that."
Mack tries again, this time managing a clumsy rotation before catching himself. "I think I'm getting it!"
"Keep telling yourself that," Will jokes, attempting the move again with slightly more success.
For the next ten minutes, you coach them through basic moves, laughing until your sides hurt as they fumble and stumble. Their athletic backgrounds on the ice don't seem to translate to pole dancing, much to your amusement.
"You know," Mack says, breathing heavily after another failed attempt. "I have a new respect for what you just did. That's seriously difficult."
"And really hot," Will adds, then blushes slightly. "I mean… impressive. Very impressive."
You smirk, enjoying their praise. "Well, if you boys ever want private lessons, I might be convinced to teach you."
They exchange glances, something unspoken passing between them before Mack responds. "I think we'd both be very interested in that."
JOE BURROW
Pardon My Take Podcast | February 12, 2025
"When people say like, 'Oh, you look like Ellen DeGeneres and this or whatever', they say that about me in like, a bad way. With you, it's like, 'Oh yeah, you can look like a lesbian and be hot.' With me, it's like, 'You look like a fool.'" - PMT (x)
hiii could you please do something with Mack and period comfort? My period is kicking my ass rn and I need some loving 😖
Cramps & Comfort
pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader
description: Mack takes care of you on your period.
TW: Fluff, mentions of menstrual cramps, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
The first wave of pain hits you before you even open your eyes. It's a familiar, unwelcome cramp that starts deep in your lower abdomen and radiates outward, a dull, insistent ache that promises to get worse. You let out a soft groan, burrowing deeper into the blankets and trying to curl into yourself.
A warm, solid presence shifts beside you and then a gentle hand is smoothing your hair back from your forehead. "Hey," Macklin's voice is a soft, sleepy rumble. "You okay?"
You shake your head, not trusting your voice. The cramps are already starting to pulse, a steady, miserable rhythm that makes you feel sick to your stomach.
He doesn't need any more explanation. He knows this particular brand of misery better than anyone. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, his touch impossibly gentle. "Okay. I'm on it. Don't move."
You hear him get up, his movements quiet and efficient. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, focusing on breathing through the latest wave of pain. A few minutes later, he's back, the mattress dipping as he sits beside you.
"Here," he says softly. "Sit up for me, just a little."
You force yourself to obey and he slips a warm mug into your hands. The heat of the ceramic is a small comfort against your cold fingers. You take a cautious sip. It's chamomile tea, sweetened with just the right amount of honey, your comfort blend.
"Good?" he asks, his eyes full of concern.
You nod, taking another sip. The warm liquid soothes your raw throat, a small mercy in the midst of your discomfort.
He disappears again, returning with a bottle of pain reliever and a glass of water. "Take these," he instructs, his tone gentle but firm. "And then you need to drink all of this."
You comply without argument, swallowing the pills and draining half the glass of water. He sets the glass aside and then produces the secret weapon: your hot water bottle, freshly filled and wrapped in its soft, fleece cover.
"Lie back down," he commands, his voice soft. You do and he carefully places the hot water bottle on your lower abdomen, the heat immediately beginning to seep into your aching muscles. It's a profound, instant relief and you let out a long, shuddering sigh.
"Better?" he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
"So much better," you admit, your voice still weak.
He smiles, a small, tender smile that makes your heart ache. "Good." He adjusts the pillows behind your back, propping you up just so, before pulling the comforter up to your chin and tucking you in. "Anything else? Snacks? A movie? My undying devotion?"
You can't help but laugh, a small, breathy sound that turns into a wince as another cramp tightens its grip. "Your undying devotion is a good start," you manage. "But maybe some chocolate? And the remote?"
"You got it," he says, already moving. He returns a moment later with your favorite chocolate bar and the TV remote, which he places on the nightstand within easy reach. He then climbs into bed beside you, careful not to jostle you or disturb the hot water bottle.
As the movie starts playing, Macklin shifts slightly, his large hand gently resting besides the hot water bottle on your stomach. His touch is warm and firm as he begins to rub slow, soothing circles, the pressure easing the deep ache in your abdomen. You let out a contented sigh, melting into his touch.
"Is that helping?" he whispers, his lips close to your ear.
"Mmm, so much," you murmur, feeling the tension begin to drain from your body.
After a while, you shift, trying to find a more comfortable position as a new wave of pain radiates to your lower back. Macklin notices immediately, his brow furrowing with concern.
"Back hurting?" he asks softly.
You nod, unable to form words as another cramp takes hold.
"Roll over for me, baby," he says gently. "Just onto your side."
You comply and he spoons up behind you, his strong arm wrapping around your waist. His hand moves from your stomach to your lower back, his fingers finding the knots of tension and gently kneading them. His touch is perfect, firm enough to provide relief but gentle enough not to cause more discomfort. You can feel the warmth of his palm seeping through your pajama shirt, soothing the aching muscles.
"Right there?" he asks when you let out a soft moan of relief.
"Yes," you breathe, pressing back against his hand.
He continues the massage, his touch never faltering as the movie plays on. Every so often, he leans down to press soft kisses to your shoulder and neck, his lips warm against your skin. The combination of his touch, the warmth of the hot water bottle and the painkillers finally starts to work their magic and you feel yourself drifting toward sleep.
As your eyes grow heavy, Macklin's movements slow, his hand resting still against your lower back. He tightens his hold slightly, pulling you closer against his chest.
"Sleep," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I've got you. I'll be right here."
Ok I’m thinking a fluff fic where Will has been your friend for a longggg time but he’s hardcore crushing on you now and it’s obvious to everyone but you. Like his teammates notice because he’s talking about you more than he used to and they didn’t even know that was possible. And he gets this sickeningly sweet look on his face while he’s talking.
Then one night you’re out with him and maybe the team too, and everyone is drinking but Will gets sooo drunk and you have to make sure ge gets home safe obvi bc what are best friends for?? But then he confesses his crush on you to you
And I think it would be a little shocking but ultimately I want it to have a sweet fluffy ending
Blind Spot
pairing: Will Smith x female reader
description: You remain completely oblivious to Will's obvious crush on you, until a drunken night out leads to a heartfelt confession that changes everything between you.
TW: Fluff, alcohol consumption, drunken love confession, kissing.
masterlist
The bar is loud, packed with bodies and the thumping bass of a song you don't recognize. You're wedged into a booth with Will and three of his teammates, trying to follow a story about some disastrous road trip prank that has everyone howling with laughter.
"And then Toff walks in," Will gasps, tears of mirth streaming down his face, "and he's got this..."
He stops abruptly, his gaze finding yours across the table. The manic energy softens instantly, replaced by something so tender it makes your chest ache.
"He's got what?" you prompt, smiling.
He shakes his head, still grinning. "Doesn't matter. It's not as funny as you laughing at it."
Across the booth, William leans over to whisper something to Michael, who glances between you and Will before smirking into his drink. You're too used to the Sharks' inside jokes and non-verbal communication to pay it much mind.
"You're ridiculous," you tell Will, nudging his foot under the table.
"Only about you," he says with such sincerity it makes you want to blush.
Another round of shots appears, courtesy of someone's tab. You decline, knowing you're the designated sober friend tonight. Will, however, does not.
"Come on, just one," he pleads, already looking flushed from the three beers he's had. "It's a celebration!"
"What are we celebrating?" you ask, pushing the shot glass away.
"Us," he says simply and the table goes quiet for a beat before someone changes the subject with forced cheerfulness.
By midnight, Will is properly drunk. Not sloppy or belligerent, just… soft. His arm is draped across the back of your booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. He's leaning into you, his head lolling against the vinyl as he listens to his teammates debate the best penalty kill strategy.
"You're so smart," he murmurs in your ear when you make some comment about their formation. "Like, crazy smart. And pretty. So pretty."
You laugh it off. "You're drunk, Will."
"Still true," he insists, his eyes half-lidded but fixed on you. "Always true."
The decision to cut him off comes when he tries to order another round and nearly falls off his stool. "Okay, time to go," you say firmly, sliding his arm over your shoulders. "Say goodbye to your friends."
"Bye, friends!" he calls, waving enthusiastically. "I'm going home with the prettiest girl in the world!"
Someone, Ryan, you think, whistles. "Get her, Smitty!"
The ride home is mostly quiet, Will humming tunelessly against your window, occasionally leaning his head on your shoulder. His apartment building is dark when you pull up and you have to practically carry him inside.
"Keys," you say, patting down his pockets until you find them.
His hand covers yours, holding it there against his thigh. "Your hands are so small," he observes, his voice thick with alcohol and emotion. "But they fit mine perfectly."
You unlock the door and guide him to his couch, where he collapses with a dramatic groan. "Water," you command. "And then bed."
"Don't wanna go to bed alone," he whines, but he accepts the glass you hand him.
"You're not," you promise. "I'll stay until you're asleep."
He drinks half the water before setting it aside and reaching for your hand again. "You always take care of me," he says, his voice suddenly serious. "Even when I don't deserve it."
"Of course I do," you say softly. "That's what friends are for."
He's quiet for a long moment, just looking at you with an expression you can't quite read in the dim light of his living room. The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the earnestness in his eyes.
"What if I don't want to be friends anymore?" he asks quietly.
Your heart stutters. "What?"
"Not like… not friends," he clarifies quickly, squeezing your hand. "Just… not friends. More."
You're not sure how to respond. Will has been your constant for years, through bad breakups, family drama, career changes. He's the one you call at 2 a.m. when you can't sleep, the one who shows up with ice cream and bad movies when you're sick. The thought of that changing is terrifying.
"Will, you're drunk," you say finally. "We can talk about this in the morning."
"I'm not that drunk," he insists, sitting up too fast and swaying slightly. "I mean, I am drunk, but not about this. I've been thinking about it for… a while. A long while."
You stay silent, waiting.
"Everyone knows," he continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The guys… they tease me about it. About how I look at you. About how I talk about you all the time. They said I was obvious to everyone but you."
"Obvious about what?" you ask, though you're starting to suspect you know the answer.
He takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "That I'm completely, stupidly in love with you. Have been for… I don't even know how long. It just sort of… happened. And now I can't imagine not being in love with you."
The confession hangs in the air between you, fragile and terrifying and wonderful all at once. You think back to all the little moments you'd dismissed, his extra attention when you were feeling down, the way he always saved you a seat, the sickeningly sweet look his teammates had teased him about.
"Oh," you say brilliantly. "Will, I… I didn't know."
His face falls slightly. "Yeah, I know. That's kind of the problem."
"No, I mean… I didn't let myself know," you clarify. "I think maybe I didn't want to see it because it would change things and I… I really like how things are between us."
His shoulders slump. "Oh. Okay. Then forget I said anything. We can just..."
"But," you interrupt, "maybe change isn't always bad. Maybe sometimes change is… good."
He looks up, hope dawning in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you confirm, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "We'll talk more in the morning when you're sober, but… yeah. I think I might be stupidly in love with you too."
The grin that spreads across his face is worth all the years of obliviousness. "Really?"
"Really," you promise. "Now, drink your water and go to bed. We've got a lot to talk about tomorrow."
He stands, swaying slightly but determined, and pulls you into a hug that's more heartfelt than any you've shared before. "Best news ever," he murmurs into your hair. "Even better than making the team."
I love love love your Off Campus fics!!! Could you also write something smutty for Garrett pls?
Morning Practice Can Wait
pairing: Garrett Graham x female reader
description: How is Garrett supposed to leave for early morning practice when he has you laying in his bed?
TW: MDNI, smut, lazy morning (unprotected) sex, fingering, praise kink, hand on neck, bit of dry-humping, established relationship.
masterlist
The first thing you register is warmth, a solid, familiar heat pressing against your back, an arm heavy across your waist. Garrett's breath is steady against your neck, soft puffs that stir the hair falling there. Morning light filters through the curtains, casting the room in hazy gold. You're drifting somewhere between sleep and waking when you feel it, a distinct hardness pressing against your ass, moving in slow, subtle thrusts as Garrett shifts in his sleep.
A smile plays on your lips as you press back slightly. "Someone's awake," you murmur, voice thick with sleep.
Garrett chuckles, the vibration rumbling through your back. "Morning," he rasps, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "And yeah, someone is." He nuzzles your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. "I was dreaming about you, but it doesn't even come close to the real thing."
Your heart swells at his words, even as a different kind of warmth pools low in your belly. You shift to face him slightly, but he pulls you back against his chest, wanting to maintain the spooning position. "No, stay like this," he murmurs. "I want to stay wrapped around you forever."
His hands begin their slow exploration, stroking your sides, tracing the curve of your hips, down to your thighs where he lingers, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin. You sigh contentedly, melting into his touch. His hands settle on your inner thighs, gripping slightly and you can't help but wiggle your ass against him.
"Tease," he whispers, though there's amusement in his voice. His fingers dance higher, toying with the little bow on the front of your panties. "You're just so warm here. Perfect."
You try to keep still, to maintain this peaceful morning moment, but his touch is igniting something in you. Each stroke of his fingers, each press of his lips against your neck sends jolts of pleasure through your body. You're becoming increasingly aware of the wetness pooling between your thighs, the ache beginning to build.
"Garrett," you breathe out. "You have to leave for practice soon."
He groans against your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. "Don't remind me. I'd rather stay here with you all day." His hips rock against you again, more deliberately this time. The friction sends a shiver through you and you can feel just how hard he is for you.
Your response is immediate, more wetness soaking your panties, a fresh wave of arousal washing over you. Garrett notices, his fingers dipping slightly higher to brush against the damp fabric.
"Well now," he murmurs, voice dropping to that low, husky tone that never fails to undo you. "Looks like we have a little problem here." His fingers press more firmly against your clit through your panties, making you gasp. "Should I help you with that?"
Heat floods your cheeks as you try to close your legs, but Garrett's strong thighs prevent it. "No, no, don't hide from me," he whispers, his fingers continuing their teasing assault. "Let me take care of you."
His fingers circle your clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "Imagine how good I'd feel inside you right now," he breathes against your ear. "Stretching you, filling you up perfectly. Fucking you just the way you like." His other hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. "Worshipping every inch of you."
He finds that spot on your neck, the one that makes you weak and sucks gently. That's all it takes to break your resolve. "Garrett," you gasp, "Please."
With a soft growl of satisfaction, Garrett hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and slides them down your legs. He shifts slightly, positioning himself and then two fingers are sliding into you, slow and deep. You arch against him as he stretches you, his fingers curling to find that spot that makes you see stars.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, scissoring his fingers slightly. "That's just a taste of what's coming." He pumps his fingers slowly, deliberately, until you're writhing against him, desperate for more.
Finally, he withdraws his fingers and you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He enters you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his size. The stretch is exquisite, a perfect fullness that has you sighing in contentment.
"Fuck," he breathes against your neck once he's fully seated inside you. "You feel like home. Always so perfect for me."
He begins to move, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm that's perfect for a sleepy morning. Each thrust is deep, his hips rolling against yours in a way that sends pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands roam your body, one stroking your thigh, the other coming up to wrap loosely around your throat, his thumb stroking your pulse point.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his lips finding that sensitive spot on your neck again. "So beautiful taking my cock like this. Made for me."
His other hand moves to your breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them. The dual stimulation has you gasping, your inner walls clenching around him.
"Garrett," you moan, reaching back to tangle your fingers in his hair.
"I know, baby," he whispers, increasing his pace slightly. "I feel it too." His thrusts become more purposeful, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "You're so wet for me. Always so ready for my cock."
His words are filthy but loving, each one sending you higher. "Love how you feel around me," he continues, his voice thick with emotion. "Like you were made just for me. So tight, so perfect."
He shifts slightly, changing the angle and suddenly he's hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You cry out, your back arching as pleasure overwhelms you.
"Right there, huh?" he murmurs, his hand tightening slightly around your throat. "Right there where you need it." His other hand slides down to your clit, fingers circling in time with his thrusts. "Come on, baby. Let go for me. Want to feel you come around my cock."
The combination of his deep thrusts, his fingers on your clit and his dirty praise is too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, waves of pleasure so intense you're gasping his name. Your inner walls clench around him, milking his cock as you ride out your release.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. "That's it, baby. So fucking good for me."
With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his release. He collapses against you, both of you breathing heavily, his weight a comforting presence.
For a long moment, you just lie there, basking in the afterglow. Garrett presses soft kisses to your neck and shoulders, his hands stroking your sides soothingly.
"I love you," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "So much."
You turn in his arms, capturing his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. "I love you too," you whisper against his mouth.
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Best way to start the day." Then he glances at the clock and groans. "But I really do have to go to practice."
You laugh, tracing patterns on his chest. "Go on, then. The team's waiting for their captain."
He sighs dramatically but starts to disentangle himself. "Fine. But only because I have to come back to you later." He presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips before getting out of bed. "Think about me while I'm gone?"
"Always," you promise, watching as he gathers his things. As he leaves, he blows you a kiss and you settle back into the warm sheets, feeling completely and utterly loved.
Can I request an imagine inspired by your story “Unsaid Words” with MC?
This time with Will Smith and the past trauma with bullying?
Thank you 🖤
Fragile Heart - Will Smith
pairing: Will Smith x female reader
summary: You struggle with old wounds from bullying when Will's innocent joke triggers your insecurities.
CW: Fluff, references to bullying, emotional distress, hurt/comfort.
The laughter comes easily with Will, something you haven't experienced with anyone new in a long time. You met through mutual friends three months ago and the connection has been immediate and comfortable. He's kind, attentive and seems to understand parts of you without you having to explain them.
"You're terrible at this game," Will teases as you fail spectacularly at Mario Kart for the fifth time in a row.
"Hey! I'm strategically letting you win," you protest, nudging his shoulder playfully.
"Strategically?" he grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Is that what we're calling it now? You know, you're surprisingly awful at hand-eye coordination."
The words hit you like a physical blow. The smile freezes on your face as old memories surface, kids in high school laughing, pointing, calling you clumsy and stupid whenever you dropped something or failed at gym class. You know Will doesn't mean it like that, know he's just teasing, but the sting feels just the same.
"Hey, you okay?" he asks, noticing your sudden silence. "It was just a joke. You know I think you're brilliant, right."
You force a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "Yeah, of course. Just tired."
But the damage is done. The rest of the evening, you're distant, your responses short, your laughter forced. Will notices, his concerned glances becoming more frequent as the night wears on.
When he drops you off at your apartment, he catches your hand before you can escape. "Did I say something wrong? You've been weird since my joke about the game."
"No, it's not you," you lie, pulling away gently. "Just a long day. I'll call you tomorrow."
You don't call. You ignore his texts for two days, then three, until the messages shift from playful to worried.
Finally, he shows up at your door. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on," he says, his expression a mixture of concern and frustration. "Did I do something? Because I can't stop thinking about it and it's killing me."
You let him in, but remain distant, perching on the edge of your armchair while he takes the couch. "It's nothing, really."
"Nothing doesn't usually involve ignoring someone for nearly a week," he replies softly. "Please, just talk to me. Whatever I said or did, I'm sorry. I never want to hurt you."
Something in his voice breaks through your defenses. You look up and see the genuine concern in his eyes, the vulnerability he's showing by being here, by apologizing even when he doesn't know what for.
"I was bullied in school," you admit quietly, the words feeling foreign after years of keeping them locked away. "For being clumsy, for being awkward... for everything, really. So when you made that joke about me being bad at the game..."
Will's expression shifts from confusion to understanding, then to guilt. "Oh god. I had no idea. I'm so sorry. That was thoughtless of me."
"It's not your fault," you say quickly. "You couldn't have known. It's just... sometimes I hear things and I immediately go back to being that kid in the hallway, everyone laughing at me."
He moves from the couch to kneel in front of your chair, taking your hands in his. "That's never going to happen again. Not with me. I promise."
Tears well in your eyes as you look at him, really look at him and see the sincerity there. "I know. It's just... hard sometimes."
"I get it," he says softly, his thumbs stroking your knuckles. "But you're not that kid anymore. You're brilliant and funny and kind and I'm the lucky one who gets to spend time with you. If I ever make you feel small again, I want you to tell me immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," you agree, a small smile finally reaching your lips.
"Good," he says, returning the smile. "Now, can we please go back to normal? I miss my terrible-at-Mario-Kart friend."
You laugh, the sound releasing tension you didn't realize you were holding. "Only if you let me win occasionally."
"Never," he grins, but his eyes are soft as he looks at you. "But I'll always let you know how brilliant you are, even when you're losing."
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