I need help finding a macklin fic ( 2 or 3 parts). They spending some of the summer with readers family and they weren’t allowed to sleep in the same room and the reader had a rude sister in law and was making fun of macklin because he couldn’t sleep without reader. The reader also told the dad that they would just leave because they didn’t get to spend a lot of time together as a couple during the season. After she said that the dad conceded and allowed them to share a room.
If you know the writer or name of the fic, please comment!
Not in any dramatic way. No one is forbidding anything. No one has looked you both in the eye and said, Don't. But it’s there anyway, always, hanging quiet in the background every time Mack walks in with his gear bag like he belongs here.
Which, in a way, he does.
By mid-July, he’s almost living in Halifax.
Early skates with your dad. Garage workouts. Recovery sessions. Protein bars disappearing. The same three hockey guys drifting through the kitchen, day and night.
And somehow, in the middle of all of it, this thing between you keeps growing. Quiet. Relentless.
Secretly.
Dangerously.
You don’t remember the exact moment it became real.
Maybe it was the first time his hand brushed the small of your back while passing behind you in the kitchen and lingered there a second too long.
Maybe it was the way he started looking for you automatically whenever he walked into a room.
Maybe it was the night you caught him staring at you across the backyard while everyone else laughed around the firepit, his expression soft enough to make your chest ache.
Whatever it was, it’s too late now.
Especially because Macklin Celebrini is terrible at pretending not to want you.
Tonight the house is unbearably warm.
Not hot enough for air conditioning. Just enough that the windows are cracked open and the summer air drifts lazily through the halls carrying the smell of saltwater and grass and somebody’s barbecue down the street.
You lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead.
Downstairs, you can hear faint movement. Cabinets opening. Footsteps. A low laugh.
Probably Mack.
Your stomach flips. Heat surges through your chest at just the thought of him.
It’s almost pathetic, how much you want him.
You check your phone.
12:43 AM.
A message lights up the screen almost instantly.
u awake?
Your heart stumbles, breath catching in your throat.
you psychic?
three dots appear immediately.
cant sleep
too hot
You stare at the screen too long, thumb hovering, nerves building with every second.
my room’s worse
Your reply comes out so fast it feels reckless.
prove it
You actually laugh under your breath.
For a second, you consider ignoring him.
Being smart.
Then another message appears.
come here
Your entire body goes warm, and your hands tremble.
The hallway is dark when you slip out of your room.
The house settles soft around you. Old wood creaks. A faint breeze moves through the open windows. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hums.
Your dad’s room is at the opposite end of the hall.
You try not to think about that.
Mack’s door is cracked open, warm golden light spilling through the gap and pooling on the floor.
You knock once, softly.
The door opens immediately.
Like he’d been standing there waiting for you.
And honestly, maybe he was.
His hair is damp from the shower, curling at the ends. Gray sweats hang low on his hips. He’s barefoot, one hand still on the doorknob as he looks at you—standing there in oversized sleep shorts and your dad’s old Team Canada hoodie.
The second his eyes land on you, something in his expression shifts.
No surprise.
Something softer.
Worse.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Your throat suddenly feels dry, voice trapped behind nerves.
“Hi.”
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then he steps aside silently to let you in.
The room smells like laundry and body wash. His hockey bag is half-unpacked by the dresser. One of your dad’s old training binders lies open on the desk beside a half-finished Gatorade.
You notice everything. Noticing him has become second nature.
“You weren’t kidding,” you murmur, fanning yourself dramatically. “This room is awful.”
Mack shuts the door behind you with a soft click.
“Right?” he says. “Pretty sure I’m dying in here.”
“You’re such a baby.”
“Careful.” His voice lowers slightly. “You came voluntarily.”
The look he gives you after that sends heat straight down your spine.
You try to ignore it.
Fail immediately.
The room feels suddenly too small.
Outside the window, crickets hum steadily in the dark. Somewhere farther away, waves crash faintly against the shoreline.
Mack sits on the edge of the bed, forearms resting against his knees.
Then he looks up at you.
And just watches.
“What?” you ask softly.
“You know what.”
Your pulse jumps, heart hammering against your ribs.
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
There’s a long silence after that.
Heavy in the best way.
You’re hyperaware of your skin. The warm air. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up, like he’s trying to mind himself.
It would probably be easier if he acted cocky about this.
But he doesn’t.
That’s the problem.
Mack looks at you as if you scare him a little.
“You’ve been killing me all summer,” he says finally.
The honesty of it catches you off guard.
“What?”
“You walk around this house in tiny shorts, smiling at me like it’s nothing.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Meanwhile, I have to focus because your dad’s asking if I want to go run extra skating drills.”
You laugh helplessly.
His eyes close briefly at the sound, as if it physically affects him.
“See,” he mutters. “That.”
“What?”
“That thing where you laugh, and suddenly I forget how to act.”
Your stomach flips so hard it aches. Nerves tingle under your skin.
The room feels thick now. Wanting. Heat. Weeks of stolen glances and careful distance finally collapsing under their own weight.
“Mack,” you say quietly.
He looks up immediately.
You take one step closer.
That’s all it takes.
His hand catches your wrist gently, pulling you between his knees before either of you can think better of it.
The contact sends warmth everywhere instantly.
His hands slide slow up your thighs, settling at your waist like he’s trying not to lose control.
Which, honestly, only makes it hotter.
“You have no idea,” he says softly, looking up at you, “how hard I’ve been trying to be good.”
Your breath catches. Anticipation tightens your chest as you wait for what comes next.
“Maybe I don’t want you to be good.”
The look on his face after that nearly undoes you.
He stares at you for a second like he’s genuinely trying to decide whether this is real.
Then he stands.
And suddenly, he’s everywhere.
Warm skin. Soft hair beneath your fingers. His chest pressing against yours as he backs you toward the dresser, kissing you like he’s thought about it for months and can finally stop holding back.
The kiss is slow at first.
Not hesitant.
Intentional.
Like he wants to feel every second of it.
Your hands slide up into his damp hair. He exhales sharply against your mouth, hands tightening at your waist.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs.
“What isn’t?”
“You touching me like that.”
You smile against his mouth. “Thought you said you wanted me here.”
“I did.” He kisses you again immediately, deeper this time. “That’s the problem.”
He kisses softly down your neck, sucking roughly on your pulse. You let your hands slide under the sweatshirt he's wearing.
Your nails rake up and down his back, making him shiver. The soft sigh you let escape is loud enough to make him smile on your neck.
You move your hands back up to his hair, forcing his lips back to yours.
The room feels impossibly warm now. His cheeks grow warmer by the minute.
Summer air drifts through the cracked window, cool against your skin while his thumbs move slow against your waist beneath the hem of the hoodie. Careful. Reverent, almost.
Like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you.
That softness is what gets you.
It’s the way he looks at you after every kiss, like he’s memorizing something.
You pull back slightly just to breathe, and his forehead drops against yours instantly.
Both of you are quiet for a second.
Outside, a car passes slowly down the street with music drifting faintly from open windows. Somewhere downstairs, the ice maker clunks loudly in the kitchen, and both of you freeze automatically.
Then Mack starts laughing softly.
You bury your face against his shoulder, trying not to laugh too.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“Mhm.”
“If my dad walks in here, you’re dead.”
“Yeah.” His hands slide carefully up your back. “Probably worth it though.”
Your heart actually skips.
He says things like that too casually.
You lean back just enough to look at him.
His cheeks are flushed from heat and kissing, hair a mess beneath your fingers. He looks younger like this. Softer around the edges. Less like the hockey prodigy everyone talks about, more like just a boy in a too-warm bedroom wanting a girl he probably shouldn’t.
The realization makes your chest ache.
“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.
“You notice too much.”
“Only with you.”
God.
You kiss him again before he can say anything else devastating.
His hands tighten instinctively at your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. The tension that’s been building all summer settles heavy and sweet in your stomach.
Wanted.
That’s what this feels like.
Just two people trying not to ruin something good while wanting each other enough that it almost doesn’t matter.
And when Mack kisses you slower after that, softer somehow despite everything burning between you, you realize the truly dangerous part isn’t the sneaking around.
It’s how easy this feels.
Like he was always going to end up holding you like this in the middle of a Halifax summer night while the whole house slept around you.
would you write something about macklin being protective? like defending reader against a guy or something? i love your writing! (no pressure if you aren’t comfortable with this idea) :)
yessss i love this ideaaa! protective mack is such a vibe <33
Knew You'd Come Find Me - mc71
macklin celebrini x girlfriend reader
wc: 1.4k
summary: A crowded bar, one pushy stranger, and Mack reminding him that you're already his.
feeling of the story: fluff/protectiveness with a hint of comfort
The bar is loud in that constant, layered way. Music threads under voices, and laughter breaks through in sharp bursts. Normally, this wouldn’t bother you. Tonight, though, it feels overwhelming. You lean against the counter, fingers wrapped tightly around your drink, only half-listening to your friend as your eyes drift across the room. Because Mack is there. Of course he is. He’s with a couple of teammates, relaxed and laughing. He still carries that post-game energy like it hasn’t worn off yet. His sleeves are pushed up, curls slightly messy, and just looking at him eases something in your chest like it always does.
“You’re not even listening,” your friend says, nudging your arm. “I am,” you reply automatically, then pause. “Wait, what?” She follows your gaze and smirks. “Just go over there.” “I will,” you say, but you don’t move. Because you don’t have to. You know him. You know he’ll find you. And as if to prove your point, he looks up. Your breath catches slightly when his eyes meet yours. Recognition flashed, as if he knew you were somewhere in the room. His expression softens for a moment—just for you—before someone says something that pulls his attention away again. But it’s enough. It always is. You turn back toward the bar, adjusting your grip on your drink, trying to refocus—but that feeling lingers, warm and steady in your chest.
That’s why you don’t notice the stranger at first. “Hey.” You look over, a polite smile forming. “Oh, hi.” He’s closer than you expect. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you instinctively shift your weight back, your hip brushing the edge of the counter slightly. “You here by yourself?” he asks. You shake your head. “No, I’m with—” “With some friends, yeah,” he interrupts, smiling like it doesn’t matter. “Still.” Your shoulders tense slightly. “No, I’m okay,” you say, keeping your tone calm but firm. “Thanks, though.” He doesn’t move. Instead, he steps closer, closing the small gap of space you just tried to create. Now it’s harder to ignore. His arm comes up beside you, resting against the counter casually, but it narrows your space.
You swallow, shifting again, but the counter presses into your back. Now there’s nowhere easy to go without making a bigger scene. “Sorry, I’m not interested,” you add, more clearly this time. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding whether your answer counts. “I’m just talking to you,” he says, leaning in slightly. Your grip tightens around your drink, your fingers slipping against the condensation. You glance briefly to the side, looking for your friend. She's still there, but turned away, laughing at something someone else said. You look back, more direct now. “I said no.” For a second, the smile on his face tightens.
Then— “Hey.” The voice comes from behind him. Calm. Low. But it cuts through everything. You don’t even have to turn. You feel it first, the slight shift in the air. Mack steps beside you, close enough that the space changes immediately. His hand comes to your waist without hesitation, steady and familiar, pulling you slightly away from where you’d been boxed in and into him. Grounding you, anchoring you. “I was just trying to make conversation,” the guy says, his tone sharper now. Mack doesn’t even react; he just looks at him. Then, evenly— “She said she’s not interested.” The guy scoffs. “She can answer for herself.” “But I did,” you say, your voice tighter than before, but steadier now, your hand instinctively finding the front of Mack’s hoodie. Mack’s thumb shifts slightly where it rests against your side, a small, grounding movement. “I heard her,” he adds. There’s a pause, and the guy’s gaze flicks down briefly to where Mack’s hand is on your waist before coming back up. “You her boyfriend or something?” he asks. Mack doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
It's simple and certain. Your breath catches, even though it shouldn’t. You know this, you live in it, but hearing him say it like that, as if it’s obvious, hits differently. The guy shifts, but for some reason, he doesn’t step back yet. “Relax,” he says. “It’s not even that serious.” Mack takes a small step closer—not aggressive, not rushed, just enough that the difference is clear. You feel it in the way his hand tightens slightly at your waist that he's losing his patience. “It is,” he says. He's somehow still calm, still controlled. You press a little closer to him without thinking, your shoulder brushing his chest, your fingers tightening in his hoodie. Mack notices, of course he does. His hand steadies you, thumb brushing lightly against your side in that quiet, reassuring way. The guy exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Whatever.” He pushes off the counter, brushing past a little too close as he leaves, and you flinch slightly, instinctively leaning into Mack. And just like that— You can breathe again.
Mack’s focus shifts immediately. “Hey,” he says, softer now, his hand still on your waist. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your grip on him loosening slightly, but not completely. Your shoulders are still tense, and he can tell. “You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice meant just for you. You nod, slower this time. “Yeah… I think I am now.” His jaw tightens slightly, anger flashing over his eyes, flicking in the direction the guy left before coming back to you, the look disappearing. “He was way too close,” Mack says. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice softer now. Your fingers fidget briefly against his hoodie before settling again. “I didn’t exactly like that,” he adds. You glance up at him, a small smile pulling at your lips despite everything. “Well, I figured.”
His expression shifts immediately when you look at him—softer, the tension easing out of it. “I’m here now, though,” he says. It’s simple, not dramatic, but true. And it eases something in your chest instantly. “I know,” you say quietly. For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re still close, your body angled into his, his hand steady at your waist, and the noise around you feels distant again, like it’s happening somewhere outside of this. “Well, I knew you were gonna come find me anyway,” you say after a second, your voice lighter now. His mouth lifts slightly, a hint of a smile forming. “Yeah, obviously.” “Just… maybe next time with a little less attitude.” “Maybe, but that guy deserved it,” he responds. "I guess you're not wrong," you admit. You let out a soft laugh, the last of the tension finally easing out of your shoulders. His hand shifts slightly, not pulling away, just adjusting as you move a little closer instead of away. “You wanna get out of here?” he asks. You glance around—the noise, the crowd, the lingering feeling of eyes on you—and then back at him. “Yeah, definitely,” you say. He nods once, like that was always the plan. “Alright.” His hand stays at your waist as he guides you gently away from the bar, steady and familiar. And suddenly, the rest of the world didn't matter one bit to you. Because you were with him.
summary - in which macklin goes back home to italy with you. he doesn't understand what your family is saying, but he ends up finding his place there.
pairings - macklin celebrini x reader
warnings - reader speaks italian, author doesn’t know italian and didn’t want google translate to do anything incorrectly, so all “italian” is italicized. TOOTH rotting fluff, like you'll need to get your cavities filled.
wc - 1.9k
requested - yes
a/n - crazy coincidence that the necklace the girl is wearing in my header has an “m” on it. the pinterest gods really helped me this time. this fic also has nothing to do with the olympics, I just like italy. amore mio aiutami means help me, my love, it is also a beautiful instrumental from a old Italian movie of the same name so give it a listen!
Italy in the summertime was far better than in the winter. The city of Florence was always alive and bustling with people when the flowers started to bloom. You missed your hometown most days when the sky over San Jose was a perpetual gloomy gray, and the onslaught of rain seemed never-ending. Which spanned nearly all of winter. Macklin knew how much your home country meant to you, and the fact that you couldn’t always get back during long breaks or holidays was heartbreaking to him.
So to see you so giddy in the warm Tuscany sunshine, he has never been happier. But, meeting your family? Mack has never felt so much dread in his entire 19-year-long life.
“What if they don’t like me?”
“They will, Mack. Stop stressing.” The soft lull of your accent made some of the anxiety dissipate, but not all of it.
The front door to the townhouse opens before the two of you even walk up, your mother opens the door with a wide smile on her face.
“My darling girl!” Her fast Italian didn’t register in Macklin’s ears. “Does he speak Italian?”
“No, he doesn’t.” You respond in English, and your mother nods in understanding.
“It is fine. It is very nice to meet you, Macklin.” She gives him a hug.
“You as well.”
“You will have to excuse the family, the majority do not speak English. Some very broken, others nothing at all.”
“That’s alright, I’ll manage.” He shakes his head.
“I’ll translate for you. Most of my nieces and nephews don’t speak English. And Nonna Francesca doesn’t speak any English.” You place a gentle hand on his arm.
“Good to know.” Macklin leans a little closer to you.
“Come on in, please!” Your mother opens the door wider and lets the two of you in. “We have the guest bedroom set up for you, Macklin. Right across from Y/N’s room.”
“Oh…alright.” Mack’s face falls.
“Sorry, we are a traditional household since you are both still young and unmarried. So no sleeping in the same bed.” Your hand travels down his arm and laces through his fingers.
“Alright, Mamma. Let me take you up there, amore.”
“You two are too young to make me a nonna!” Your mother calls after you as the two of you move up the tiny stairwell.
“Mammina, please stop!” You huff and continue to lead Mack up the stairs. “This is embarrassing.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Don’t lie, amore.” You get to the second floor and turn to look at him pointedly.
“I would never.” He trails after you, hand still holding yours.
“This one is mine,” You push open the door.
Mack feels like he’s stepping into your head, a bookshelf lined with classics, fantasy, romance, and everything in between. The soft golden light from the lamp on your bedside table highlights the soft white comforter and the million different pillows decorating your bed. There is a vinyl record player in the corner with a milk crate full of records, both new and old. It was an amalgamation of everything cozy and something purely you.
“Welcome home, little sister.” Your older brother walks through the door.
“Gio.” You smile and walk over to hug him.
“Who is this boy in your room?” Macklin feels the piercing gaze of your older brother on him, and his nerves vibrate beneath his skin.
“My boyfriend, Macklin, I told you he was coming.” The only thing he understands is his name falling from your mouth, but the cold glare of your brother makes him want to shrink into his skin. “He doesn’t speak Italian.”
“I see. So Macklin,” His accent is far thicker than yours, all the time living in North America must have softened it. “What are your intentions?”
“My intentions?”
“Yes, from what my sister has said, you are an athlete, you tend to be…how you say…a player.” Giovanni looks at Mack, trying to size him up, and you roll your eyes.
“No! I would never do that. Your sister is very important to me. The idea of hurting her is something that has never crossed my mind. She is the only one for me.” Mack shuts down any idea that he would ever choose anyone besides you.
“I told you, Giovanni, very loyal.” You cross your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him.
“We’ll see, Nonna will test him for sure. Now, if you are done unpacking, the rest of the family is downstairs waiting for you two.” Giovanni nods down to the back patio.
“Lead the way.” You reach out and lace your fingers through Mack’s, the two of you follow after Giovanni back down the stairs and to the patio, where the rest of your family is waiting. “He thinks he’s intimidating because he is older than me. But, we're just the two babies of the family, and I really run this place.”
Mack laughs and presses a kiss to the side of your head, “I can hear you.” Giovanni grumbles and shoots a glare over his shoulder.
The three of you push through the double doors at the back of the house, and the patio is filled with immediate and extended family alike. Mack always thought growing up, his family was big, but yours was huge.
“Do you really know everyone here?” His eyes grew wider at the sight of over 50 people mingling and walking throughout the yard.
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“Yes.”
“There you go.” You squeeze his hand.
You walk around the patio and introduce Macklin to the aunts, uncles, and cousins. Some speak English, and others don’t, but he can still feel how welcoming they are. He found himself separated from you at one point, but he ended up trying to explain the rules of hockey to two of your cousins.
“He’s a good one, Y/N.” You smile at your cousin, Valencia. “I was skeptical of the boys you would find in North America, but you found a keeper.”
“I know. Should I save him from Antonio and Luca?” She laughs at your question.
“Probably.” You say goodbye to her and walk over to Macklin.
“So you do all of that on ice skates.” Luca has a bewildered look on his face. “When I played football, most guys would fall to the floor with even a slight scratch.”
“Yeah, we would get fined for that. Embellishment.” Mack smiles at the feeling of your hand on his back. “Hi, baby.”
“Hello, amore. Mind if I steal him?”
“Not at all Y/N, find us later, I have more questions.” Antonio claps his shoulder.
“Doing alright?” You rest your chin on his shoulder.
“I am, your family is nice. I wish I could understand more of what they are saying. It makes me feel bad that I can’t speak to them properly.” Mack rests his cheek against the top of your head.
“They like you though, everyone is telling me how good you are.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“She’s here!” A tiny stampede of children runs towards you as you turn your head, their hushed Italian floating through the air.
“Oh no. It’s the nieces and nephews.” You look at him with a crazed smile that instills fear in his heart, your arms falling away from his waist.
You stumble backwards as you are nearly tackled by what seems like twenty small children aged 3 to 11. It’s really just six kids, but it feels like more.
“Y/N! Y/N! You’re home!” The six children swarm you, hands grabbing for yours, little faces looking up at you.
“I am!” The Italian flows seamlessly, and you ruffle a few heads.
Mack looks at you in awe. You’re so natural with the kids. His heart beats a little quicker as you hug each one of the kids, speaking softly to them. He may not understand what you are saying, but he can sense the heart behind your words. Mack is so entranced by you that he doesn’t notice a nephew of yours is staring up at him, confused at the unfamiliar person standing in your room.
“Who are you?” The boy, who must have been no more than 4 years old, blinked eyes wide and doe-like.
Mack is at a loss for words. He doesn't know what the boy said, and you are preoccupied with the other five kids.
“Umm…hi.”
“You look funny.” The boy giggles, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Y/N.” Mack calls to you, and you look over at him.
“Oh, Marco, that is my boyfriend, Macklin.” The boy, named Marco, nods his eyes widening in recognition.
“Boyfriend?” One of the smaller girls speaks up, and you nod. The kids suddenly swarm him. “Does he speak Italian?”
“No, but I will tell him what you say.” You look at him.
“Can we ask him questions?” Another girl speaks up.
“They want to ask you some questions, is that alright?” You tilt your head and look at him.
“Of course, ask away.”
“You can ask him your questions.” You translate to the gaggle of children looking up at him.
Mack kneels down to the height of your nieces and nephews, and you follow suit. The two of you crouched in front of the kids. They ramble on and on, asking various questions about what his favorite color is (he said he wasn’t sure, the kids weren’t happy), his favorite season (winter), how many siblings he has (three), and Mack’s favorite question: if he loves you (yes).
“Y/N! Macklin! Nonna Francesca wants to speak to you both.” Your mother calls, “Come on, children, I have panna cotta in the kitchen.”
The kids run off after your mother and her bribe of dessert.
“Time to meet my nonna.”
Your grandmother is sitting in a chair by the tree, a bench right next to her, where your older sister, Sofia, is talking with the older woman.
“I’ll let the three of you talk.” Sofia stands up unoccupying the bench for the two of you.
“Y/N, darling, how are you? Is this the boy your mother has been telling me about?” Her Italian is very soft spoken, the words weathered with age and wisdom, even if he doesn't know what she is saying.
“Yes, Nonna, this is Macklin.” You place a hand on his back. “You can say hello.”
“Hello, it is very nice to meet you.”
“He says it is nice to meet you.”
“Hello, Macklin, it is very nice to meet the boy who is making my granddaughter so happy.” Your nonna smiles at him. “He is a very nice-looking boy, good for a girl as beautiful as you.”
“I know.” You grin, and your nonna squeezes your hand with a cheeky smile on her face.
“What did she say?” Mack asks you.
“She's telling me she thinks you’re handsome.” You watch as his cheeks flush a blotchy pink.
“Oh, thank you.” He gives a bashful smile.
“He is very good with the children, and I can tell how happy you both make each other.”
“She says you are good with the children, and she can see how happy we make each other.” You translate for him, and Mack feels his heart start beating faster. A flush creeping to his ears.
“Thank you.”
“I like him. He’s good for you.”
“You’ve been nonna-approved, Mack.” Something warm fills his chest as he looks at you, the orange and gold Tuscan sunset framing your face. Mack is starting to feel like he belongs here with your family.
“Welcome to the family.”
“Welcome to the family, Mack.” You repeat back to him in English, and it solidifies for Mack that, despite the language barrier, the welcoming feeling he receives from your family transcends any and all need for words.
