hi everyone! my name is sunny! I'm from Australia originally but moved to LA when I was 11!
𝚂𝙷𝙴!𝙷𝙴𝚁 ⋆ ENFP . libra . skater turned rugby player . matcha addicted . lemon sorbet . writer at heart . sunflower yellow pantone . LA . poetry & prose . dom fike on repeat . floyboy enthusiast . tate mcrae foreva . the kid LAROI . oversized hoodies . beach at sunset . bi . film camera . golden hour.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅
"How many warnin' signs 'til it hits you, darling?
Gravity's your friend" ✮
⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅
People I write for:
and writing boundaries (self explanatory so if you dont want to click on this then TLDR: dont be gross!)
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! PLEASE SEND THINGS IN!!
Hockey:
#sunnyshockeyfics
Luke Hughes
live now, think later
in which Luke and his childhood best friend (who also happens to be a world famous popstar) soft launch their relationship. (smau)
sweet on you
you're sick. Luke takes care of you. thats the description.
nurse's orders
a day in the life as a college student training to be a nurse. Luke... Luke sometimes needs you though.
Will Smith (hockey LOL)
check out my wsh universe!!!!!
blurbs
will after a bad game
fics:
kiss me, slow
it’s hard not to make out with your boyfriend when he’s just so pretty. and it’s even harder not to when he tells you how good you are for him.
let her in.
A childhood-best-friends slow burn reaches its breaking point in the aftermath of a brutal game, where love shows up before either of them are ready to admit it.
ask me part 2
wills eyebrow slit makes you need to suck him off idk
shark boy and media girl
you're the media girl for the BC eagles!!!!!! AYYYY AND UR SECRETLY DATING WSH!!!!!! (smau)
Macklin Celebrini
nothing here yet!
Connor Bedard
nothing here yet!
Matt Rempe
nothing here yet!
Ben Kindel
kissing friends
coming up on ben going away for a roadie, you just want to spend time with him. but... you have a little brother.
Youtube:
#sunnysyoutuberfics
Jordan Huxhold
blurbs
haunted hotel w/ jordan!
Not Yet
“five minutes” turns into an entire soft, stolen morning.
Back to Autumn
pumpkin patch date with yours truly. did I mention the measleys are there? no? well, they are!
Missed Me? part 2
Payton's cousin comes to visit from Boston. There's some tension between her and Jordan... heh...
aperol spritz
Max and Payton try to wingman Jordan. They suck, but hey, he still got the girl!
we will never ever ever be apart
two best friends go to coachella!
jawbreaker
a bald man thinks you're hot but your boyfriend doesn't want to share
forever and again
you and Jordan go on vacation together and realize just how in love you are with each other
if walls could talk
you join Jordan on Paytons channel for a visit to the Queen Mary. boy oh boy.
Attention
you're sooooooo sleepy, but Jordan is editing
Max Norman
nothing here yet!
BENOFTHEWEEK
nothing here yet!
Arthur Hill (should he be in my musicians category...)
Appetite
Arthur releases appetite and all signs seem to be pointing to you as his muse (smau)
Arthur Frederick
nothing here yet!
George Clarkey
nothing here yet!
Chris Dixon
nothing here yet!
Alfie Buttle
nothing here yet!
Formula One:
#sunnysf1fics
Isack Hadjar
nothing here yet!
Liam Lawson
nothing here yet!
George Russell
nothing here yet!
Kimi Antonelli
nothing here yet!
Lando Norris
nothing here yet!
Oscar Piastri
nothing here yet!
Lance Stroll
nothing here yet!
Daniel Riccardo
nothing here yet!
Ollie Bearman
nothing here yet!
Musicians:
#sunnysmusicianfics
Tate Mcrae
nothing here yet!
Dominic Fike
nothing here yet!
The Kid LAROI
all my affection
being a little artsy fartsy just so happens to work out when you have a boyfriend with a multitude of tattoos to colour in!
no shame
guys its literally thigh riding laroi. no synopsis needed.
Sunny Suljic
nothing here yet!
5sos
Calum Hood
nothing here yet!
Luke Hemmings
nothing here yet!
Michael Clifford
nothing here yet!
Ashton Irwin
nothing here yet!
The Vamps
Brad Simpson
nothing here yet!
Connor Ball
nothing here yet!
Tristan Evans
nothing here yet!
James McVey
nothing here yet!
Full Circle Boys
James Herron
nothing here yet!
Dossan Bell
nothing here yet!
Oliver Hincy
nothing here yet!
Sean Garrity
nothing here yet!
Jagger Moon
nothing here yet!
Chase Atlantic
Christian (Kras) Anthony
nothing here yet!
Mitchel Cave
nothing here yet!
Clinton Cave
nothing here yet!
tft au is insane!! their relationship is so so so cute, like reader is wills babyyyy! he don’t play about her!
fr he is like he takes care of her when she gets hurt playing :(
The tackle itself isn't even that bad, really. You've taken harder hits before.
There's a moment where you think you can shake it off—just another bruise, another stinging scrape—until you try to stand and your knee buckles like a drunk freshman at their first party. That's when the pain blooms, sharp and bright, and suddenly you're on your back staring at the too-blue sky, your breath coming in short, shocked bursts.
Coach is there before you can even process it, his voice low and steady as he kneels beside you, one hand hovering over your knee like he's afraid to touch it. "Talk to me," he says, and you open your mouth, but all that comes out is a shaky gasp. The second you try to roll onto your side, pain lances up your leg like someone's jammed a hot poker into the joint, and—shit, you're crying. You don't even realize it until the tears hit your collarbone, warm and stupidly embarrassing.
Then Will is there, too, his sneakers sliding across the damp grass as he slides to a stop beside Coach. He shouldn't be here—spectators aren't supposed to rush the field—but Coach just sighs and shifts to make room for him. Will's hands are already moving, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead, his thumb catching a tear before it can slide into your ear. "Hey," he murmurs, "look at me." His voice is so familiar it aches worse than your knee.
Coach prods your knee, and you yelp, grabbing Will's wrist so hard your nails leave little crescent moons in his skin. Will doesn't flinch. "Can you walk?" Coach asks, but you're already shaking your head. Will exhales through his nose and hooks an arm under your shoulders before Coach can even finish saying, "Let's try." The crowd erupts into applause as you limp off, half-carried between them, your good leg dragging like a stubborn child. Will's grip is firm, his side pressed warm against yours, and when you hiss in pain, he whispers, "Almost there."
The chair feels like a mercy. Will kneels in front of you, already unwrapping the athletic tape with practiced ease—he's taped his own ankles a hundred times, and your knees almost as many. His fingers are careful as they brace your knee, the tape pulling snug but not too tight. "Flex," he orders, and when you do, he nods, satisfied. His palm lingers on your calf for a second too long, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over your skin. You'd tease him about it if you weren't busy trying not to cry again.
Twenty minutes and an ice pack later, you're standing on the sidelines, testing your weight. Will hovers like an anxious parent. "I'm gonna kill their 10."
"No you're not."
"I am. That was an unfair dump tackle. She was too high up and took you down by your neck."
The realization hits you mid-sentence—Will's still muttering about their number 10's dirty play—when you freeze. "Wait," you interrupt, catching his wrist. "You know what that is?"
"Baby— what? Yes, I know what a dump tackle is."
The tape holds. Mostly.
You test your weight again, shifting from foot to foot like a skittish colt, but the sharp stab from earlier has dulled to a throbbing ache—manageable, if you don’t think too hard about it. Will’s watching you with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that stubborn line you know means he’s biting back a dozen protests. "You’re really going back out there," he says, not quite a question.
You flex your knee experimentally, wincing only a little. "I’m really going back out there."
Coach blows the whistle for substitutions, and you don’t miss the way Will’s fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you again. Instead, he exhales sharply and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "stubborn ass" under his breath. You grin, swiping at the sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. "You love it."
Content Warnings: poorly translated, making out, cursing?, dry humping yay
AN: so many reqs but I promise I'm working my way through them. I was at rugby championships last week!
Synopsis: after Ben (oh and the rest of the team) comes home from a 2 week roadie, you can't wait to jump his bones, but alas, Nikita forgot his sweater.
part one part two part three
"милый," (honey) Geno pauses in your doorway, "Are you sure you don't want to come?"
You tug the hoodie over your head, shaking your hair free as you turn toward your dad. "Positive," you say, grinning in a way that feels just a little too practiced. "You guys go celebrate. I’ll survive one day without hockey talk."
Geno tilts his head, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, just assessing, like he’s trying to read your expression like a play unfolding on ice. You hold your breath. Then he shrugs, tossing his keys in the air and catching them effortlessly. "Okay. Nikita’s in the car," he says, nodding toward the window where headlights glow against the driveway. "Text if you change your mind."
It’s stupid, how giddy you feel. Seventeen days isn’t even that long, not really, but the stretch of them without Ben—without his stupid jokes, the way he always steals your fries, the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours in the stands—felt like forever. You’d skipped the roadie this time, flown back to Russia with your mom instead, and the distance had twisted something inside you tight and aching. Magnitogorsk was home, but it wasn’t home, not without him there to make you laugh until your ribs hurt.
You’re halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flips. You practically skid the rest of the way, catching yourself on the banister at the last second, heart hammering. The second you wrench the door open, Ben’s there, grinning like he’s just scored the game-winning goal, and before you can even say hello, his hands are on your waist, lifting you clean off your feet. "Missed you," you mutter, and then you're kissing him, all teeth and impatience. He tastes like mint gum and the faint tang of Gatorade, and his hands slide under your shirt like they belong there.
The couch is closer than your room, and you barely make it that far anyway. Ben pulls you down with him, one arm hooked around your waist as you half-stumble onto the cushions.
His hands are everywhere at once—tangled in your hair, skimming down your ribs, gripping your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through his fingertips. You arch into him, breathing him in, the familiar scent of his stupidly expensive cologne mixed with sweat and the faintest hint of airplane air. It’s reckless, the way you kiss him, all hunger and no patience, like you’re trying to make up for seventeen days of absence in a single touch. "You're so pretty, Ben," you say, tangling one of your hands in his hair. "I love seeing you like this," Ben laughs against your mouth, low and breathless, and you bite his lower lip just to hear the hitch in his breathing. He groans, and drops his face into your neck, panting. "I missed you so much," he whispers.
The couch creaks under your combined weight as you twist, knee pressing into the cushions beside his thigh, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt. "I missed you too."
Ben’s fingers skate up your spine, leaving sparks in their wake, and you shiver even as you push closer, needing the heat of him, the solid reality of his body after two weeks of phone calls and grainy FaceTime sessions. His other hand slides under your hoodie, palm warm and rough against your stomach, and you gasp into his mouth.
The hem of his hoodie had ridden up just enough for your fingers to find the warm strip of skin above his waistband, and you dragged your nails lightly across it just to hear him curse under his breath. He arched into the touch, his hips lifting instinctively—which was how you ended up straddling him properly, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. His hands slid up your back, dragging your shirt with them, and you let him, leaning down to mouth at the spot just below his ear where you knew he’d shiver.
Ben’s laugh hitched when you sucked hard enough to leave a mark, his fingers tightening in your hair. You grinned against his skin, moving lower—the collar of his hoodie would hide this one, his jersey the next.
The thought of settling your self on his dick is suddenly the only thing you can think about. It's the perfect time: the house is empty, your dad is gone, and Ben is looking up at you with his pupils blown wide.
“We don’t have to—” Ben starts, voice rough, but you cut him off with another grind of your hips, the friction sending sparks up your spine. He groans, head thudding back against the couch, and you can feel him hard beneath you, the outline of him pressing insistently against your thigh. “Ahh,” he sighs, hands flexing on your waist like he’s torn between pulling you closer and pushing you away.
You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding down against the hard line of his cock, and the choked noise he makes goes straight to your core. "Ben please," you whine, shameless, dragging your teeth over his lower lip. "I need you so bad, I’ve been thinking about this for so long—"
Ben's fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he arches up against you, the friction making your head spin. You can feel the heat of him through your underwear, the way his breath comes ragged when you rock against him again. "Yeah?" he rasps, and his voice is wrecked already, rough like he's been yelling all night instead of whispering against your skin. "What'd you think about?"
You don't hear it—not the distant rumble of the garage door rolling open, not the dull thud of it closing again downstairs.
The car was parked just slightly too far forward, its bumper edging past the property line. Geno wouldn’t have noticed if Nikita hadn’t started whining about his missing sweater the second they hit the highway. Geno caught himself glancing at the unfamiliar vehicle as he pulled into the driveway. Pennsylvania plates, clean but not new.
Weird, but not unheard of.
Probably Mrs. Kowalski’s grandson visiting again, always forgetting which house was hers. He made a mental note to ask you if you’d seen anyone around—not that it mattered, really.
Looks like Ben's car, he thought to himself.
The garage door groaned open, and Geno killed the engine, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Might as well check on you one last time before heading back out.
Maybe if he popped in one more time, flashed that stupid please smile that always made you cave when you were twelve—maybe you'd grab your jacket and come along.
Tell her we miss her, eh? Sid had said it on the plane so casually, but Geno knew the way the guys lit up when you showed up at practice, how even the grizzled veterans softened when you teased them about their old-man skating.
The creak of the front door opening doesn’t register. Neither does the heavy tread of boots in the hallway. Ben’s hands are under your shirt, his palm skating up your ribs, and you’re so busy gasping into his mouth that you don’t even notice the shadow in the doorway until—
“Uh,” your dad says from the doorway, voice dry as toast. Out of all the things Geno expected to see when he walked into the living room, Ben Kindel eating his daughter's face was not one of them.
"Dad!" You fly off Ben in an instant, scuttling to the other end of the couch.
Geno’s gaze flickers between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match—Ben, you, Ben again—his expression unreadable except for the slight twitch of his left eyebrow, the one that always quirks up when he’s trying not to laugh. The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on, and you press your palms harder into your cheeks like maybe, if you push hard enough, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.
When you chance a look at Ben, his face is redder than a tomato, his hands clamped awkwardly over his lap like he’s trying to shield the evidence of what you’d been about to do. You sigh, grabbing the nearest throw pillow—some ugly plaid thing your mom bought last Christmas—and shove it at him. Ben practically lunges for it, pressing it over his lap with a gulp.
"So... Nikita forgot his sweater. Is chilly, Sid says."
You know exactly which sweater Nikita wants. "The grey one?" you ask, voice pitched high with forced casualness.
Geno blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting for the punchline of a joke he doesn’t quite get. "Da," he says finally, dragging the word out.
"It's um... it's on the kitchen table."
His eyes flick to Ben, then back to you, and you swear his mouth twitches. "Is on kitchen table?"
You nod so fast your neck cracks. "Yeah. Yeah, it’s—uh. Right there. Next to the fruit bowl."
You and Ben had had lots of discussions on when you were going to tell your dad. More importantly, how. This was definitely not what you were expecting.
Geno disappears into the kitchen, his footsteps deliberately loud like he’s giving you both a chance to exhale. You hear the rustle of fabric, the scrape of a chair against tile, and then—silence. Too long. Your fingers twist in Ben’s sleeve before he laces them through yours, squeezing once. His thumb traces the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way he does when you’re bouncing your knee during away games and trying not to scream at the refs through the TV.
Then your dad reappears, hoodie dangling from one hand, and perches on the armchair across from you like he’s settling in for an interview. The plaid pillow creaks under Ben’s death grip. You shift half an inch closer to him without thinking, and Ben’s hand flexes around yours, warm and steady. Your other hand finds his, twisting one of his silver rings—the thick one with the knotted design he never takes off—around and around his finger. The metal clicks softly each time it completes a rotation.
Geno’s eyes drop to your joined hands. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. “So,” he says, draping the hoodie over his knee.
"Dad… I know that this is… um… shocking, but… I don't want you to be mad."
"Mad?"
"Yeah. This isn't just… we're not just hooking up— I mean, we haven't even— no, you don't need to know that." You look at Ben for help, and he squeezes your hand. "We've been together for a while now, and we… we love each other."
Silence.
"Da? This true?"
"Yes, sir," Ben says, voice cracking on the second word. His fingers tighten around yours. He looks terrified—like he's facing down a breakaway in overtime, not your dad perched on an armchair with Nikita's forgotten hoodie draped over one knee.
Geno's laugh fills the room, sudden and bright like sunlight hitting ice. He shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way you’ve seen a thousand times after a bad joke at a team dinner. "Ben," he says, waving a hand like he’s swatting away the tension. "No 'sir.' Still just Geno." His gaze flicks to you, lingering on the way your fingers are tangled with Ben’s, and something softens in his expression—the same look he gets when Nikita falls asleep mid-sentence during movie nights.
You feel Ben exhale beside you, his shoulders dropping half an inch. His thumb starts moving again, tracing idle circles over your knuckles like he’s reassuring himself you’re still there. Geno watches the motion for a beat before shrugging, tossing Nikita’s hoodie over one shoulder. "We talk later," he says, nodding toward the window where the headlights still glow against the driveway. "Nikita is waiting."
You expect him to leave then—just turn and walk out like none of this happened—but instead, he steps forward and cups your face in one big hand, calloused from years of gripping a stick. The kiss he presses to your forehead is familiar, the same one he’s given you since you were small enough to fit in the crook of his arm during intermission interviews. "Happy for you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it. Then he’s turning to Ben, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway. "Don’t break couch," he adds, jerking his chin toward the now-suspiciously-creased cushions. "Very expensive."
Ben’s ears go pink. "No sir," he croaks, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing because his voice hasn’t sounded that strangled since he tried to eat a whole jalapeño on a dare last season. Geno just grins, wide and knowing, before heading for the door.
The second it clicks shut, Ben collapses backward onto the couch, dragging you down with him. "Oh my god," he groans, flinging an arm over his face. "I think I aged ten years."
Content Warnings: whiny ben, secret relationship, little brothers
AN: I'm still figuring out my plans for this au bc they deserve their own story!
Synopsis: you try to go out with your boyfriend before he goes on a roadie, but little brothers make things difficult.
part one part two part three
The Penguins’ practice facility had become a second home to you over the years. I mean, of course it did. You took your first steps in the locker room.
"You're late," Ben said, leaning against the boards with his skates already laced, gloves tucked under his arm. "We were all worried sick!" His grin was crooked, the kind that made your stomach flip every time.
You snorted, shoving your bag into your locker. "No you weren't. Look at Sid, he's asleep right now."
"No I'm not."
You rolled your eyes and turned toward the equipment room, but Ben's glove hooked your sleeve, yanking you backward. "Noooooo come back!"
You sighed but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at your lips as his fingers lingered on your sleeve, warm even through the fabric. “You’re such a pest."
Ben trailed behind you into the equipment room like a lost puppy, his skates scraping against the concrete floor in a way that would’ve earned him a glare from any of the trainers. You pretended not to notice him hovering, deliberately slow as you rummaged through the bins of tape rolls, even though you knew exactly where yours was. The silence stretched, thick with the smell of sweat and sharp new rubber, until Ben exhaled dramatically and slumped against the doorframe.
"Y/NNNNNNNNNNNNNN," he whines, dragging out your name like a child denied candy.
"Mmm, yes?" You turn just in time to catch the full force of his pout, lips jutting out, eyebrows doing that pathetic little wiggle that makes him look like a kicked puppy.
"Benny… don't look at me like that," you mutter, but your resolve is already crumbling. Ben sees it, and his pout deepens, eyes widening just enough to make them glint under the fluorescent lights. His fingers twitch at his side like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you outright.
The tape rolls clatter against the metal shelf as you abandon them entirely, their rattle drowned out by the sharp intake of Ben’s breath when your hands fist in the front of his practice jersey. His mouth is warm and familiar, and his hands are everywhere: cupping your jaw, sliding into your hair, skimming down your ribs like he’s trying to map the spaces he missed.
"Happy now?" you mutter against his mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, chasing your lips when you pull back just to tease him. His nose bumps yours, clumsy, and you can feel the curve of his smile when he murmurs, "Nope. Try again."
"Try again?" you huff, but Ben's already nodding, eyes bright with that familiar, irresistible mischief. His fingers dig into your hips, tugging you flush against him, and you swear you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat through the layers of his gear. "You're ridiculous," you mumble, but it's half-hearted at best—your hands are already sliding into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands at the nape of his neck.
Ben whines, high and needy, the sound muffled against your lips when you kiss him again, slower this time. His grip tightens, pulling you impossibly closer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you before he leaves. The thought makes your chest ache—one night was bad enough, but this time it’s a three-week-long road trip, half the continent between you and his stupid face. You bite down on his bottom lip, just hard enough to make him gasp, and he melts against you with a shudder.
"Gonna miss you," he murmurs between kisses, voice rough, and you can't tell if it's the admission or the way his thumbs trace circles over your hip bones that makes your breath catch.
The sound of voices outside the equipment room door slices through the quiet like a skate blade on fresh ice—your dad’s unmistakable Russian baritone, followed by Sid’s dry, amused reply.
“Y/N here yet?” The question—your dad’s voice, all rough edges and barely contained exhaustion—carried through the half-open door of the equipment room. You froze, Ben’s mouth still pressed to yours, his fingers twitching against your ribs like he was debating whether to let go or pull you closer.
“Yeah,” Sid answered, “went to grab tape. Ben went to help.”
"Ah, I figured they were together."
You and Ben spring apart like someone dumped a bucket of pucks between you. His hands, which had been warm and steady on your hips a second ago, fumble for the nearest shelf as you lunge for a stray helmet rolling near your feet. The camera. The camera. That’s what you were supposed to be in here for.
The door creaked open wider, and your dad’s broad frame filled the doorway, his practice jersey hanging loose over his shoulders. He blinked at the two of you and raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay?"
"Hi, Geno," Ben chirped, voice cracking just enough to make your teeth clench. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. "Just helping Y/N out."
Your dad’s gaze flicked between you, slow and assessing, and for one terrifying second, you were sure he knew. But then his face split into that familiar, lopsided grin, and he clapped a heavy hand on Ben’s shoulder. "Good. Come, warm-up starts soon. Sidney ask for you."
-------------
"'Kay, bye Dad. Ben and I are going out but we'll be back soon."
The words take your brother hit your ears like a puck to the ribs—unexpected, bruising, and entirely unfair. You freeze mid-step, halfway through pulling your hoodie over your practice jersey, and whip around to face your dad. "Seriously?" The whine in your voice is unbecoming, but you can't help it. "We're just gonna grab food. Why does Nik have to come?"
Your dad raises one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to hear yourself. Behind you, Ben’s already bouncing on his toes near the door, keys dangling from his fingers, trying—and failing—to hide his smirk. "Because," your dad says, shrugging into his jacket, "is family time. You don’t see him all week, now you complain? You have no plans today."
You open your mouth, then close it. What are you supposed to say? Actually, Dad, I was planning on getting Ben’s tongue down my throat in the backseat of his car, maybe dry hump a little, and Nikita’s presence severely complicates that agenda?
You huff, loud and dramatic, scuffing your shoe against the rubber mat by the locker room door. "I do have plans, dad" you insist, crossing your arms tight enough to feel the press of your own elbows through your hoodie. "You guys leave tomorrow and I wanted to spend some time with my friend before he leaves."
Your dad blinks at you, slow and unimpressed, the way he does when you're being ridiculous but he's too tired to call you out properly. "Plans?" he echoes, glancing pointedly at Ben—who’s suddenly very interested in the frayed edge of his shoelace. "What plans? You eat, you talk, same as with Nikita."
Instead of responding, you groan loud enough that Sid glances up from his stall across the room, eyebrows raised. “Fine,” you mutter, stomping away like a toddler denied dessert. “I’ll be right back with Nikita."
Ben leans against the wall outside the locker room, twirling his keys around his finger with practiced ease. Your dad lingers nearby, digging through his duffel bag like he hasn’t already emptied half its contents onto the bench. “So,” he says, voice casual, eyes still fixed on some imaginary item he’s pretending to search for, “where you kids going?”
Ben shrugs, glancing toward the locker room door like he can see right through it to where you’re sulking inside. “We were gonna go to Subway, but I'll ask what Niko wants."
Your dad hums, nodding absently. “What a kind young man.” He zips the bag shut, then straightens, fixing Ben with a look that’s somehow both pointed and utterly blank. “No accidents, da?”
You emerge from the locker room with Nikita trailing behind, your pout exaggerated enough that Ben has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He wants to drag you into the nearest empty hallway, press you against the wall, and kiss that sulky expression right off your face—but instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets and nods at Nikita. "Hey, Niko," he says, easy as breathing. "Subway sound good, or you wanna hit up that burger place by the rink?"
-------
"Niki, go inside and play on your Switch. I need to talk to Ben."
Nikita’s footsteps barely fade inside before you’re already halfway across the console, fingers twisting into the fabric of Ben’s hoodie. He barely has time to inhale before your mouth crashes into his, all teeth and desperation. Ben makes a muffled sound against your lips, half-surprise, half-relief, his hands flying up to cradle your jaw like you’re something fragile even as you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him gasp.
Ben’s mouth is warm and yielding under yours, his grip on your hips tightening as you shift closer across the center console. His fingers slide under the hem of your hoodie, skimming over bare skin, and you shiver—not from the cold garage air, but from the way his breath hitches when you nip at his lower lip.
You pull away just as the garage door groans open again—perfect timing, because Nikita’s knuckles rap against the passenger window three seconds later, sharp and impatient. Ben’s lips are still parted, his breath coming out in short pants, and you have to physically turn his face toward the door with both hands before Nikita notices the flush creeping up his neck.
Nikita’s nose wrinkles as he peers through the fogged-up window, his breath leaving little condensation circles on the glass. "Did you guys lick the car?" he asks, voice muffled, and you swear Ben chokes on air beside you.
You yank the passenger door open and step out before Nikita can lean in further. "What, Kita?" you say, trying not to sound frustrated. "What's up?"
Nikita blinks up at you, utterly oblivious, his winter coat zipped all the way to his chin like a tiny astronaut. "I can’t find my Switch." He frowns.
"Where's mom?"
"I dunno."
You turn, flashing an apologetic smile at Ben before he can even pout. His shoulders slump theatrically, but the corner of his mouth quirks up anyway—that stupid, soft smile he saves for moments like this, when the world keeps conspiring to keep you apart but he’s too fond of you to actually complain.
You sigh, "alright. Say bye to Ben."
"Bye, Ben," Nikita chirps, waving enthusiastically before bolting toward the house without a second glance.
"Love you," you murmur, leaning in through the passenger window for a kiss.
"Love you."
Nikita's voice—bright, curious, and entirely too loud—cuts through the quiet garage like a referee's whistle. "Are you and Ben kissing friends?" You jerk back from Ben's window so fast your head knocks against the doorframe, pain shooting down your spine.
"What? No." The lie bursts out of you too fast, too sharp. You clear your throat, force your voice into something resembling calm. "Go inside."
waitttt does macklin have a crush on bird or is it strictly platonic
he thinks she's so baddie, and though the thought has crossed his mind (holy fuck do I like my best friend's girlfriend????????) it was quickly forgotten when he walked into the kitchen to see you and Will making out. Ew, he thought. That's my sister, get off her, Will!
Pairing: tft!macklin celebrini x (platonic)fem!reader
wc: 3.1k
Content Warnings: cursing, badly written, ummmmm also a small smau at the end
AN: I need to update my masterlist ik :(
Synopsis: blurbs of you and Macklin being friends!
You are not excited to meet Macklin Celebrini. Which is reasonable, coming from your history of him.
The Zamboni left wet streaks across the ice like ghosts of skates past. Macklin Celebrini stepped off the rink, helmet tucked under his arm, and wiped his forehead with the back of his glove—just as Will skated up behind him and slapped his shoulder pads hard enough to make him stumble.
"You're buying lunch," Will said, grinning. Macklin rolled his eyes but didn't argue, which surprised you.
Will's grin widened as he jerked his chin toward you. "Oh, Mack, you can finally meet Y/N."
Mack? Since when was he Mack?
Macklin's gaze flickered to you, and something in his expression shifted—not quite guilt, not quite amusement, but something that made your shoulders tense. "Yeah," he said, pulling off his glove to extend a hand. "Good to finally meet you for real, Y/N."
You hesitated a second too long before taking it. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, and damp with sweat. "Hi, Macklin. Nice to formally meet you."
"Ew, Y/N, don't be so formal," Will laughed, stepping off the ice to give you a kiss. You leaned into him instinctively, but your eyes stayed locked on Macklin, who was busy shaking melted ice off his gloves like none of this was awkward.
“So,” Macklin said, tossing his helmet into his bag with a thud, “you coming to lunch with us? I'm buying."
You blinked at Macklin’s offer, thrown by the casualness of it—like you hadn’t spent years side-eyeing him from the bleachers, like he hadn’t been the reason Will came home with a split lip sophomore year. Your gaze flicked to Will, searching for some sign, some silent veto. But Will just held up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm hungry!"
“You drank the whole fucking thing."
Macklin held the smoothie cup at arm's length, his brows knitting together in theatrical innocence. “I took one sip.”
"One sip?" You grabbed the smoothie cup and dramatically tilted it toward him so the remaining contents sloshed against the side. "Unless your mouth is the size of a trash compactor, I don’t buy it."
Macklin grinned, unrepentant, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. "Maybe your smoothie was just really, really small. Ever think of that?" You lobbed a dish towel at his head—missing by a mile—and called out for Will. "Will! Mack is being and asshole!"
"No I'm not!"
"You have your own!"
"Yours looked better!"
"Yeah, 'cause I don't use fake milk and 18 scoops of unflavoured protein powder!"
The dish towel flopped onto the fridge handle like a defeated flag as footsteps thudded drowsily down the stairs. Will appeared in the doorway, one eye still half-shut, his hair sticking up in three distinct cowlicks. He blinked at you both like you were mildly fascinating zoo exhibits before shuffling forward and pressing a sleep-warm kiss to your temple. "Mm. What’s wrong?" he mumbled into your hair, voice still thick with dreams.
"Mack's pissing me off," you informed him, poking his ribs. He made a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh, slumping against you like a human weighted blanket.
Macklin seized the opportunity to chug the last of your smoothie with an obnoxious slurp. "Nothing’s wrong," he lied cheerfully, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’re just discussing your girlfriend's smoothie-making skills. Did you know she thinks almond milk is ‘fake’?"
"It is! At least use oat milk! It uses less water to make! And you need to make me a new one!"
Will sighed, peeling himself off you, and shuffled toward the fridge. The fridge door swung open with a creak, casting a rectangle of yellow light across the kitchen tiles. You caught Macklin's smirk from across the counter—the little shit knew he'd won this round.
"Will!" you protested, but he was already elbow-deep in the fridge, blindly grabbing at ingredients. "Don't reward his bad behaviour!" Will ignored you with the serene detachment of a man who'd survived sixteen years of your shared nonsense. A carton of oat milk hit the counter with a thud, followed by a bag of frozen mango chunks that nearly slid onto the floor.
Macklin leaned sideways, propping his chin on his fist. "See? Your big strong man will take care of you."
"No, he's gonna take care of you after I beat you up."
Will comes home to complete silence, which immediately sets off red alerts in his brain. If you and Mack are together, silence usually means he has to pay to fix something broken.
Instead, he walks into the living room and stops.
Will drops his gym bag by the doorway, the thump muffled by the carpet. His sweat-damp shirt clings to his shoulders as he steps closer, tilting his head like he's deciphering some rare artifact—the two of you curled together on the couch, a tangle of limbs and sleep-heavy breaths. You're buried in Will's hoodie, the one he left draped over the chair this morning, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your face is pressed into Macklin's sternum, his arm slung carelessly over your waist, fingers twitching occasionally like he's still mid-dream, still arguing with someone in his subconscious.
Will just stands there for a second.
"You're such a perv, Smitty. We're clearly asleep here," Macklin's voice is hushed as he turns his head towards Will.
Will exhales through his nose—half-laugh, half-sigh—and rubs his thumb over his lower lip like he’s trying to smudge away the grin forming there. "Yeah, yeah. You always drape yourself over my girlfriend when I leave the room?" His voice is warm, teasing.
Macklin shifts slightly, flipping Will off. "She was sulking," he mutters, voice thick with sleep. "Like a kicked puppy. Sat right here"—he pats the couch cushion—"all sad-eyed because someone took too long lifting weights or whatever."
Macklin shifts again, this time with purpose—his arm tightens around your waist and he tugs hard, flipping you halfway across his lap before you even fully register the movement. Your face smushes against his bicep, the sharp scent of his cheap cologne mixing with fabric softener as you blink awake. "Mmph—what the hell, Mack?" you grumble, voice thick with sleep, limbs heavy like they've been filled with sand.
You elbow Macklin's ribs before pushing yourself upright, scrubbing your palm over your face. "Asshole," you mutter, still half-trapped in sleep's fog. Macklin just grins, that infuriating, lopsided smirk that means he knows he's won some unspoken argument.
Then you see Will leaning against the doorway, forearms crossed over his chest, watching the two of you with that quiet amusement he’s perfected over the years. His gym clothes are rumpled, hair still damp at the temples, and something about the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing—makes your stomach flip. "Hi, baby."
The second you lock eyes with Will, sleep evaporates like someone flipped a switch. Your limbs suddenly feel lighter, your pulse kicking up—like your body’s remembered how to move just for him. You don’t even realize you’re scrambling upright until Macklin’s grip slips, his exaggerated groan lost under the rush of blood in your ears. "Oh, for fuck’s—" he starts, but you’re already halfway off the couch, stumbling toward Will like a drunk moth to a porch light.
Will catches you before your socked feet can betray you on the hardwood, his hands sliding under your thighs as you leap. The hoodie rides up, cool air hitting your stomach, but you don’t care—not when he’s laughing into your neck, not when his gym-sweat smell mixes with the detergent on his clothes, sharp and familiar. "Missed you," you mumble into his shoulder, legs locking around his waist as he adjusts his grip.
Will doesn’t ask, he just hooks an arm under your knees and lifts, his biceps flexing against your thighs as he turns toward the hallway. You barely have time to register Macklin’s indignant squawk ("Oh, so now I’m chopped liver?") before Will’s carrying you down the hall, your nose buried in the damp curve of his neck. His skin tastes like salt when you press your lips there, the steady thud of his pulse against your tongue as he shoulders open the bedroom door.
hi babe! not accusing you of using ai or anything bc I love ur stories but i did notice the “summary^1” in your latest new will au fic and was wondering what that was?
Hi!!! So when I use word, I add in summary’s as a footer and I copied and pasted from word forgetting to delete that one!
I really only do that when I know I’ll be working on a fic for a long time!
heyhey i love your writing anddd i love the way you write for jordan could you maybe write something super cute and heartwarming and just whatever you wanna write no rush ofccc 💗
attention
Pairing: Jordan Huxhold x fem!reader
wc: 677
Content Warnings: just pure fluff!
AN: sorry for putting Jordan on hold! I'm back!
Synopsis: you're so tired but Jordan is working on a video. ugh.
Jordan’s desk lamp cast a stubborn pool of light across the cluttered workspace, the only illumination in the otherwise dark apartment. The glow flickered against his face as his fingers flew across the keyboard, punctuated by the occasional click of his mouse. On the screen, waveforms danced—half-second clips of his own voice, repeated over and over as he tweaked the pacing of his latest video.
From the bedroom doorway, you leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching the back of his head tilt slightly as he muttered to himself.
"J, please come to bed. I'm so tired."
Jordan didn’t turn around, but his shoulders softened just a little—the way they always did when he knew you were right but wasn’t ready to admit it. You sighed and pushed off the doorframe, padding across the carpet in bare feet until you stood behind his chair. The scent of his cheap shampoo mixed with the metallic tang of his headphones lying discarded on the desk. Without a word, you slid your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. His hair was still slightly damp from his late shower.
"Sorry, baby. Just a little longer," he murmured. One of his hand absently caught yours where it rested against his collarbone, his thumb tracing idle circles over your knuckles. You nipped playfully at his ear, and he huffed a laugh, finally pausing the editing timeline. "Do you wanna sit here with me?"
You didn't bother answering—just nudged his chair back with your knee and climbed onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over the armrest. Jordan exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound caught between amusement and surrender, but his arms came around you automatically, one hand settling warm against your waist while the other returned to the mouse. His chin dipped to press a kiss against your temple, lingering there for a second before he turned back to the screen.
The editing software glared back at him, half-finished cuts of footage scattered across the timeline. You watched his fingers move—quick, practiced—dragging clips into place, adjusting audio levels with tiny, precise movements of the slider. Every so often, his thumb would brush against your ribs through your thin sleep shirt, absentminded and sweet, like he couldn't help checking you were still there. You tucked your head against his shoulder, breathing in the faded smell of his soap.
"Hi," you murmured into his collarbone.
Jordan hummed, distracted, then paused mid-click when you nipped lightly at the curve of his neck.
Jordan's breath hitched when your teeth grazed his skin, but he didn't pull away—just tightened his arm around your waist and tilted his head to give you better access. "You're gonna get me in trouble," he murmured, but the way his fingers curled into your hip betrayed him. His other hand kept moving, dragging audio clips into alignment with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. You could feel the vibrations of his voice through his chest when he muttered, "Shit, that transition's still rough," right before his lips found your forehead in a soft, distracted kiss.
Exhaustion settled deep in your bones, but his warmth was irresistible. You tucked yourself closer, forehead pressed against his jaw now, letting the rhythmic click of his mouse and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lull you halfway toward sleep. His stubble scratched lightly at your temple when he turned to squint at the screen, and you smiled against his throat when he absentmindedly kissed the top of your head again, like he couldn't stop himself.
"Five more minutes," Jordan promised, his voice low and roughened by fatigue. His thumb traced idle patterns over your ribs through your shirt—up, down, then circling—while his other hand adjusted the volume on a clip.
Hi!! I absolutely love the tft series, and so I was thinking what if Will and reader get into a huge argument before a SJ game, and in retaliation, reader wears the other teams jersey (maybe someone like bedsy but it’s really up to you)? and Will obviously gets pissed so after the game he takes it out on her in the locker room?
thank you!!
tft master list masterlist
its ok im ok
Pairing: tft!will smith x fem!reader
wc: 3.1k
Content Warnings: cursing, you and will fight (that is a warning in tft), unprotected sex, creampie, will is kinda condescending, I liked it
AN: I dont like when they fight :(
Synopsis: when your friend invites you to watch your boyfriend play, you think nothing of it... until Will is NOT happy and you're wearing Macklin's jersey to be petty.
Will’s grip tightens around his stick as he leans against the locker room doorway, still in full gear except for his helmet. The way his jaw ticks tells you everything—this isn’t just pre-game tension. "James bought you a ticket?" he says, voice low.
You shrug, fiddling with the edge of your phone case. "Yeah. He knows I usually just use your comp ticket, but he wanted to sit together in the lower bowl. Said it’d be fun."
Will’s laugh is sharp, humorless. "Fun. Right." He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, the scent of ice and sweat clinging to him. "He’s been circling you like a fucking shark at every team event for months. And now he’s buying tickets?"
You roll your eyes. "God, you’re paranoid. He’s just a friend."
"Paranoid? Do you not see the way he looks at you?"
You cross your arms. "No, Will. I don't. And I also don't want him. I have you."
Will scoffs, tossing his stick onto the bench with a clatter. "And yet you still took the ticket."
Will’s jaw works like he’s chewing on words he won’t let out, his gloves creaking as he flexes his fists. "Supporting me means showing up with my ticket," he says, voice low and rough. "Not letting some guy buy you a seat like he’s fucking courting you." The accusation hangs between you, sharp as the Zamboni’s blade. You’ve seen this look before—the one that says he’s already three steps ahead, scripting a betrayal you haven’t even considered.
You sigh, digging your fingers into your temples. "It’s one game, Will. James isn’t—"
"James bought your ticket," Will repeats, like the words taste sour in his mouth. He strips off his gloves, fingers flexing like he’s imagining them around something—or someone—else. "You have to know what that looks like."
"But its not! I don't want him! I want you!"
"Do you? Right now, it seems like you want anybody but me."
The locker room door swings open with a clatter, and Toff’s voice cuts through the tension like a skate blade through fresh ice. “Will, man, we gotta go,” he says, already halfway into his gear, his brow furrowed under his helmet. “Coach is about to blow a gasket. I gave you as much time as I could.” His eyes flick to you, and despite the urgency, he grins, easy and familiar. “Hey, Y/N."
"Hi, Toff."
Will doesn’t move, his shoulders rigid under the padding of his jersey. Toff sighs and steps closer, clapping a hand on his back. “Dude. You’re this close to getting benched for the first period. Whatever this is—” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “—it can wait. Unless you wanna explain to Coach why you’re sulking instead of suiting up.”
You swallow hard, the weight of Will’s silence pressing down on you. “Go,” you say softly. Toff raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just tugs Will toward the door.
Will lets himself be pulled, but not before shooting you one last look—half fury, half something raw and unreadable. The door slams shut behind them, leaving you alone with the echo of skates on concrete and the faint hum of the arena above.
"Yeah, love you too."
---------
It was a petty move, wearing Macklin's jersey, and you knew it the second you pulled it over your head. You’d marched straight to Will’s car, popped the trunk, and rummaged through his gear bag until you found Mack’s spare, folded neatly beside his own.
The jersey smells like ice and laundry detergent, not Macklin—which somehow makes it worse. You slouch in your seat, arms crossed, the fabric loose where it hangs off your shoulders. Below, the Sharks pour onto the ice for warmups, sticks clattering against the boards as they fan out. It’s easy to spot Will—always has been. He moves like he’s wired differently than the others, all coiled intensity even when he’s just gliding in lazy circles.
And then he looks up.
His gaze skims the lower bowl, sharp and searching, until it lands on you. For half a second, his expression softens—relief, maybe, or the ghost of an apology—before his eyes drop to the number on your chest. His posture goes rigid. Even from here, you see the way his grip tightens on his stick, knuckles paling under his gloves.
Shit. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.
-----------
You lean against the cinderblock wall outside the locker room, arms crossed, toe of your sneaker tapping an impatient rhythm against the concrete. The arena hums with the post-game buzz—staff wheeling equipment, players laughing as they trickle out in twos and threes, still buzzing from the win.
Macklin’s the last one out, his hair still damp from the shower, his grin wide and easy as he pulls you into a loose hug. "Good game, Mack," you murmur into his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft under your fingers. He smells like soap and the faint, lingering bite of antiseptic spray from the trainers’ room. "Proud of that goal."
You pull back from the hug, pressing a quick kiss to his stubble-rough cheek like you’ve done a hundred times before. He grins, rubbing at the spot like you’ve left something behind. “Thanks, Q,” he says, then his gaze drops to the jersey hanging off your shoulders. His smile falters. “Oh. Shit. I thought he was kidding.”
“Who?” You already know the answer.
“Will.” Macklin exhales through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He told me you were wearing my jersey. Laughed it off like it was some joke. But—” He gestures at you, the number 71 stretched across your chest. “You’re really committing to this bit, huh?”
"He thinks I don't support him. I'm trying something here."
Macklin sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like he’s already tired of the drama. “Man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You two are gonna be the death of me.” He steps back, hands raised in surrender, but not before grinning. “Go fuck it out.”
You shove his shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble back a step, but he just laughs, catching himself easily. “Ew, Mack. You're such a perv,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Yeah, yeah.” Macklin rolls his eyes, already turning to leave. He pauses halfway down the hall, glancing back over his shoulder. “Oh, and he’s the last one in there. So.” He shrugs, grinning. “You should definitely go in.”
The locker room door is heavy under your palm, the metal cool and slightly damp with condensation. You push it open slowly, the hinges groaning softly, and the scent of sweat, sharp with the bite of antiseptic, hits you like a wall. The room is empty except for one figure at the far end, shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees as he sits on the bench in front of Macklin’s locker.
Will doesn’t look up when you step inside. The only sound is the drip of water from the showerheads in the adjacent room, the occasional plink as it hits the tile. His gear is already packed away, his duffel zipped shut at his feet, but he’s still in his base layer, the tight fabric clinging to the planes of his back. You can see the tension in the way his fingers dig into his thighs.
"Um, good game today."
Will’s head snaps up at your words, his dark eyes sharp as shattered glass. "Mmm. Thanks."
The silence stretches like a frayed wire between you, taut enough to snap. Will’s gaze drops to the number stitched across your chest—Macklin’s number—and his jaw flexes. He stands abruptly, the bench scraping against the floor, and you instinctively step back, your shoulders bumping the closed door behind you.
“You gonna explain,” he says, voice low, “or do I gotta guess?” His fingers hook into the collar of the jersey, tugging you forward until the fabric strains. The smell of his sweat is closer now, warm and familiar, undercut with the sharpness of adrenaline still humming in his veins.
You swallow. “I was being petty.”
Will barks a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah. No shit.” His other hand slides down your side, rough and possessive, and you shiver when his palm settles at the curve of your hip.
"I was mad you thought I didn’t support you," you say, fingers twisting in the fabric of your jersey—Macklin's jersey, god, why did you do this?—"so I decided to… I don't know... not." The words hang between you, ugly and childish.
His expression doesn’t change, just that slow, steady burn of anger simmering beneath the surface, and you rush to fill the silence before it swallows you whole. “I’m sorry—it was stupid, I was just mad, I didn’t mean—I don’t even like Mack like that, you know I don’t, in fact, he's kinda ugly and James pissed me off the whole time 'cause he thinks he knows more than I do—”
“Shh.” His thumb presses against your bottom lip, silencing you mid-sentence. "Are you sorry?" Will asks, his voice rough, fingers tightening in the fabric of Macklin’s jersey.
"Yeah," you breathe, the word muffled against his thumb still pressed to your lips.
"Good." His grip shifts, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. "I’m sorry too. Didn’t mean to make you mad." The admission is gruff, barely there, but it sends warmth curling low in your stomach. "I’ll apologize properly in a bit. But first—" His gaze flicks down to the jersey again, and something dark flashes across his face. "First, we’re dealing with the fact you’re wearing another guy’s fucking jersey."
His thumb slips past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and your knees nearly buckle at the sudden, possessive heat of it. You taste salt, the faint metallic tang of sweat, and your own pulse kicks hard against your ribs.
Your fingers fumble with the drawstring of his sweats, the knot stubborn under your shaky grip. Will exhales through his nose, half-amused, half-exasperated, and covers your hands with his own, guiding them until the fabric loosens. "I know you’re sorry," he says, voice rough. "Told you so about James." His palm slides up your wrist, warm and sure, before his fingers tangle with yours. "Maybe you should listen to me more."
You swallow around the press of his thumb, your cheeks flushing when his grip tightens just enough to make your knees wobble. "Yeah?" he prompts, tipping your chin up higher. "You gonna listen to me now?"
You nod, the movement jerky, and Will exhales through his nose, eyes flicking down your body like he’s sizing up a play. "Gonna let me fuck you now? Show you that you're mine?"
Will’s grip tightens on the jersey collar, twisting it in his fist as he yanks you forward. The fabric bites into the back of your neck, but the sting is nothing compared to the heat flaring in his eyes. “Take it off,” he growls, the command leaving no room for argument.
Your fingers tremble as you reach for the hem, but before you can lift it, Will’s hands are already there, shoving the material up your torso with rough impatience. "Come on baby. Now."
The jersey catches around your elbows as Will drags it upward, the fabric scraping against your bare skin like a punishment. His breath hitches when he sees what’s underneath—his favourite lace bralette, the one he bought you last Valentine’s Day, the one he’d growled about never getting to see enough of. His fingers trace the edge of it now, slow and deliberate, before curling possessively around the straps. “Missed this one,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before wrenching it down in one sharp motion. The lace bites into your skin, but the gasp that escapes you isn’t from pain.
Will’s mouth crashes into yours before you can protest, his kiss rough enough to bruise. You taste the remnants of his post-game energy drink, the tang of it sharp against your tongue as he backs you toward Macklin’s locker. The cold metal presses into your bare shoulders when he pins you there, his hips caging you in.
His teeth graze the curve of your neck just below your ear—not quite a bite, but close enough to make your breath hitch. You brace against the locker behind you, fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as his mouth moves lower, sucking dark bruises into your skin with deliberate slowness. Each mark burns like a brand, and you can already picture the way they’ll bloom purple by morning, undeniable proof of his claim.
“Will—” you gasp, but his name dissolves into a moan when his hand slides between your thighs, fingers pressing insistently against the damp fabric of your underwear. He hums against your pulse point, the vibration sending a shudder down your spine.
Before you can even choke out a moan, his grip tightens on your hips, spinning you around so abruptly your knees buckle against the bench.
Your palms slap against Macklin’s locker, the metal rattling under your weight as Will’s hands yank your underwear down in one rough motion. The cold air hits your bare skin, sharp enough to make you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of him pressing against you, his sweats already pooled around his ankles. His tip drags slow over your slit, teasing, maddening—once, twice—before he pushes in with a grunt, the stretch burning just enough to make your fingers claw at the locker door.
“Fuck,” Will hisses, his hands tightening on your hips as he bottoms out, his chest flush against your back. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, just pulls out halfway and slams back in, the force knocking a choked moan from your throat. “This what you wanted?” His voice is ragged, breath hot against your ear as he fucks into you with rough, uneven thrusts.
“Tell me something.” His free hand finds your clit. “You wish it was James fucking you?”
The question lands like a punch, sharp enough to make you flinch. “No,” you choke out, shaking your head so hard strands of hair catch in your lashes. “God, no—”
His fingers speed up, the pressure making your head spin. “Mack, then?” His voice drops lower, rougher, hips snapping forward to punctuate the question. “You wish it was him filling you up?”
You whimper, shaking your head against the locker, the metal cooling your flushed cheek. “No—never—” The words dissolve into a gasp as he hits that spot inside you, the one that makes your vision blur.
Will’s breath is ragged against your ear, his grip tightening on your hip. “Yeah? Then who?” He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it, wants you to say it while he’s buried deep, while your body clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there.
“You,” you pant, fingers scrambling for purchase on the locker. “Only you—”
He groans, low and satisfied, biting down on the curve of your shoulder as he fucks into you harder, the bench creaking under your combined weight. “Good.” The word is half-growl, vibrating against your skin. “Mine.”
You can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed to your back, the scrape of his stubble against your neck, the way his fingers circle your clit just shy of too much. It’s overwhelming, perfect, and you arch into him with a broken noise, your thighs trembling.
Will’s hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your ribs as he drags you back against him. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Taking me so fucking good.”
You can’t answer—can’t think—not when he’s hitting that spot with every thrust, not when his thumb is rubbing tight, desperate circles against your clit. Your moans pitch higher, ragged at the edges, and Will chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your ear. “Close already?”
You nod frantically, nails digging into the locker. "Mhm! Yeah!"
He slows abruptly, pulling out until just the tip of him remains.
His sudden withdrawal wrings a whine from your throat, high and desperate. Will’s fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he watches you squirm—watches the way your thighs tremble, the way your breath comes in shallow gasps against the locker door. “Say it again,” he orders, voice rough.
“Yours,” you choke out, arching back toward him. “Always yours—”
The words barely leave your mouth before he’s slamming back into you, the force of it rattling the locker door. You cry out, fingers slipping on the metal, but Will doesn’t let you fall, just hauls you tighter against him, his palm splayed across your stomach like an anchor. “Damn right,” he growls, teeth scraping your shoulder.
The wet slap of skin fills the empty locker room, louder than the drip of the showers, louder than your own ragged moans. You can feel the tension coiling in your stomach, tightening with every drag of his cock inside you—until Will’s hand slides down, fingers pressing hard against your clit, and the world fractures.
The orgasm hits like a wrecking ball, shattering through you with a force that blurs your vision white. Your knees buckle, but Will holds you upright, his grip iron-tight as you convulse around him, his name a broken chant against the locker. He doesn’t let up—just keeps fucking you through it, his thrusts turning erratic, his breath ragged against your neck.
"Feel that?" he grits out, dragging his teeth over your shoulder. "That’s me. Not Mack. Not James. Me." His hips stutter, his rhythm fracturing as he chases his own release, and you whimper when his fingers dig bruises into your hips. "Fuck—fuck—" His groan is raw, his body locking tight as he spills inside you, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.
----------
The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a soft click. You’re both still flushed, still loose-limbed from the locker room, the adrenaline of the game and what came after humming under your skin like a live wire.
And then you see him.
Macklin lounging on the couch, one ankle propped on his knee, a coke dangling from his fingers. He doesn’t even look up from the game replay flickering on the TV, just lifts the can to his lips and takes a slow sip. “Did you fuck it out?"
