Vivi’s

Pucks, sticks and Lights out & adrenaline!

[vicsmith2]

Introduction

Name: Vitória • Age: 24 • Nationality: Brazil

My goal for now is just to post some written content, which I come to develop after some requests that I see around here.

My main focus is Hockey:

Fraser Minten

Macklin Celebrini

William Smith Hockey

Quinn Hughes

Luke Hughes

I accept orders! I hope you enjoy it 🦋

[vicsmith2]

Fall and Renaissance • 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑆𝑚𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑋 𝑆/𝑁

Sinopse: S/NLowell suffers a severe fall while pregnant, triggering a premature birth. Her husband, Will, distant on a trip, struggles to arrive on time. The couple faces the fear of loss and the uncertainty of their son's future.

Triggers: Blood, insecurity, anxiety.

S/N Lowwey is thirty weeks and five days pregnant.

And according to Will, she is also completely insane.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay home?”

His voice comes through the phone, rough with sleep and worry. S/N smiles as she organizes a few papers across the table in the teachers’ lounge at Maplewood Elementary School, where she has been teaching for almost two years. The autumn morning sun streams through the tall windows, bathing the walls covered with children’s drawings in golden light.

“Will, I’m pregnant, not disabled.”

“I know.”

“Then stop acting like I’m going to break.”

“You’re carrying our child.”

“And I can still work.”

On the other end of the call, Will takes a deep breath. She can picture the scene: him in a hotel room in Vancouver, probably sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees, his blond hair messy from another restless night.

He is in the middle of the fourth game of a five-game road trip.

Far away.

Tired.

And completely obsessed with the idea that something could happen while he was gone.

“Promise you won’t overdo it?”

S/N looks at the box of autumn decorations still sitting unopened in the corner of the room. Sheets of orange and amber crepe paper, along with a three-meter garland that needs to be hung in the main hallway for the school’s Friday celebration.

“I promise.”

“S/N.”

“I promise I’ll try.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She laughs, the sound echoing softly through the empty room.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Now go play.”

“You’re going to rest?”

“Yes.”

He knows she’s lying.

S/N hears the heavy silence filled with suspicion.

“I know you.”

“And you still married me.”

“Best decision of my life.”

His tone changes.

That tone she has learned to recognize over the past three years together—soft, almost vulnerable, as though the words come out more slowly than he would like.

“Go.”

“I’ll call you after practice.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The call ends.

S/N looks at her phone for a moment before returning to work, going back to the lesson plans for the following week.

The baby moves inside her, a gentle, familiar pressure against her ribs.

She places a hand over her belly, feeling its rounded shape beneath the gray knitted dress that stretches comfortably over her silhouette.

“Daddy is dramatic, isn’t he?” she murmurs. “But he loves us.”

⸻

By three in the afternoon, the school is nearly empty.

Most of the children have already gone home, and the hallways echo with the distant sounds of staff organizing classrooms and preparing for the weekend.

S/N is standing on top of a six-step aluminum ladder, trying to reach the hook near the top of the wall where the autumn garland is supposed to be attached.

“Vic, let me do that!” Mariana, the teacher from the classroom next door, calls out, appearing at the entrance of the hallway with a look of panic.

“There’s only a little bit left!”

“You’re pregnant!”

“I know!”

S/N laughs, stretching her arm with the double-sided tape.

Her gray dress rides slightly higher on her thighs, but she doesn’t care.

She’s almost done.

Just another meter of garland.

The baby moves again, a sharper sensation this time, and she brings her free hand to her belly.

“Easy, little one.”

Then she feels something strange.

Pressure.

Not from the baby.

Something building at the base of her spine, a warm, fluid sensation rising through her abdomen.

She frowns, the tape still suspended in the air.

“What…?”

The pain comes suddenly.

Hard.

Suffocating.

Like a hot knife slicing straight through her abdomen.

S/N drops the tape.

Her hand reaches for the railing, but her fingers are wet.

Sweat?

No.

She looks down.

Dark red stains her palm, dripping between her fingers.

The ladder moves.

She tries to hold on, but the world spins.

The railing slips from her sweaty hand.

Her knees buckle, and she feels the fall before it even happens—the air being knocked from her lungs, the sharp impact against the linoleum floor, the decorations tumbling down with her, sheets of crepe paper floating through the air like ashes.

“S/N!”

Distant voices.

Rushing footsteps.

Someone is crying, and S/N vaguely realizes that it might be Mariana.

She tries to breathe.

She can’t.

There is an intense pain tearing through her abdomen, a pressure crushing her from the inside, and something warm spreading between her legs, soaking her thighs and the back of her dress.

“Oh my God…”

“Call an ambulance! NOW!”

S/N tries to speak.

Her mouth moves, but only a hoarse whisper escapes.

“My baby…”

“Don’t move, S/N. Please, don’t move.”

Hands grip her shoulders.

Someone removes a jacket and places it beneath her head.

She feels the hot blood running down her skin.

Feels the terrible emptiness where there should be movement.

Where there should be life.

“My baby…”

The edges of her vision begin to darken.

Mariana’s face floats above her, blurred, tears shining on her cheeks.

“Call my husband…”

And then everything goes black.

⸻

Will is in the Rogers Arena locker room, sitting on the bench with his skate laces in his hands, when his phone vibrates.

He almost ignores it.

It’s 3:47 p.m. in Vancouver, and warm-up starts in less than two hours.

But then he sees the name of S/N’s school.

He answers.

“Mr. Smith?”

He turns, pressing the phone against his ear.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from the school where your wife works.”

The world seems to stop.

The sounds of the locker room—the laughter, equipment being organized, the hum of the lights—all fade into the distance, as though someone has muffled everything with a pillow.

“What happened?”

Silence.

Far too long.

Eternal.

“S/N had a fall.”

Will goes completely still.

The phone slips an inch in his sweaty hand.

“Is she okay?”

Another silence.

This time, he hears something in the background.

Distant sirens, perhaps.

The sound of a hospital.

“She was rushed to the hospital.”

“My son?”

His voice fails, breaking in the middle of the question.

Someone in the locker room looks at him—Carter, maybe, or Macklin—but Will can’t focus on anything except the voice on the phone.

“They’re evaluating both of them.”

He doesn’t hear anything else.

He grabs his phone with his free hand, already standing, already searching for his keys, his jacket, anything.

“I need to go.”

“Will, you have a game in—”

“I NEED TO GET THERE.”

The problem?

He’s on the other side of the country.

Nearly five thousand kilometers away from her.

⸻

At St. Mary’s Hospital, S/N is taken directly to the emergency department on a stretcher rushing through the halls.

The ceiling lights blur above her.

Someone is shouting numbers—blood pressure, heart rate—and she tries to understand, tries to remain conscious, but the world has become fragments.

An oxygen mask over her face.

The cold IV fluid entering her vein.

The pressure of hands against her abdomen.

“Thirty weeks?”

“Thirty weeks and five days.”

“We need to prepare the operating room NOW.”

Everything happens quickly.

S/N can barely remain conscious, fighting against the darkness pulsing at the edges of her vision.

A nurse—a young woman with brown hair pulled into a tight bun—holds her hand firmly.

“My husband…”

“He’s coming.”

“Promise?”

The nurse squeezes her hand.

Her eyes are serious.

Determined.

“I promise we’ll do everything we can.”

S/N closes her eyes.

Tears silently slide toward her temples, soaking into the paper beneath her.

“My baby…”

“We’re going to take care of him.”

⸻

Will gets on the first available flight.

Vancouver to Calgary.

Calgary to Toronto.

Toronto to Boston.

He sits in airport corridors, in the most uncomfortable seats on the planes, anywhere that takes him closer to her.

Every few minutes, he calls the hospital.

No information is enough.

No answer reassures him.

“Is she stable?”

“Sir, the team is working.”

“And my son?”

“As soon as we have information, we’ll contact you.”

Will runs a hand over his face.

He is completely out of control, stumbling through terminals with his hockey bag still hanging from his shoulder, his team uniform only partially changed, his compression shirt clinging to his sweaty body.

He can’t stay still.

He can’t think.

He can’t breathe properly.

All he can imagine is S/N alone.

Scared.

And he isn’t there.

On the flight from Calgary to Toronto, he sits in the last row, pressed against the window, staring at the clouds below.

His fingers tap relentlessly against the armrest.

The businessman sitting beside him—with headphones on—watches him with a mixture of curiosity and concern, but Will can’t bring himself to care.

He closes his eyes and sees S/N.

He sees her the first time he met her, three years ago, at a friend’s birthday party.

She had been standing in the corner of the kitchen, laughing at something someone had said, red braids falling over her shoulders, the royal-blue dress making her peach-colored skin glow.

She had turned.

Her hazel eyes had met his.

And something inside Will—something he hadn’t known was broken—had fallen into place.

He sees her pregnant at seventeen weeks, showing him the first ultrasound with trembling hands and tears of excitement.

He sees her in the morning, hair messy, face puffy with sleep, somehow even more beautiful than in any carefully planned photograph.

And now he imagines her on a stretcher.

Bleeding.

Terrified.

Without him.

“Please,” he whispers into the emptiness, to the clouds, to anything that might be listening.

“Please.”

⸻

When he finally reaches the hospital, it is already nighttime.

Boston’s lights shine through the autumn rain.

Will practically runs through the halls, his hockey bag hitting against his thighs, his shoes still hiding the socks he wears beneath his skates—he hadn’t had time to change everything.

“S/N Lowwey!” he shouts at the reception desk, breathless. “My wife. She was brought in this afternoon. Pregnant. Thirty weeks. A fall.”

The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with thick-framed glasses—blinks before typing something into the computer.

Her expression doesn’t change, but Will notices the hesitation in her fingers.

“One moment, sir.”

She calls someone over the radio.

A nurse appears—different from the one he’d spoken to on the phone, older, with gray hair tied into a low bun.

Her eyes meet Will’s.

Something in her face—some softness, some understanding—makes his stomach twist.

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife is in recovery.”

Will stops.

The world tilts.

“She’s alive?”

“Yes.”

He closes his eyes.

A tear escapes and silently rolls down his cheek.

He doesn’t care.

“And the baby?”

The nurse takes a deep breath.

The sound feels like a second of silence in the middle of a song, a pause Will has learned to fear.

“Your son was born.”

Will becomes completely still.

“Born?”

“Yes.”

“Is he alive?”

“He is.”

Will covers his face with both hands.

A sob escapes—single, uncontrollable.

He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he asks:

“Where is he?”

“Neonatal intensive care.”

His expression collapses.

NICU.

Intensive care.

For babies.

For babies who shouldn’t be here yet.

Babies born too early.

Babies who need machines to breathe.

To live.

“Can I see him?”

“We’ll take you to him.”

⸻

Will sees his son through the incubator.

So small.

So fragile.

The baby is wrapped in a blue-and-white striped blanket, but even so, Will can see how tiny he is.

Tiny arms as thin as winter branches.

Translucent skin with blue veins visible beneath it like a map.

Tubes emerge from his nose and stomach.

Monitors beep in rhythms Will can’t understand, but they seem steady, and he clings to that.

He places his hand against the glass.

It’s cold.

Smooth.

A barrier between him and his son.

“Hi, buddy.”

His voice breaks.

He clears his throat and tries again.

“I’m your dad.”

The baby moves slightly.

Such a tiny movement that Will almost misses it.

But no.

There it is.

A tiny finger curling into a fist.

An eyelid twitching.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

“You weren’t supposed to come this early.”

Will takes a deep breath.

The hospital air tastes like disinfectant and something else—something metallic and permanent.

“But I’m here.”

He stays there for several minutes, staring at his son.

The minutes stretch and lose meaning.

He doesn’t know how much time passes.

He only knows that he can’t move.

Can’t take his eyes away from that tiny human being who had fought inside S/N and was now fighting here, alone, inside a box of plastic and glass.

Until he hears a voice behind him.

“Will.”

He turns.

S/N is being wheeled toward him by a nurse.

Pale.

Paler than he has ever seen her.

Her peach-colored skin transformed into porcelain.

Tired.

Dark circles beneath her eyes.

Her hazel eyes lacking their usual brightness.

But awake.

Alive.

There.

He immediately goes to her, dropping to his knees on the linoleum floor.

He doesn’t care about dignity.

His appearance.

Anything.

Nothing matters except her.

“Vic.”

She slowly opens her arms, carefully, as though every movement hurts.

And it does.

Will sees the tension in her shoulders, the way she protects her still-swollen abdomen after surgery.

He kneels before her.

Wraps his arms carefully around her waist.

Rests his forehead against her lap.

And cries.

Without shame.

Without trying to hide it.

“I thought I was going to lose you both.”

S/N’s hand finds his hair.

Her fingers are cold.

Trembling.

But present.

She runs her fingers through his messy blond hair, caresses his temple, his ear.

“You didn’t.”

“I should’ve been here.”

“You got here.”

“I should have—”

“Will.”

She holds his face and makes him look up.

Her eyes meet his—red, swollen, desperate—and she smiles.

A small, broken smile.

But real.

“You got here.”

He kisses the palm of her hand.

Her skin tastes like salt and hospital.

Disinfectant and something indefinable that is simply S/N.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He rests his forehead against hers.

Her skin is warm, perhaps feverish, and he worries, but he can’t pull away.

“Our son?”

S/N looks toward the incubator.

The baby is still there.

Still fighting.

Still alive.

“He’s fighting.”

Will nods.

His jaw tightens, that familiar angle she has learned to read over three years of marriage.

“Then we’ll fight with him.”

⸻

The following days are difficult.

Long hours in the neonatal intensive care unit, sitting in blue plastic chairs, their hands resting against the incubator whenever they are allowed.

Quiet conversations.

About names.

About the future.

About absolutely nothing.

Just to fill the silence that threatens to swallow them.

Fear.

Hope.

S/N slowly recovers.

The surgery left a scar she still hasn’t seen—she can’t look at it yet—and a pain that comes in waves, unexpected and overwhelming.

Sometimes she cries when she thinks Will isn’t looking.

She cries for the baby who should still be inside her.

For the body that failed.

For the guilt she can’t seem to push away.

Will barely leaves the hospital.

He sleeps sitting in corridor chairs, his neck twisted at impossible angles.

He eats when someone remembers to bring him food, or when S/N forces him to.

She can still be stubborn, even while heavily medicated with painkillers, even with tubes coming from her arm.

And every day, beside the incubator, he tells his son:

“Your mom is here.”

“Your dad is here.”

“And we’re going to take you home.”

On the fifth morning, a nurse walks in smiling.

It isn’t the professional, polite smile.

It’s wider.

More genuine.

It transforms her ordinary face into something almost beautiful.

“He’s doing better.”

S/N brings a hand to her mouth.

Her fingers tremble against her dry lips.

Will closes his eyes.

He sinks more heavily into the chair, as though his legs have finally given out.

“Better?”

“Yes. His numbers are looking good. He’s responding well and gaining weight. We still need intensive care, but…” She pauses, smiling even more. “He’s a fighter.”

Will wraps his arms around S/N.

Carefully.

Always carefully.

But truly.

Really.

Truly.

They both cry.

Tears that aren’t only relief, but something deeper.

Something that has no name in any language they know.

⸻

Two weeks later, S/N is sitting beside the incubator.

Finally, no wheelchair.

A normal plastic chair she managed to sit in herself.

It still hurts.

Everything still hurts.

But she’s here.

Will holds her hand.

Their fingers are intertwined, his knuckles pressing against hers in a rhythm she has learned to recognize.

Worry.

Love.

Contained fear.

The baby sleeps peacefully.

Small.

But strong.

Fewer tubes now.

The respirator was removed three days ago.

He is breathing on his own.

Still irregularly, with pauses that make Will’s heart stop, but breathing.

S/N looks at her husband.

He looks different.

Thinner.

Dark circles beneath his eyes that seem permanently tattooed onto his face.

His blond hair longer than usual.

But his blue eyes, when they meet hers, still carry the same light.

“Are you still going to say I should’ve taken maternity leave?” she asks, her voice still hoarse from the intubation.

Will laughs.

It’s the first time in days.

A surprised, almost raspy sound that seems to escape him without permission.

“Yes.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

She smiles.

The smile isn’t quite the same as before.

There is still something broken inside it.

Something that needs time to heal.

But it is real.

“Maybe I should’ve listened to you.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t push it.”

Will kisses her forehead.

His lips linger a second longer than necessary, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Then he looks at their son.

The baby moves in his sleep, one tiny hand curling into a miniature fist.

“He’s going to know his mother is stubborn.”

“And his father is dramatic.”

“I crossed the country in a panic.”

“Exactly.”

He smiles.

That crooked smile she loves.

The one that first made her fall for him in a party kitchen three years ago.

“I’d do it all over again.”

S/N rests her head against his shoulder.

The fabric of his shirt is rough, worn—he hasn’t changed clothes properly in two days, she knows—but comfortable.

Familiar.

Home.

“I know.”

They remain silent.

The fear is still there.

It always will be, she thinks, somewhere in a corner, waiting.

But now there is hope.

Hope with a name.

With a face.

With a weight of two kilograms and three hundred grams, fighting to live.

And for the first time since that Friday afternoon at three o’clock, Will can breathe without feeling as though the world could end at any second.

Because S/N is there.

Their son is fighting.

And the three of them are finally together.

Not at home yet.

Not the way they had planned.

But together.

And in that moment, that is all that matters.

The baby moves again.

This time, his eyes open.

A color not yet defined, somewhere between blue and gray, which S/N knows will probably change.

He looks upward.

At the lights.

At nothing in particular.

And then, perhaps by chance, perhaps not, his eyes seem to find theirs.

Will squeezes S/N’s hand.

“He saw us,” he whispers.

“He saw us.”

They smile.

Three people in a hospital room, connected by something they still don’t have words to describe.

Something that began with a fall.

With fear.

With almost losing everything.

Something that might now become a beginning.

The future is still uncertain.

The baby still needs intensive care.

S/N still needs to heal.

Will still needs to learn what it means to be the father of a child who arrived too soon.

But here.

Now.

In this moment.

They are together.

And finally, that is enough.

[vicsmith2]

Quinn Hughes X Reader

Sinopse: Quinn becomes overprotective with S/N's pregnancy, controlling who touches her belly, even with her own family. The situation creates comic and emotional moments, revealing his vulnerability and deep love.

Warnings: Mention of pregnancy, possessiveness, comedy and protection!

…………………….…🏒………….………………🏒……………………..

Forbidden Touch

Quinn becomes fiercely protective of S/N’s pregnancy, controlling who gets to touch her belly—even his own family. The situation creates both hilarious and emotional moments, revealing his vulnerability and the depth of his love.

Quinn discovered he was going to be a father and immediately lost any ability to behave normally.

At first, it was sweet.

“Are you hungry?”

S/N looked up from the book she was reading on the couch in the living room of the Lake House. The fireplace cast dancing light across her face, highlighting the delicate freckles scattered over her nose. She slowly closed the book, marking her page with her index finger.

“I am.”

Quinn immediately stood from the armchair where he had been sitting, the tablet displaying game statistics forgotten on the armrest.

“What do you want?”

She tilted her head to the side, thinking. Her red hair, loose for the first time in days, fell over the shoulder of the navy-blue maternity dress Ellen had given her.

“Strawberries.”

He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

S/N heard drawers opening, the refrigerator closing, and the precise sound of a knife against the wooden cutting board. Less than two minutes later, he returned with a glass bowl filled with washed and sliced strawberries, still glistening with drops of water.

“Thank you.”

She picked up a piece with her fingers, chewing happily.

Quinn sat beside her, moving close enough that their thighs touched. He didn’t take any strawberries for himself. He simply watched her with that look she had already learned to recognize—the look of someone trying to memorize every second.

“Good?”

“Perfect.”

He smiled.

He rarely smiled, but when he did, even the faint stubble on his face couldn’t hide the expression that seemed to illuminate his entire face.

Then came the worrying.

“Are you tired?”

S/N was folding baby clothes over the bed in the master bedroom—tiny blue and white pieces, gifts from Ellen. She looked up and found Quinn standing in the doorway, his shoulders tense in a way she already knew very well.

“A little,” she admitted, because lying to him was pointless. He always noticed.

Quinn crossed the room in three long strides.

He immediately took the clothes from her hands and placed them on the dresser.

“Sit.”

“Quinn, I can walk.”

“I know. Sit anyway.”

She stared at him, eyebrows raised.

He pointed toward the rocking chair Ellen had brought up from the basement specifically for the nursery, complete with new cushions and a knitted throw draped over the back.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, but she sat anyway because her back really did hurt—and because there was something about his determination that melted her from the inside out.

Quinn knelt in front of her, removed the comfortable shoes she was wearing, and began massaging her bare feet.

His fingers were precise, methodical, almost as if he were studying a game strategy.

“Better?”

“Better,” she admitted.

He smiled again, satisfied.

S/N found it funny.

Until her belly really started to grow.

Because when the baby began moving insistently, when the kicks became something she could feel both awake and asleep, when her belly rounded into something impossible to ignore—that was when Quinn established the rule.

No one was allowed to touch S/N’s belly without permission.

Especially when he was around.

The first victim was Luke.

The Hughes family was gathered in the living room when S/N felt that familiar sensation—as if something inside her were doing gymnastics. She placed her hand over the exact spot and waited.

“Oh!”

The exclamation came out louder than she intended.

Quinn, who had been talking to Jack near the window, immediately turned around, his green eyes searching for her with surgical precision.

“Did he move?”

“He did.”

She confirmed it, her hand still resting over her belly.

Quinn crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside the couch where she was sitting. He placed his palm over hers and waited.

A few seconds later, the contact came.

A firm, deliberate push against the skin.

Quinn’s smile appeared instantly, transforming his serious face into something almost childlike.

“He’s kicking.”

“Sounds like a hockey player,” Ellen commented from her corner, knitting needles in hand.

Luke, who had been sitting on the floor near the coffee table, stood and approached with the curiosity that characterized him.

“Can I feel?”

Quinn didn’t take his eyes off S/N’s belly.

His hand remained exactly where it was, as if he were protecting a treasure.

“No.”

Luke blinked.

Once.

Twice.

“I just asked.”

“And I answered.”

S/N started laughing, the sound filling the room.

She looked at Quinn, at the stubborn expression on his face, and laughed even harder.

“Quinn.”

“What?”

“Let your brother feel.”

Quinn frowned.

He looked at Luke.

Then at the belly.

Then back at Luke.

“But he already felt it yesterday.”

Luke spread his arms, disbelief written all over his face.

“I didn’t even feel it yesterday!”

“Exactly,” Quinn replied, as though that explained everything.

S/N laughed even harder, her belly moving beneath her hands—whether from the baby or from her laughter, she wasn’t sure anymore.

“You’re ridiculous,” she told Quinn, gently running her fingers through his dark brown hair.

“I’m a father,” he replied, as if that were explanation enough.

“He isn’t even born yet.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Ellen chuckled softly, the sound mixing with the clicking of her knitting needles. Jack simply shook his head from across the room, but there was a smile on his lips.

——————————————-

The second victim was Jack.

It happened a few days later during Sunday lunch.

Jack was standing behind the couch where S/N was sitting, talking about some game he’d watched on television, when he casually reached out and placed his hand on her belly to steady himself while leaning forward to grab a French fry from Luke’s plate.

Quinn appeared on the other side of the room.

No one saw him move.

One moment he was in the kitchen.

The next, he was standing beside his brother, his voice low but unmistakable.

“Take your hand off.”

Jack froze, the French fry halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

“Take it off.”

“Quinn,” Jack began, his playful tone disappearing.

“You heard me.”

S/N was practically crying from laughing so hard, one hand covering her mouth, her body shaking.

She looked at Jack, at the confusion on his face, and couldn’t stop laughing.

“Jack, you might want to listen to him,” she managed between laughs.

Jack slowly removed his hand as though he were defusing a bomb.

He looked at his own palm.

Then at Quinn.

Then at S/N.

“This is unbelievable,” he declared.

Quinn didn’t answer.

He simply moved into the space Jack had left behind and placed his own hand exactly where his brother’s had been.

S/N’s belly was warm, her skin stretched over the life growing inside her.

“There,” Quinn said.

There was such satisfaction in his voice that S/N laughed even harder.

Jack looked at Ellen, searching for support.

“He’s lost his mind.”

Ellen didn’t even look up from her knitting.

“Ever since he found out he’s going to be a father.”

S/N held Quinn’s hand against her belly, intertwining her fingers with his.

She looked at him, at that serious and satisfied expression, and felt something expand in her chest.

Not only love.

But a deep understanding of who he was.

Of all the layers beneath that controlled exterior.

The third situation happened at the grocery store.

——————————————-

It was a Tuesday afternoon, an unlikely time for grocery shopping, but they needed milk and something for Quinn’s midnight snack—which now included strange things like ginger jam and saltine crackers because S/N had mentioned once that the baby seemed to like them.

An elderly woman with white hair tied into an elegant bun stood beside S/N in the deli line.

They talked about the weather, about her belly, about the excitement of becoming a first-time mother.

“How many months?” the woman asked, her blue eyes shining with genuine kindness.

“Seven,” S/N replied, her hand naturally resting over her belly.

“May I feel?”

Before S/N could answer, before she could even open her mouth, Quinn appeared beside her.

He had been in the pasta aisle a few feet away, but now he was right there, grocery basket in one hand, his other arm already moving around her.

“She doesn’t like strangers touching her,” he said, his voice polite but firm.

S/N turned her head and met his eyes.

There was a mixture of embarrassment and amusement in her expression.

“Quinn,” she murmured.

“What?”

“I never said that.”

The woman began laughing, her laughter light and completely without malice.

“He’s protective,” she commented, admiration evident in her voice.

S/N smiled because she couldn’t help it.

“Very.”

Quinn wrapped his arm around her, his hand resting against the curve of her waist, just beneath her belly.

It was possessive, she knew that.

But it was also sweet.

The way he pulled her closer, as if he constantly needed to make sure she was there, that they were okay.

“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he said.

There was a tone in his voice that S/N had never heard before.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Girls?”

He looked at her belly, then at her.

“You and him.”

“It’s a boy.”

“I know.”

“So they’re my girls?”

Quinn thought about it, his brow furrowing in concentration.

He was like that—precise and meticulous, even with words.

“You’re my girl,” he corrected. “He’s my boy.”

She laughed, the sound echoing through the nearly empty grocery store.

“Much better.”

The woman, still smiling, continued on her way.

——————————————-

Quinn didn’t remove his arm from S/N—not while they paid, not while they carried the grocery bags to the car.

His hand remained where it was.

A constant anchor.

The fourth victim was the doctor himself.

The appointment was routine, the obstetrician’s office filled with that peculiar smell of alcohol and latex gloves.

S/N was lying on the examination table, her hospital gown open, her belly exposed for the examination.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with metal-framed glasses, washed his hands meticulously.

“May I examine you?” he asked, as he always did.

Quinn, sitting in the chair beside the examination table, answered before S/N could open her mouth.

“Of course.”

S/N turned her head toward him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You do realize he’s the doctor, right?”

“Yes,” Quinn answered, but his jaw was tense, the muscle pulsing.

“Then why are you making that face?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes were fixed on the doctor’s hands as they approached S/N’s belly with professional, impersonal movements.

“Because he’s going to touch our son.”

The doctor started laughing, surprised but not offended.

“Mr. Hughes, I promise it’s for a good cause.”

“I know.”

“And, to reassure you, Ms. Lowwey gets to decide who touches her.”

S/N smiled, strangely moved by that small victory.

“Thank you.”

Quinn remained quiet, his posture rigid in the chair.

She reached out and found his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“You’re really cute when you’re jealous,” she whispered so only he could hear.

“I’m not jealous.”

His voice came out lower than usual.

“You are.”

“I’m protecting you two.”

“Of course.”

She kissed his cheek, feeling the faint stubble against her lips.

“My personal bodyguard.”

The doctor continued the examination, completely indifferent to the drama.

Quinn remained still, except for his fingers tightening around hers at regular intervals—a silent count, a way to keep himself calm.

——————————————-

The fifth victim was the grandmother.

Ellen was sitting beside S/N on the porch of the Lake House, an autumn afternoon when the air was cool but the sun still warm.

They were talking about names.

Ellen suggested family names.

S/N suggested names from children’s books.

They both laughed at the impossible suggestions.

The baby kicked.

Hard.

Insistently.

As though he wanted to join the conversation.

Ellen placed her hand over the belly without thinking, the gesture natural for someone who had already been a mother three times.

“May I?”

She asked, but her hand was already there.

“Of course,” S/N smiled.

Quinn entered the room at exactly that moment.

He had been in the kitchen preparing tea and stopped when he saw the scene.

The cup in his hand froze halfway to his mouth.

He looked at Ellen’s hand.

At S/N’s belly.

At the peaceful expression on both their faces.

“Mom,” he said.

There was a note in his voice S/N had never heard before.

Something between a plea and a warning.

Ellen didn’t move.

Her fingers remained where they were, feeling the life beneath the skin.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she answered calmly.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeling my grandson.”

Quinn pointed with the teacup, the gesture almost comical in its seriousness.

“He was with me.”

“He isn’t your property,” Ellen replied, and there was tenderness in her firmness.

S/N started laughing, her belly moving beneath Ellen’s hand—whether from the baby or her laughter, it was impossible to tell.

“Thank you, Ellen,” she said, gratitude in her voice.

Quinn crossed his arms, the teacup forgotten in one hand.

He looked like a five-year-old boy claiming his favorite toy.

“I just think everyone is touching too much.”

Ellen slowly removed her hand.

Deliberately.

Her eyes met Quinn’s, and there was a silent conversation between mother and son—years of understanding, shared losses, unconditional love.

“There,” she said.

Quinn immediately approached, abandoning the cup on some nearby surface, and placed his own hand over the belly.

He waited.

Patient.

Still.

The baby kicked.

His smile appeared instantly, the kind that transformed his entire face.

“See?” he said, looking at Ellen, at S/N, at anyone who might be listening.

Ellen rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture.

“Insufferable.”

S/N rested her head against Quinn’s shoulder, feeling his warmth through his flannel shirt.

“I like it,” she murmured.

And she felt him relax beside her.

——————————————-

A few weeks later, the situation reached its peak.

The entire family was gathered in the living room on a Friday night when no one had plans for the following day.

Jack had brought pizza.

Luke had brought ice cream.

Ellen had brought the knitting project that never seemed to end.

Quinn and S/N were sitting on the couch, her body resting against his, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

The baby began moving.

S/N felt it first—that sensation of fluid shifting, tiny limbs stretching.

She placed her hand over the exact spot and waited for the next movement.

“He’s kicking!” she announced, excitement in her voice.

Everyone looked.

Luke approached first, kneeling beside the couch.

“Can I?”

He asked Quinn, not S/N.

Quinn looked at her.

She smiled and gave him the smallest nod.

“You can.”

Luke placed his hand carefully, hopefully.

He waited.

Seconds passed.

One.

Two.

Five.

Nothing.

Jack tried next, playfully nudging his brother aside.

He placed his hand more firmly, as though that could somehow provoke a reaction.

Nothing.

Ellen tried, her experienced hand resting gently against the belly, her patience that of a grandmother.

Nothing.

Then Quinn moved.

He didn’t say anything.

He simply reached out and placed his hand over S/N’s belly, beside his mother and brothers, beside everyone who had failed.

The baby kicked immediately.

A firm, deliberate movement, almost visible beneath the fabric of the dress.

Everyone fell silent.

S/N began laughing, the sound filling the room almost shrilly.

She looked at Quinn.

At the expression on his face—pride, surprise, and something deeper she couldn’t quite name.

“He recognizes his dad,” she said.

There was emotion in her voice that surprised even her.

Quinn’s smile grew proud.

The rare one he almost never showed the world.

“I knew it,” he said simply.

Certain.

Luke complained, indignation in his voice.

“That isn’t fair.”

Jack pointed at Quinn, his finger shaking dramatically.

“You’re training the baby to be your biggest fan.”

Quinn answered, still smiling.

“It’s working.”

S/N held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.

Her hazel eyes met his green ones, and the intensity of the moment made everything else disappear.

“You know he’s not exclusively yours, right?”

Quinn looked at her, his expression softening.

“I know.”

“And other people are going to want to hug him?”

“I know.”

“And hold him?”

“I know.”

“And kiss him?”

Quinn sighed, the air leaving his lungs slowly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and she saw the struggle on his face—the desire to protect, the fear of losing, the love consuming him.

“I’m trying to accept it,” he admitted.

There was a vulnerability in his voice she rarely heard.

She laughed, but it was a tender sound, filled with understanding.

“You’re going to survive.”

He placed his hand over her belly again, feeling the life pulsing beneath his fingers.

“It’s just that I’ve waited so long for him.”

His voice cracked slightly.

A memory of all the nights he’d woken up alone.

All the times he’d seen families and felt the emptiness.

S/N softened completely, all the teasing disappearing.

“I know,” she whispered.

Quinn kissed her belly, his lips touching the fabric of her dress, the skin beneath it.

It was a reverent gesture.

Almost sacred.

“And I love you both more than anything,” he said.

The words came out simple.

Direct.

Without the ornamentation other people might have used.

She ran her fingers through his messy hair, feeling the texture beneath her fingertips, the warmth of his scalp.

“Then you can share,” she said.

It wasn’t an order.

It was a request.

An offering.

Quinn made a displeased expression, his brow furrowing.

He looked at Luke.

At Jack.

At Ellen.

All of them watching silently.

“I’ll try,” he promised.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The baby kicked again beneath his hand.

Quinn smiled, but there was mischief in his eyes when he added:

“But nobody needs to know I said that.”

S/N burst into laughter.

“Too late.”

On the couch, Luke raised his hand.

“I heard that.”

Jack raised his arm too.

“Me too.”

From the kitchen, where she was heating water for more tea, Ellen shouted:

“I heard it too!”

Quinn closed his eyes, a theatrically defeated expression crossing his face.

S/N leaned in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“You’re completely insane,” she murmured against his skin.

He smiled, his eyes still closed, his hand still resting over her belly.

“For you two,” he replied.

And there was absolute truth in his words.

This time, S/N had absolutely no complaints.

She simply leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat against her back, their son’s movements beneath their intertwined hands, and knew—with a certainty that transcended words—that this was her home.

Not the Lake House.

Not the apartment in Minneapolis.

Not any place that could be defined by walls or addresses.

It was him.

It was them.

It was this.

The fire in the fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

The sound of Ellen’s knitting needles returned, a steady and comforting rhythm.

Luke and Jack quietly argued about who would get to hold the baby first—a discussion Quinn heard, one he could feel in the tension of his muscles, but tolerated.

Because he had promised.

Because he was trying.

Because he loved more than he feared.

S/N closed her eyes, allowing herself to be filled by the moment—the mess, the warmth, the love surrounding her like a blanket.

She thought about Ellen’s letter, about the wisdom the woman had left for whoever came after her:

Not to fill the hole, but to stay inside it.

She understood now.

She understood that the hole didn’t disappear—the loss of her grandmother, the absence that still crossed through her at unexpected moments.

But she also understood that she could exist inside it.

That she could find beauty along its edges.

That she could build something new from what remained.

Quinn moved his hand over her belly, searching for another kick.

When it came, he smiled—a small movement of his lips that she felt more than saw, because her eyes were closed, because she was here.

Present.

Whole.

“He’s active today,” Quinn murmured.

“He’s your son,” she replied, affectionately accusing him.

He laughed—a rare, precious sound—and tightened his arm around her.

They stayed like that until the fire burned down.

Until Ellen announced she was going to bed.

Until Luke and Jack disappeared into their respective rooms.

Until it was just the two of them, in the quiet of the house that had become theirs, in the darkness that no longer frightened them.

Quinn walked her upstairs, one hand resting on her waist, guiding her up the steps with an attentiveness she no longer needed but accepted because it came from him.

He helped her lie down.

Removed her shoes.

Pulled the blanket over them both—her and the baby.

He lay beside her, facing her, his green eyes shining in the darkness.

“I love you,” he said.

The words came easily now.

Practiced.

True.

“I know,” she answered with a smile, because she also knew he would check whether she was comfortable, whether she needed water, whether the baby was quiet.

She knew he would wake three times during the night just to place his hand over her belly and feel him.

[deepvend]

one flight away - fraser minten

request: “Him having a bad week and feeling so down but little does he know .. you surprise him by visiting him !! He has no idea but his friends help you keep the secret and he’s never been happier in his life” warnings: none! wc: 2k note: this request reminded me so much of like a man, my first baby 🥹 anyways this is a little short but i have many more fraser fics coming!

summer was a sacred time for fraser. he loved everything about it, from the sheer amount of free time he got, to the fact he could spend some quality time in vancouver with his family, and especially being able to be glued to your side constantly.

he had started planning an entire itinerary for the two of you sometime in january. being your first time visiting him in vancouver during the summertime, he wanted everything to be perfect. you hadn’t even meant to, but you had ended up crushing his dream.

the two of you had been cuddled up on the couch, a movie lazily playing on your television as you both mostly ignored it, basking in the longer-lasting sunlight that the spring had brought along.

you looked up after pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, slight pout to your lips. “there’s a chance i might only come visit you for a week or so.”

his smile faltered, eyes hiding a sliver of disappointment behind them.

“wait, what? why?”

“my grandma started calling me everyday already, asking when i’m visiting, saying they need help with the kids and i’m their best babysitter.” you sighed, curling further into him as you talked. “i’ll see if i can escape earlier, but i don’t think i’ll get a whole lot of free time. i’m sorry, baby.”

“how am i going to survive without you for so long?”

inhaling slowly, your lips twisted into a half smile. “we can facetime.”

“not the same. who will scratch my back in the bathtub?” he asked, words dripping slowly from his lips as he looked up at you with playful sorrow.

his question brought a smile back onto your face, head shaking in amusement as your arms pulled him in tighter. your lips pressed featherlight against his own, moving slowly towards his cheeks.

“that’s what you’re worried about?” you mumbled between a peck and another.

“you know it’s a very important moment to me.”

after his departure, you’d been holding on pretty well for your standards, talking to each other through texts and spending an alarming amount of time on video call.

it somehow filled the void, but it still felt unnatural. you had grown used to sleeping all cuddled up at his side every night, to making two cups of coffee in the morning, to hardly ever shower on your own, always caving in when fraser’s whiny voice convinced you to let him in.

one night, two weeks into your separate vacations, your boyfriend’s complaining filled your ears even from such a big distance, catching your attention through the screen of your phone that you’d propped up against the paper towels while you stirred the contents of the pot like your mom had instructed you to.

your heart felt tight hearing him vent about his awful week: first it was cramping during a workout that had made him waste his day laying on the couch, then it was a parking ticket he hadn’t even thought he could get and, as the cherry on top, you being too far.

“i can’t believe we could be doing so much fun stuff but you’re not here to do it with me.” he breathed through the phone, thoughtful expression plastered on his face like he was imagining everything with great detail. knowing him, he probably was.

“babe, with all due respect, i would not be climbing mountains and doing all that athletic stuff with you even if i were there. you got your buddies for that.”

he gasped, faking outrage by placing a hand against his chest. “you can’t come to vancouver and not do the grouse grind, baby. i have a reputation to maintain in the area.”

the absurdity of his reaction made you burst out into laughter, grabbing your phone to return back to your bedroom.

“spare me, i’m begging you.”

as you walked through the hallway, you looked at the image of his crinkling eyes and his lips outstretched into a content grin. never in your life had you felt someone’s presence in your life leave such a big space as you were experiencing with fraser.

“get over here and i’ll consider it.” he smirked, expression faltering slightly as you sighed. “i miss you so much.”

“c’mon, it’s just a couple of weeks.”

“that’s basically a death sentence for me.”

you let yourself fall onto the soft mattress as your eyes rolled under his amused gaze, before you could mirror him with a nostalgic smile appearing on your own face.

he was unaware of the plotting you’d done behind his back, and that was a good sign. he had no idea you’d be roaming the streets of his hometown together in less than twenty four hours.

✧

pacing through the vancouver airport, it finally hit you that your boyfriend was one short drive away from you. basically within arm reach. you opened the chat between you and connor, whom fraser had insisted you meet after the bruins had played against the blackhawks in boston.

you looked at the address he had sent you, the last message you had exchanged. after sharing it with the taxi driver, you leaned back against the leather seat and watched as the city passed by you out of the slightly tinted window.

the address let to a cozy looking little coffee shop and, right as you got left off on the sidewalk, you recognized fraser’s figure sitting at a table on the outside patio, surrounded by the same friends you’d heard countless stories about.

you walked slowly, careful not to draw your boyfriend’s attention before the time was right. you stood behind his back, hands shaking with anticipation as you took in the sight of him right there, a handspan away from you.

connor was sitting right in front of him and he was looking at you with a brief, sly grin, low-profile enough not to instigate any doubt.

your hands moved swiftly, covering fraser’s eyes from behind him. you could feel his brows furrowing under your palms, forcing an involuntary chuckle out of you.

his ears perked up at the sound and, like muscle memory, his own hands moved yours away as he stood up so quickly his chair nearly collapsed onto the pavement. his head turned back and your arms outstretched towards him instinctively.

“what are you doing here?!” he gasped, not wasting another second more before wrapping you into the tightest, most heartfelt embrace.

“wanted to surprise you. i set this up with connor and the guys.”

after hearing your words mumbled against his shoulder, muffled by the soft cotton of his shirt, fraser swore he felt his heart racing in every part of his body. he leaned back just enough before his lips pressed against your own with urgency, tongue tracing the outline of your lips teetering on the edge of desperation.

“ew, get a room!” an unidentifiable voice groaned from behind your backs, and a roar of laughter raised consequently.

fraser pulled away from your soft, warm embrace and those lips he had missed like they were a part of himself, smiling against your mouth. your forehead leaned against his own and, with a simple look deep into his white-rimmed irises, you felt at home — or, like you had never left home.

you expected your stay to be imperfect, especially seeing it was your first time finally and officially meeting his family. instead, the mintens welcomed you into the family like you were one of their own from the very first instant.

after helping his mother with the sides and sneakily loading the dishwasher for her after dinner, you and fraser passed on the movie night to get some good quality sleep, which was much needed for you after a day of travelling.

once upstairs, fraser’s eyes darted between you and the twin-sized bed in his childhood bedroom.

“the bed’s tiny, you know.”

you dismissed his concerns with a hand gesture. “don’t worry, there’s plenty of space.”

“mhh, i wouldn’t be so sure.” he hummed, head tilting slightly as he looked at you once again.

your eyebrow quirked in confusion, but you shook it off and walked towards the left side of the bed, peeling the covers back before laying down. you got settled in nicely, grabbing the book you’d left on the nightstand and opening it where you’d left off.

you watched carefully from above the pages as fraser mirrored your actions. then, he started tossing and turning as you tried to complete the reading of at least a chapter of your book to send you to sleep sooner.

“i’m about to fall off.” he mumbled after a few moments of quiet.

your head picked up just enough to look towards the other side of the bed. he wasn’t nearly in danger of falling off the bed, which was strikingly odd. you had almost made up your mind to be quiet about your doubts, but eventually decided against it. something was up with your boyfriend, and you had to learn what exactly it was.

“what the hell’s wrong with you tonight?”

his head turned towards you, eyes piercing through your skin as he sighed deeply. “get on top of me.”

his words left you startled for a second. clearly having been apart for weeks had taken a certain toll on you both, but that felt sudden and rather anticlimactic. it was quite weird for fraser, who always made sure to set the right ambiance and get you in the mood.

“what? now?”

“no, not like that!” his head shook while he seemingly read your mind. “i want you closer.”

you could’ve replied with one of your teasing comments, a snarky remark, but you didn’t. as your face broke into a smile, a leg flew across his lap and you settled down with your chest flat onto his own, hips straddling his.

your chin rested on his pec as your head picked up slightly, just enough to look at his content, relaxed expression. his lips were curved into a hint of a smile, he wasn’t huffing and puffing anymore. you scoffed lightly.

“how am i going to read now?”

“you’re not going to.” he replied, matter-of-factedly, making a point of grabbing the book from your hands and slipping it onto the nightstand.

“you’re going to turn me into an illiterate.”

“i missed you.” he hummed against your hairline, before shifting so his lips could press a soft kiss on the middle of your forehead.

you chuckled, sound vibrating into your chest and against his. “we were together the entire day.”

“yeah, but we have a lot of catching up to do.”

your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, soft press of your lips over the thin skin muffling your quiet laughter. he was undeniably right and, despite your playful bickering, you were ridiculously excited about being glued to him all night long.

“you’re ridiculous, fras.”

“yeah, you bet i am.”

he didn’t argue, he didn’t budge. he knew you were right and he was being ridiculous and unreasonable and quite frankly, even a little childish, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. the feeling of your skin pressed up against his own, your smell invading his nostrils, your soft hair scattered across your face and his chest were all too nice for him not to have craved each and every single day away from you.

his arms wrapped tighter around your frame and he watched as your blinking grew weaker, your lashes feeling heavy. when your breath steadied and you finally fell asleep into his arms, he looked at your peaceful expression and couldn’t help the little smile that appeared on his face.

your hand sleepily reached up and your fingers entangled into his messy, loose curls. even in a deep and well-deserved slumber, you were considered enough to act on instinct and do what you knew he loved. each slow stroke of your finger pads against his scalp was like heaven to fraser, who just kept looking at that face he could not forget for anything in the world.

finally, for the first time that summer, his heart felt at its fullest.

[linaaawrites]

requested by anon: Will x reader where reader accidentally reveals that he was her first everything after they’ve already slept together. she never told him because she didn’t want to make it a big deal, and he lowkey freaks out because he wishes he’d known so he could’ve made it more special, while reader reassures him.

First Time Secrets

pairing: Will Smith x female reader

description: You accidentally reveal that Will was your first for everything, sending him into a panic about not making it special enough for you.

TW: Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, talk about virginity loss, established relationship.

masterlist

You're curled against Will's side on the couch, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as you watch TV.

"Hey," Will murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You're not even watching."

"I'm enjoying looking at you more," you reply, nuzzling closer.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Smooth talker."

The documentary shifts to a segment about high school sweethearts and the narrator mentions a couple who waited until marriage. Something about the words first time triggers a memory and you laugh softly.

"What's so funny?" Will asks, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

"Just remembering how nervous I was before our first time," you admit without thinking. "I was so worried I'd be terrible at it since I'd never done anything like that before."

The words hang in the air between you and you feel Will's body tense beneath you.

You mentally curse yourself. You'd never told him he was your first everything, not wanting to make it weird or to put pressure on him or the relationship.

Will sits up slowly, dislodging you from his comfortable position. He turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable.

"Wait," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "When you say 'never done anything like that before'… do you mean…?"

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. "I mean I'd never done anything before. With anyone."

His eyes widen in disbelief, his jaw literally dropping. "Anything? Like… nothing at all?"

You shake your head, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed under his intense scrutiny. "Nothing. You were my first kiss, my first… well, everything."

Will shoots up from the couch like it's on fire, running both hands through his already messy hair. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to make it weird!" you explain, sitting up and hugging a pillow to your chest like a shield. "I didn't want you to feel pressured or like you had to be extra careful or make it some big special moment. I just wanted it to be normal with someone I actually cared about."

"Normal?" he stops pacing to look at you, his eyes wild with panic. "What if I wanted to make it special for you? I would have planned something, bought flowers, made sure everything was perfect instead of just… letting it happen in your dorm after we'd been out with friends. Fuck, I didn't even bring you anything!"

You stand up, approaching him slowly. "Will, it was special. And it was perfect, because it was with you."

"But I didn't know!" he exclaims, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "I wasn't gentle enough, I didn't take enough time, I… oh god, I was probably too rough, wasn't I? I should have gone slower, paid more attention to…"

"You were perfect," you insist, reaching out to touch his arm. "You were sweet and attentive and you made sure I was comfortable. You asked if I was okay multiple times. You made me feel safe and wanted. That's what made it more special than I could've hoped for."

He shakes his head, guilt etched on his features. "I should have known. There were signs I missed."

"Like what?" you ask softly.

"Like how you tensed up when I first touched you," he recalls, starting to pace again. "How nervous you seemed. I just thought you were shy or that it had been a while for you. I never imagined… I can't believe I didn't realize. I'm so stupid."

"Will," you say firmly, taking both his hands in yours and stilling his frantic movements. "Listen to me. I chose not to tell you. That was my decision, not yours. And our first time was everything I wanted it to be because it was with someone I cared about, someone who made me feel comfortable and safe."

He still looks troubled, so you continue. "Do you remember what you said afterward?"

He thinks for a moment. "I said I really liked you and that I hoped this wasn't a one-time thing."

"And I said I hoped so too," you remind him. "That was the special part, not candles or flowers or some grand romantic gesture. It was that you liked me and wanted to see me again. It was that you cared about how I felt before, during and after."

Will's expression softens slightly, but the guilt remains. "I still wish I had known. I would have…"

"You would have what?" you challenge gently. "Treated me differently? Made me feel like I was fragile or inexperienced? Because that's exactly what I didn't want."

He sighs, pulling you into a hug. "I just wanted to be good for you. To make it memorable for the right reasons."

"You were," you mumble against his chest. "You still are."

He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes searching yours. "Really? Because I'm replaying every moment in my head and all I can think about is how I should have done things differently. I should have taken you somewhere nice, not just back to your dorm after a party. I should have told you how beautiful you are, how much I've been wanting this…"

"You did tell me," you remind him softly. "You told me I was beautiful right before you kissed me."

"I did?" he asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yes," you confirm with a small smile. "And you know what else made it perfect?"

"What?"

"The way you held my hand after," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like you didn't want to let go. The way you kept checking to make sure I was okay. The way you fell asleep with your arm around me, like you were protecting me even in your sleep."

Will's eyes soften at your words, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I didn't know you noticed all that."

"I noticed everything," you admit. "I noticed how you made sure I was comfortable, how you took time to just talk with me afterward instead of just falling asleep. I noticed how you looked at me like I was the only person in the world."

He pulls you closer, resting his forehead against yours. "I'm still sorry I didn't know."

"Don't be," you whisper, closing your eyes. "Because if you had known, you might have been nervous or overthinking it and then it wouldn't have been the sweet, perfect moment that it was."

"Sweet and perfect," he repeats softly, a small smile finally forming on his lips. "That's what you felt?"

"That's exactly what I felt," you confirm. "And that's what I still feel."

[minimouse02]

so cute

[linaaawrites]

https://www.tumblr.com/linaaawrites/822279472462069760/hii-my-previous-account-got-removed-and-i-just

Okay no rush at all! I was just scared of the ask got deleted since my account was! Thank you so much, you’re seriously my favourite writer on here!!

Oh my gosh, thank you 😭🤍 But there are so many writers out there who are so much more talented, but thank You for your kind words

Home Advantage

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

description: Rick walks in on you riding Macklin.

TW: Smut, MDNI, unprotected sex, subby Mack, praise kink, awkward interruption by his dad, established relationship.

masterlist

The air in Macklin's childhood bedroom is thick with nostalgia and the scent of him. Posters of hockey legends line the walls, a stark contrast to the man currently beneath you, his body taut with a need that mirrors your own. His family is supposed to be out for the afternoon, a rare, stolen opportunity to be alone in the house where he grew up, to make new memories among the old ones.

He's inside you, deep and impossibly hard, stretching you in a way that still makes you gasp even after all this time. Every ridge and vein of his cock is a distinct sensation against your slick walls, a perfect, textured friction that has your head spinning. You're riding him slowly, savoring the way he fills you completely, the way his hips twitch up to meet yours, a silent plea for more.

"Fuck," he whimpers, his head thrown back against the pillows, his throat a long, vulnerable column. "You feel so good. So tight."

You lean down, bracing your hands on his chest as you roll your hips, a slow, deliberate grind that has him seeing stars. "You feel so good inside me, Mack," you praise, your voice a low purr. "So deep. No one's ever been this deep."

His response is a choked moan, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you'll have bruises tomorrow. He loves when you talk like this, loves when you tell him how good he is, how big he is, how well he takes care of you. It's his ultimate weakness, the one thing that can turn him from a confident hockey star into a whimpering, desperate mess beneath you.

"You're so big, baby," you continue, your nails scraping lightly down his chest, leaving faint red marks in their wake. "You stretch me so perfectly. It's like you were made for me."

"God, yes," he gasps, his hips bucking up, his cock sliding even deeper inside you. "Made for you. Only for you."

You sit up straight, taking him even deeper as you begin to ride him in earnest, your movements faster, more demanding. His hands roam your body, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you arch into his touch. You can feel the tension building in his body, the desperate need for release that he's trying to hold back, trying to make this last.

"Please," he whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut. "I need you so much. Please let me come."

"Not yet," you command, your voice firm but loving. "You're going to be a good boy and wait for me, aren't you?"

He nods frantically, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Yes. Anything. I'll be so good for you. I'll be your good boy."

You reward his obedience with a particularly deep roll of your hips, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lean down to kiss him, a messy, desperate clash of tongues and teeth. He's completely lost in it, lost in you, his body moving on pure instinct, his whimpers and moans a constant stream of pleasure that fills the room.

"I love being inside you," he pants against your lips, his voice strained with desire. "You're so warm. I could stay like this forever."

"Me too, baby," you whisper, your hand sliding down his arm, your nails tracing the defined muscles of his bicep. "You always take such good care of me. Always know exactly what I need."

"I do," he agrees, his hips starting to move faster, his control slipping. "I'll always take care of you. Just… please… I need to come. Please let me come inside you, baby. I need it so bad."

You're about to give in, to let him fall over the edge with you, when the bedroom door swings open with a soft click.

"Macklin, have you seen the—"

It's his dad. Rick Celebrini is standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock, a pair of sunglasses in his hand. For a moment, no one moves. The only sound is the frantic pounding of your heart in your ears.

Macklin freezes, his body going rigid beneath you. A strangled sound escapes his throat, a mix of horror and embarrassment. You, on the other hand, react on pure instinct, grabbing the blanket and yanking it over both of you, covering your naked bodies in a flurry of movement.

"Dad!" Macklin squeaks, his voice an octave higher than usual. "What the hell? Get out!"

Rick seems to snap out of his stupor, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I… I didn't… I'll just…" He backs out of the room, closing the door with a soft click, leaving you in a state of awkward, horrified silence.

You look down at Macklin, his face buried in his hands, his body trembling with a mixture of residual arousal and pure, unadulterated embarrassment. You can't help it, a small, hysterical giggle escapes your lips.

"This is not funny," he mumbles, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I know," you say, trying to stifle your laughter. "It's just… so awkward. Oh my god."

He peeks out at you from between his fingers, his eyes wide and pleading. "Please tell me this is a nightmare."

"It's not a nightmare," you say, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "It's just a very, very awkward memory we're going to have to live with forever."

He groans, dropping his hands back over his face. "I'm never going to be able to look him in the eye again."

"It'll be fine," you soothe, your hand stroking his hair. "He'll be embarrassed too. He'll probably pretend it never happened."

"But it did happen," he whines, his voice still thick with embarrassment. "He walked in on us. While we were… you know."

"I know," you say, another giggle escaping your lips. "But you know what? It was kind of hot before he walked in. You were being so good for me."

He peeks out at you again, a flicker of his previous desire in his eyes. "Really?"

"Really," you confirm, your hand sliding down his chest to wrap around his still-hard cock. "And I have a feeling we can pick up right where we left off. If you're still my good boy."

He lets out a shaky breath, his hips bucking up into your hand. "Always," he whispers, his voice raw with need. "Always your good boy."

[minimouse02]

Hey 🙂 Fraser request please; you’ve been fwb for a couple of months now. Both agreeing to keep it casua. Until the night out a picture surface of Fraser with another girl. Jealousy and hurt set in. You purposely start distancing yourself because you realize your feelings are deeper than they should be. Fraser not understanding why you’re not returning his text or call and missing you like crazy. He matters into has own hands with a plan to lay out his feeling for in hopes to fix whatever is going on and to make casual to something more.

More Than Casual

pairing: Fraser Minten x fwb! reader

description: You thought your arrangement with Fraser Minten was just casual until a photo of him with another girl sends you spiraling, making you realize your feelings run much deeper than you'd ever admit.

CW: Friends with benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, unrequited feelings (initially).

The first few months are perfect. No strings, no expectations, just mind-blowing sex and comfortable companionship. Fraser is funny, attentive in bed, and surprisingly easy to talk to for a professional athlete. You both explicitly agree on casual only, no catching feelings.

"Rule number one," he'd said that first night, tracing patterns on your stomach as you both caught your breath. "We don't do relationships. We're just having fun."

"Rule number two," you'd added, turning to face him. "We can see other people. No jealousy."

"Deal," he'd agreed with a grin before kissing you again.

The rules work beautifully until they don't. It's a Tuesday night when you see it—a photo on Instagram of Fraser at some trendy downtown restaurant, his arm wrapped around a pretty blonde with a perfect smile. They're leaning into each other, laughing at something only they can hear. Your stomach drops.

You tell yourself it's fine. This is exactly what you agreed to. No strings, no jealousy. But as you scroll through the comments—people tagging them as "couple goals" and speculating about their relationship—you feel something sick and hot rising in your chest.

That night, when Fraser texts asking if you're free, you ignore it. The next morning, when he calls, you let it go to voicemail. You tell yourself you're busy, that you need space, but the truth is much uglier. You've broken the cardinal rule of your arrangement—you've caught feelings.

A week passes with no response from you. Fraser's texts grow more concerned, then frustrated.

"Everything okay?" — Tuesday

"Did I do something wrong?" — Thursday

"Seriously, what the hell is going on?" — Saturday

You read each message, your thumb hovering over the screen, but you can't bring yourself to reply. What would you even say? "Sorry I can't fuck you anymore because I accidentally fell in love with you"? The thought makes you cringe.

Meanwhile, Fraser is going out of his mind. He's tried everything calling, texting, even showing up at your building only to be told by your roommate that you're "not home." He doesn't understand what happened. One day everything was perfect, the next you've completely ghosted him.

The photo with the blonde, his teammate's sister, for the record, someone he's known since he was a kid, meant nothing. It was just a friendly dinner, but he can't explain that if you won't talk to him.

Friday night, he's sitting alone in his apartment, scrolling through your message history, when he makes a decision. If you won't come to him, he'll come to you.

Your heart pounds when you hear the knock on your door Saturday afternoon. You're not expecting anyone, and your roommate said she'd be out all day. You consider not answering, but the knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Open up," comes Fraser's voice through the door. "I know you're in there."

You hesitate, your hand frozen on the doorknob. Part of you wants to keep hiding, to let this embarrassing crush fade in private. But another part—the part that's missed him like crazy all week—needs to see him.

When you finally open the door, Fraser looks relieved and frustrated all at once. He's wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his hair slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it.

"Hi," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi?" he repeats, incredulous. "You ghost me for a week and all I get is 'hi'?"

You step aside to let him in, closing the door behind you. "I've been busy."

"Bullshit," he says, turning to face you. "What's going on? Did I do something wrong?"

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. "No, of course not."

"Then why?" he asks, his voice softening slightly. "Why are you avoiding me?"

You take a deep breath, deciding there's no point in lying anymore. "I saw the picture."

He looks confused for a moment before realization dawns. "Oh. The one with Jessica?"

"I don't know her name," you say, your voice tight. "Just saw you with some girl at a restaurant."

"Jessica's my teammate's sister," he explains, running a hand through his hair. "We were celebrating her birthday. There were like ten other people there. It meant nothing."

"I know," you say quickly. "I mean, I know it meant nothing to you. And that's fine. That's what we agreed to."

He studies your face, his expression unreadable. "But not to you?"

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes. "No. Not to me anymore."

The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken words. Fraser steps closer, his hand reaching out to touch your arm.

"I've missed you," he says softly. "Like crazy. I thought—I thought maybe you found someone else or got tired of me or—"

"No," you interrupt. "Never that."

"Then what?" he asks, his thumb stroking your arm. "Talk to me."

You look up at him finally, your vision blurred with tears. "I broke the rules, Fraser. I caught feelings. And I can't do casual anymore, not with you."

His expression shifts, understanding dawning. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," you say with a watery laugh. "Pretty stupid, right?"

"No," he says, his voice firm. "Not stupid at all."

Before you can process what's happening, he's kissing you. It's different from your usual kisses—deeper, more meaningful, like he's trying to say everything he can't put into words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. "I don't want casual either," he admits. "Haven't for a while now."

You pull back slightly to look at him, your heart pounding. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms with a small smile. "I was just too scared to say anything, to ruin what we had. But when you started ignoring me… I realized I'd rather risk everything than lose you completely."

Tears stream down your face now, but you're smiling. "I'm sorry I ghosted you. I just didn't know how to tell you."

"I get it," he says, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. "So what do we do now?"

You consider it for a moment before grinning. "I think we break all the rules."

He laughs, pulling you into another kiss. "Deal."

[linaaawrites]

Omg I just realized u write for the off campus boys!!! Could I request a beau maxwell x reader where she’s super inexperienced and he teaches her everything she needs to know abt sex( like dif positions like doggy, riding, and giving head)!

Patient Hands

pairing: Beau Maxwell x inexperienced!reader

description: Beau offers to teach you everything you need to know about sex.

TW: Smut, MDNI, praise kink, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, established relationship.

masterlist

The bedroom feels too warm, or maybe that's just your nerves. Beau's sitting on the edge of his bed, shirtless and smiling softly as you hover near the doorway, fingers twisting in the hem of your oversized sweater.

"You don't have to be nervous," he says, patting the space beside him. "We'll go as slow as you need."

You cross the room slowly, settling next to him with your hands in your lap. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you closer until your head rests against his chest.

"What if I'm terrible at it?" you whisper.

"There's no terrible," Beau murmurs into your hair. "Just learning. And I'm a very patient teacher."

His lips find yours, gentle and unhurried, before he deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him. When his hand slides under your sweater, you shiver at the contact against your bare skin.

His hand is warm against your ribs, his thumb stroking circles on your skin as his kiss deepens. You're lost in the sensation, the way his tongue explores your mouth with confident, unhurried strokes. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing a little heavier.

"You're doing so good for me already," Beau murmurs, his voice low and reassuring. His eyes are dark, fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter. "I want to teach you everything you need to know. If you'll let me."

You nod, unable to form words as his hand trails down your side, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I want to feel that pretty mouth on me," he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Will you let me teach you how?"

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but you find yourself nodding again. "Yes," you manage, your voice barely audible.

"Good girl." He shifts, leaning back against the headboard and gesturing for you to move between his legs. "Come here."

You comply, settling on your knees between his spread thighs. Your hands tremble slightly as you help him undress.

"Easy," Beau says, covering your hand with his. "No rush. Take your time."

His cock lays hard and thick against his stomach and your eyes widen as you take in the sight of him, the velvety skin, the prominent vein running along the underside and the bead of moisture glistening at the tip.

"It's okay," Beau says softly, noticing your hesitation. "You can touch it."

Your fingers brush against him tentatively and he hisses softly. "That's it. Wrap your hand around the base."

You do as he says and he feels impossibly hard beneath your palm, the skin smooth and warm against you.

"Good," he praises, his voice husky and strained. "Now, just explore a little. Get to know what I like."

You stroke him experimentally, watching as his hips shift slightly. "Like this?"

"Fuck, yes," he groans, his head falling back against the pillows. "Just like that. Twist your wrist a little at the top. God, that's perfect."

You follow his instructions, your confidence growing with each sound he makes.

"Look at you," he breathes, his eyes dark with desire. "You're already driving me crazy. Now… I want you to taste me. Just a little lick at first."

Leaning in, you dart your tongue out, swiping it across the tip. He tastes salty and clean and a soft moan escapes his lips. Beau's hand comes to rest on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"That's it," he encourages. "Again. Lick all around the head. Fuck, yeah, just like that. Get it nice and wet for me."

You obey, tracing the ridge with your tongue before swirling it around the tip. Beau's breathing grows heavier, his grip on your hair tightening slightly.

"Open up," he directs, his voice thick with need. "Let me feel that pretty mouth on me."

You do as he says, your mouth stretching to accommodate him. The weight of him on your tongue is intoxicating.

"Fuck, that's good," he groans. "Now suck. Just like that, baby. Use that tongue."

You apply gentle suction, swirling your tongue around him as he requested and Beau's hips jerk forward. "That's it, just like that. Your mouth feels incredible."

For the next few minutes, he guides you through it, praising every movement. You grow bolder with his encouragement, taking him a little deeper with each bob of your head.

When you start using your hand too, stroking what you can't fit in your mouth, he really loses it.

"Baby," he gasps. "That feels so fucking good."

You pull back slightly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms, his voice ragged. "You're doing so good, baby."

You dive back in with renewed enthusiasm, letting drool pool at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper. The sounds you're making, the wet, sloppy sucking noises, would normally embarrass you if you weren't so turned on.

"Look at me," he commands and you meet his eyes as you continue to work him with your mouth and hand. "Fuck, that's hot. Your eyes are all glassy. You love this, don't you? Love having my cock in your mouth."

You moan around him, the vibration making his hips buck.

"God, I'm not going to last much longer if you keep doing that," he warns.

You try taking him a little deeper and he hits the back of your throat. You gag slightly, pulling back with tears in your eyes.

"Easy," Beau soothes, his thumb wiping away the moisture. "You don't have to go that deep. Just what you're comfortable with."

But you're determined to try again, this time relaxing your throat as you take him deeper. When you succeed, he lets out a needy whimper that goes straight to your core.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his hips thrusting more insistently now. "Your mouth is heaven. I knew it would be. I knew you'd be perfect at this."

His praises become more frequent, more breathless. "God, look at the mess you're making. So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth. All mine."

When his hips begin to thrust more insistently, his breathing growing ragged, he suddenly stills. "Stop," he says, his voice tight.

You pull back immediately, worried you've done something wrong. "Did I...?"

"No," he cuts in, pulling you up to kiss you deeply. "You were perfect. Too perfect. I don't want to finish like that."

His hands slide down your body, pushing you onto your back as he hovers over you. "Now it's my turn to make you feel good."

His lips trail down your neck, across your collarbones, stopping at the hem of your sweater. "Can I take this off?"

You nod, lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you in just your bra.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his hands cupping your breasts through the fabric. "I've been thinking about this all day."

He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, tossing it aside before lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth. You arch against him, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his tongue circles the sensitive peak.

"Beau," you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair.

He chuckles against your skin. "Patience, baby. I'm just getting started."

His mouth continues its downward journey, leaving a trail of kisses across your stomach. When he reaches the waistband of your leggings, he looks up at you, his eyes questioning.

"Is this okay?"

You nod eagerly. "Yes. Please."

With a wicked grin, he makes quick work of your leggings and panties, leaving you completely exposed beneath him. His eyes roam over your body, dark with desire.

"Perfect," he murmurs, before settling between your thighs. "Now just relax and let me take care of you."

His first touch is feather-light, his fingers tracing your folds gently. You gasp at the contact, your hips rising to meet him.

"So responsive," he praises, his thumb finding your clit. "And so wet for me already."

He circles the sensitive bundle of nerves slowly, watching your face as pleasure builds within you. "Does that feel good?"

"God, yes," you moan, your head falling back against the pillows.

"Good." His fingers continue their ministrations as he lowers his head, his tongue replacing his thumb. His wet, hot mouth feels amazing against your feverish skin, and you cry out as his mouth works you with expert precision.

"Beau," you gasp, your hands finding his hair again. "Please."

"Please what, baby?" he asks, looking up at you from between your thighs.

"I don't know," you admit honestly. "More. Please, I need more."

"Anything you want," he promises, before returning his attention to your clit. As his tongue works its magic, he slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to find that spot that makes you see stars.

"You're so tight," he murmurs against you. "So perfect. I can't wait to be inside you."

His fingers pump in and out of you slowly, stretching you gently. "I'm going to add another finger now," he warns. "Just to get you ready for me. Tell me if it's too much."

You nod, bracing yourself as a third finger joins the others. The stretch is noticeable but not painful, especially with the distraction of his mouth on your clit.

"That's it," he praises. "Taking me so well. Almost ready for my cock."

Your hips rise to meet his hand, seeking more friction. "Beau," you gasp. "I think… I'm close."

Instead of pushing you over the edge, he suddenly pulls back, leaving you hovering on the brink of release.

"Why'd you stop?" you ask, your voice breathless with frustration.

He grins up at you, his chin glistening with your arousal. "Because I'm not done with you yet." He moves to hover over you, positioning himself at your entrance. "I want to be inside you when you come for the first time tonight."

His cock presses against you, thick and hard. "Are you ready for me, baby?"

You nod, your heart pounding with anticipation. "Yes."

"Good girl," he murmurs, before slowly pushing inside you. The stretch is intense, a delicious burn as he fills you inch by inch. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as he seats himself fully inside you.

"God, you're tight," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "Feel that? Feel how perfectly you're taking me?"

You can only nod, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so completely full. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"You feel incredible," he whispers, before beginning to move slowly. Each thrust is measured, deep, hitting places inside you that you didn't know existed. "So good for me. Taking my cock so well."

His pace is unhurried, almost lazy, as if he has all the time in the world to explore your body. You meet his movements tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as pleasure builds within you.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice husky. "You like how I fill you up?"

"God, yes," you moan, arching against him.

"Good," he says, suddenly stilling. "Because I want to try something else. I want to watch you ride me."

Before you can protest, he's pulling out, guiding you to straddle him.

"Just take your time," he says, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down at your own pace."

You lower yourself slowly, gasping as he stretches you open again. The angle is different, deeper, and you can feel every ridge and vein of him as you take him in.

"That's it," he encourages, his hands on your hips. "Just like that. Fuck, look at you taking me so well."

Once he's fully inside you, you pause, overwhelmed by the fullness. "God, Beau," you breathe.

"I know, baby," he says, his thumbs stroking your hips. "Now try moving. Just rock your hips a little."

You follow his guidance, experimenting with small movements. The friction is delicious and you can't help the moan that escapes your lips.

"That's it," he praises. "Now try lifting up and down. Just a little at first."

You rise up slightly before sinking back down, the sensation even more intense from this angle. "Good girl," he groans. "Again. A little higher this time."

You continue to move, finding a rhythm that works for you. Beau's hands guide you, his praise a constant stream of encouragement. "Just like that, baby. You're doing so good. Ride my cock. Fuck, you look so beautiful like this."

As you grow more confident, your movements become bolder. You rise higher, sink down harder, each movement sending waves of pleasure through you. "That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need. Use me to make yourself feel good."

The sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy moans and Beau's guttural groans fill the room. You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your movements becoming more erratic as your thighs begin to tremble with exertion. The rhythm you've set is faltering, each bounce becoming less controlled than the last.

"I'm close," you gasp, your voice strained as you struggle to maintain the pace. "But I can't..."

"I know, baby," he says, his hands firm on your hips, sensing your growing fatigue. "Let me take over."

In one smooth motion, he flips you onto your hands and knees, entering you from behind. "God, this view," he groans, his hands gripping your hips as he begins to thrust. "You have no idea how good you look like this."

His pace is measured but deep, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you. "You like this?" he asks, his voice husky. "You like me taking you from behind like this?"

"God, yes," you moan, pushing back to meet his thrusts.

"Good girl," he praises, one hand sliding around to rub your clit. "I want to feel you come on my cock. Let go for me, baby."

His words, combined with the stimulation, push you over the edge. You cry out as your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulsing with pleasure.

"That's it," Beau groans, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Come for me. Fuck, I'm going to fill you up."

With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you, his release hot against your inner walls as he pulses with his own orgasm.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. "You were incredible," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Absolutely incredible."

[linaaawrites]

girl i am SO sorry but I need another one of the "Teammates/Friends are shocked when they find out reader left these scratch marks on his back" fics because they are SO good, please do one for Connor I am BEGGING

Little Tiger

pairing: Connor Bedard x female reader

description: You're known as Connor's sweet and soft-spoken girlfriend so when his teammates discover the marks you left on him, they're shocked to realize there's more to you than meets the eye.

TW: Sexual references, teasing, scratch marks, established relationship.

masterlist

The air in the gym is thick and humid, smelling of sweat and metal. The rhythmic clank of weights and the grunts of exertion fill the space as Connor finishes his last set.

His muscles burn, a satisfying ache that tells him he’s pushed himself hard enough. The black cotton of his shirt is soaked through and clinging to his skin. With a disgusted grimace, he peels it off, using the dry hem to wipe the sweat from his face and chest.

"Finally ditching the swamp rag, Bedsy?" Frank calls from across the room, where he's re-racking his dumbbells.

Connor just tosses the shirt into his gym bag without a word, turning to grab his water bottle. That's when he notices it. The silence.

It's not the usual post-workout lull, it's a sudden, heavy stillness that makes the hair on his arms stand up. He turns back around.

Frank, Alex and Oliver are all staring. Not just looking, but gaping. Oliver’s mouth is actually hanging open a little.

"What?" Connor asks, his voice tight with confusion.

Frank is the first to recover, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. He points a finger, not at Connor's face, but at his torso. "Holy shit, man. Did you get attacked by a bear or something?"

Alex steps closer, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement. "Dude. Your back looks like a roadmap." He traces a line in the air with his finger. "And these little purple ones... are those...?"

Connor’s stomach drops. He forgot. He completely forgot about last night, about the way you’d dug your nails into his shoulders as he drove into you, about the desperate, open-mouthed kisses you’d pressed against his chest and neck when you were lost in pleasure.

A hot flush creeps up his neck. "Shut up," he mumbles, turning away slightly, a futile attempt to hide the evidence.

"No, no, no," Oliver says, circling him like a shark. "We're not gonna shut up. This is gold." He whistles low. "I knew your girl was sweet, but I didn't know she was... feral."

"Leave her out of this," Connor snaps, his tone sharpening. The awkwardness is quickly being replaced by a surge of protectiveness.

"Hey, hey, we're not making fun of her," Frank says, raising his hands in mock surrender. "We're impressed. Little miss 'please-and-thank-you' has a set of claws on her." He waggles his eyebrows. "And you, Bedard. You must be doing something right. Looks like you were giving her the full-body workout."

The comment is crude, but it’s laced with a grudging kind of respect. Connor feels a flicker of pride beneath his embarrassment. He had made you fall apart. He had been the one to draw those sounds from your lips, to make you lose control like that.

"Seriously, though," Alex chimes in, leaning against a weight rack. "How does someone so shy... you know..." He makes a vague gesture with his hands. "Did you have to teach her?"

Connor’s jaw tightens. "That's enough."

"What? It's a legitimate question!" Oliver laughs. "I'm picturing it now. All blushes and stutters until you get her going, then BAM." He slams his hand on a bench for emphasis. "Out comes the tiger."

Connor just grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He doesn't want to hear anymore. He doesn't want them talking about you, picturing you, reducing your passion to locker room jokes.

But a small, smug part of him preens at the implication. They might see you as this delicate, innocent girl. But he knows the truth. He is the only one who got to see you like that, the only one you trusted with that side of yourself.

You’re waiting in the parking garage, leaning against your car and scrolling on your phone when Connor emerges from the elevator. Your heart does its familiar little flutter. He’s so handsome, all broad shoulders and easy confidence.

He gives you a tight smile in return, his eyes darting nervously toward the glass doors of the gym exit.

"Hey, you," you say softly, pushing off the car to give him a quick kiss. "How was it?"

"Good," he says, his voice a little strained. "Tiring."

Before you can ask more, the doors slide open again and out spill Frank, Alex and Oliver, their laughter echoing in the garage.

"Well, well, well," Frank drawls, his eyes landing on you. "If it isn't the tiger herself."

Your brow furrows in confusion. "The what?"

Oliver grins, winking at Connor. "Don't play coy. We saw the scratches."

Your face floods with heat. Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You know exactly what they're talking about. The memory of last night, of your nails scraping down Connor’s back, flashes in your mind.

You want the ground to swallow you whole.

"I... I don't..." you stammer, your cheeks burning.

"Aw, look at her," Alex says, his tone teasing but not unkind. "She's all shy again. Hard to believe you're the one who tried to flay Bedsy's skin off."

Connor steps forward, putting himself slightly in front of you. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you into his side. It's a protective, possessive gesture. "Alright, that's enough. Go find your own rides."

"We're just saying hi to the champ," Frank says, holding up his hands. "Good to know you've got a good grip on things... and on him."

They're still laughing as they walk away, leaving you standing there, mortified. You bury your face in Connor's chest, wishing you could disappear.

"I am so sorry," you whisper, your voice muffled against his shirt.

He just holds you tighter, one hand stroking your hair. "Don't be," he murmurs into your hair. "They're just idiots."

You pull back to look at him, your eyes wide with embarrassment. "But they know! They saw... everything."

A slow, smug smile spreads across his face. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Let 'em look," he whispers, his voice low and proud. "Now they know I'm doing my job right.

[linaaawrites]

Hi girl! Could you do a sub Mack that have no sex experience and have a hard time putting the condom so they don’t wear any but after he’s all worried and want her to shower now and everything. Tysm if you have time to write it ily

Unwrapped

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

description: Macklin fucks you raw.

TW: Smut, MDNI, unprotected sex, creampie, subby/whiny Mack, praise kink, cum play?, aftercare, established relationship.

masterlist

Macklin hovers above you, his lips tracing a path down your neck, his body trembling with a desperate need that's almost palpable. He's already naked, his golden skin flushed with arousal, but there's a tension in his shoulders that tells you something's wrong.

"What is it, baby?" you murmur, running your fingers through his hair.

He pulls back, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. In his hand, he holds the small foil packet, looking at it like it's personally offended him. "I… I can't put it on," he whispers, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "My hands…. my hands are shaking too much."

You cup his face, thumbs stroking his heated skin. "Hey, it's okay. We don't have to."

"But we should," he insists, though his voice lacks conviction. "It's responsible."

"Are you clean?" you ask softly. He nods. "Am I clean?" Another nod. "And I'm on the pill. We're okay, Mack. I can help you put it on if you want to, but we don't have to."

The relief that washes over his face is palpable. "Really? You'd let me go… without?"

"Really, baby," you confirm, pulling him down for a kiss. "Now come here. I want you."

The kiss deepens, tongues tangling as Macklin settles between your thighs. His cock presses against your entrance, hard and eager, but he still hesitates, his body trembling above you.

"Please," he whimpers against your lips. "Can I…?"

"You don't have to ask, baby," you assure him, reaching down to guide him inside. "Just take what you need."

He enters you with a choked groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stills, overwhelmed by the raw sensation. It's nothing like he's ever felt before, no barrier, just the warm, wet, pulsing heat of you sucking him deeper, welcoming him home.

Your walls flutter around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that makes his head spin.

"F-fuck," he breathes, his voice muffled against your skin, stuttering over the simple word. "You feel… god, you feel so good. So… so tight. Like you're… pulling me in."

"You feel good too, baby," you praise, running your nails down his back. "So big, stretching me so perfectly. Such a good boy for me."

Macklin whimpers at your words, his hips beginning to move in shallow, tentative thrusts. "Am I… am I making you feel good?"

"Amazing," you assure him, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "You're doing so good, Mack. Always good for me. Look at us, baby. Look at how we're connected."

Your praise seems to unlock something in him. His movements become more confident, his thrusts deeper as he tries to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars. He props himself up on his elbows, his eyes glazed with lust as he watches where your bodies join, mesmerized by the sight of his bare cock disappearing into you again and again.

"Like this?" he asks, adjusting his angle, his voice breaking. "Is this better? Are you… am I making you feel good?"

"So good," you gasp as he hits just right. "Right there, baby. Don't stop. You're so deep."

He obeys, his rhythm faltering slightly as he concentrates on hitting that spot over and over again.

His face is buried in your neck, his hot breath against your skin as he pants and whimpers with each thrust. The sounds he's making are desperate, needy little whines and choked-off moans that tell you how close he already is.

"Scratch me," he begs, his voice ragged. "Please, I want to feel it. Want to remember… remember this."

You oblige, your nails digging into his shoulders and down his back, leaving red trails in their wake. Macklin cries out, his hips stuttering as the pain-pleasure shoots through him.

"Fuck, yes," he groans. "Mark me up. Make me yours. Always want to… want to see these and remember."

"You're already mine, baby," you assure him, pulling his head up for a messy kiss. "All mine. So handsome, so strong, taking such good care of me. Look at you, baby. Look how beautiful you are, fucking me like this."

The praise flows freely from your lips, each word making him more desperate. He's trying so hard to hold back, to make sure you come first, but you can feel him getting closer with every thrust, his cock swelling inside you, his movements becoming more erratic.

"It's okay, baby," you whisper against his lips. "Let go for me. Fill me up. Want to feel it, Mack. Want to feel you coming inside me."

With a choked cry that's half your name, half a sob, Macklin buries himself deep inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. You can feel every pulse of his cock as he empties himself into you, the warmth spreading through you, marking you as his.

The feeling of him coming inside you, raw and unprotected, pushes you over the edge, your own orgasm crashing through you as you clench around him, milking every last drop from his trembling body.

Macklin collapses against you, his weight welcome as he trembles through the aftershocks. When he finally pulls out, he's mesmerized by the sight before him, by his cum slowly dripping from your well-fucked pussy.

"God," he whispers, reaching out with a trembling hand. His fingers collect some of his release and before he realizes what he's doing, he's rubbing it into your clit, his touch reverent. "So beautiful. You're… you're full of me."

Then the reality of what just happened seems to hit Macklin all at once. His eyes widen as he looks at his fingers, then at the mess between your thighs.

"Oh god," he says, scrambling off the bed. "We didn't… we should… shower. You should shower. Now. I… I just… oh god."

You can't help but smile at his sudden panic. "Mack, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he insists, already pacing the room. "What if… what if you get pregnant? I mean, I know you're on the pill but nothing's a hundred percent and… I just… I came inside you and then I… oh god, I touched it and rubbed it on you and…"

"Hey," you say softly, sitting up and holding out your hand. "Come here."

Reluctantly, he approaches, taking your hand. You pull him down to sit beside you.

"I'm okay," you assure him. "We're okay. But if it makes you feel better, we can shower together."

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly at that. "Yeah? Together?"

"Of course, baby," you say, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "And then you can take care of me, just like you always do."

A small smile plays on his lips as he helps you up, his hand possessively on the small of your back as he leads you to the bathroom. True to his word, he takes care of you, gently washing your body, massaging your shoulders and pressing soft kisses to your skin.

Later, wrapped in clean sheets with Macklin curled around you, you can't help but stare at the beautiful boy in front of you.

"Next time," he murmurs against your hair, "I'll practice with condoms when I'm alone. So I don't mess up again."

You cup his cheek in you hand, making him look ab at you with those beautiful eyes. "You didn't mess up, Mack. It was perfect."

"Really?"

"Really," you confirm, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "But if you want to practice, I'm happy to help with that too."

The blush that spreads across his cheeks is endearing, as is the way he buries his face in your neck to hide it.

"I love you, baby."

[kirasblog01]

Heyyy! I love your blog 💕

Can you write for Mack where you tell him you went to Home Depot, the land of dudes, by yourself?

Home Depot Trip - Macklin Celebrini

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

summary: You proudly tell Macklin about your solo adventure to Home Depot.

CW: Fluff, established relationship.

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, arms full with bags. Macklin looks up from where he's sprawled on the couch and his eyes widen at the sight of you.

"Whoa, what's all this?" he asks, sitting up straight.

You drop the bags on the kitchen counter with a triumphant grin. "I went to Home Depot."

Macklin's jaw practically hits the floor. "You went where? By yourself?"

"Yep," you reply, popping the 'p' for emphasis.

He's already on his feet, crossing the living room to inspect your haul. "No way. The Home Depot on Route 9? The one that's basically a hockey stadium-sized warehouse filled with guys named Dave who all wear flannels?"

"The very same," you say, pulling out the new faucet you bought. "And I managed to find this without asking for help."

Macklin's eyes go even wider. "Seriously? That place is like a maze. Last time I went there, I spent twenty minutes just looking for lightbulbs."

"Well, I had a mission," you explain, unboxing the faucet. "Our kitchen sink has been dripping for weeks and you've been too busy with practice to fix it."

He watches as you lay out the tools you purchased. "I can't believe you did all this. Did anyone bother you? Sometimes guys at hardware stores can be… well, you know."

You shrug. "A few asked if I needed help, but I just smiled and said I was good. One older dude actually high-fived me when I correctly identified the difference between PEX and copper tubing."

Macklin laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "You're unbelievable, you know that? My little DIY queen."

"I'm not little," you protest playfully, elbowing him gently. "And I watched like five YouTube tutorials before I went."

"Still," he says, turning you to face him.

"I'm capable," you insist, though you can't help but smile at the admiration in his eyes.

"I know you are," Macklin agrees, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "That's one of the things I love about you. But seriously, Home Depot alone? You're braver than half the guys on my team."

You roll your eyes. "It's not that scary. Just follow the signs, know what you're looking for and avoid the aisle with the scary-looking power tools."

"Or you could just ask me to go with you next time," he suggests. "I'm pretty good at carrying heavy things and looking confused in the plumbing section."

"Where's the fun in that?" you tease. "Besides, I kind of enjoyed the looks I got when I walked out with all this stuff. The cashier was definitely impressed."

Macklin shakes his head, still smiling. "You're something else. You know that, right?"

"Just wait until you see me install this faucet," you say with a wink. "Then you'll really be impressed."

"Oh, I have no doubt," he replies, already grabbing his phone to clear his schedule. "But just in case, I'll be here to supervise. And possibly call a real plumber if things go wrong."

You laugh, swatting him with a roll of plumber's tape. "Have a little faith in me, Celebrini."

"Always," he says, his voice softening as he pulls you close. "But I also like being the guy who gets to admire his super capable girlfriend from the couch while she handles things like a pro."

[minimouse02]

I'm head over heels in love with your writing!!! Please make a fic about Luke Hughes x reader having a son who's almost one and luke teaches him to flip of his brothers 🥹 baby fever is strong over here

The Hand Signal

pairing: Luke Hughes x female reader

summary: You watch with a mix of horror and amusement as Luke decides it's time to teach your almost-one-year-old son a very special new skill.

CW: Fluff.

The living room is a chaotic symphony of baby babble and the distant thud of a hockey puck being stickhandled in the driveway. You're folding laundry on the couch, half-watching your son, who is determined to army-crawl his way toward the coffee table. Luke is sitting on the floor, his long legs crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Alright, buddy," Luke says, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that carries across the room. "Time for a very important lesson. One every Hughes male needs to know."

You glance over, an immediate sense of dread mixed with curiosity prickling at you. Luke's got that glint in his eye, the one that usually precedes him doing something that will make you laugh. He gently takes your son's chubby hand, uncurling the tiny fingers.

"You see Uncle Jack and Uncle Quinn out there?" Luke points toward the front window, where Jack's loud cackle is audible even through the walls. "Sometimes, they're… a lot. And you, my little man, need a way to express your feelings without using words."

"Oh, God, Luke," you groan, dropping a onesie onto the pile of clean clothes. "You are not teaching him this."

"Am too," he grins, completely unrepentant. "Jack taught it to me. I'm just passing down the legacy."

He carefully folds down your son's fingers until only the middle one is left standing. He holds the tiny hand up, showing it to your son, who just stares at his own fingers with wide, curious eyes.

"This," Luke announces with theatrical seriousness, "is the 'I'm the baby, you must listen to me' signal. Use it wisely."

Just then, the front door swings open and Jack bursts in, his cheeks flushed from the cold. "I'm starving! Is there any of that pizza left?" He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes zeroing in on Luke and the baby on the floor. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "What are you two conspiring over?"

Luke, without missing a beat, grabs your son's hand and waves it at his brother, the middle finger proudly displayed.

Jack's jaw drops. For a full three seconds, he's speechless. Then, he lets out a bark of laughter that echoes through the house. "No way! Hughes! You're corrupting the innocent! I'm so proud."

He drops to his knees, joining them on the floor. "C'mon, give Uncle Jack the signal. Let him see your new trick."

Your son, delighted by all the attention, giggles and smacks his hands on the floor, his attempt at the gesture dissolving into a happy, slobbery mess.

Quinn wanders in a moment later, his expression calm and measured in direct contrast to his younger brother. "What's all the noise? You're going to wake him from his… oh." He sees the scene on the floor, Luke and Jack hovering over your son, both trying to contort his tiny hand into the offensive gesture. Quinn just sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Really, Luke? He's not even one."

"It's never too early to learn family traditions, Q," Jack says, not even looking up. "This is important stuff."

"It's ridiculous," Quinn counters, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You're going to get in so much trouble," he says, looking directly at you.

You just shrug, trying to hide your own amusement. "I've given up. It's a lost cause with these three."

The next ten minutes are a flurry of failed attempts. Jack and Luke are like two overgrown puppies, both vying for Leo's attention, making ridiculous faces and noises, trying to get him to replicate the gesture. Your son, for his part, is more interested in trying to eat Luke's sock and pulling on Jack's hair.

Finally, Jack throws his hands up in defeat. "He's not getting it. Maybe he's not a Hughes after all."

"He's a Hughes," Luke says, his voice full of conviction. "He's just a strategic genius. Biding his time."

You decide to intervene, scooping your son up and settling him on your hip. "Alright, you two, that's enough corruption for one day. Time for a bottle and a nap."

As you're preparing his bottle in the kitchen, you hear Luke and Jack start bickering again, this time about who has to take out the trash. You roll your eyes, a fond smile on your face.

You turn around to walk back into the living room and as you pass the doorway where Jack and Luke are still squabbling, your son looks right at them. He lets out a happy, gurgling squeal, and then, with perfect, unambiguous clarity, he raises his tiny hand and flips his own uncles off.

The bickering stops. Both Luke and Jack freeze, their eyes wide with shock. And then, they both erupt. It's not laughter this time; it's a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph.

"HE DID IT!" Luke yells, jumping to his feet and pumping a fist in the air.

"MY NEPHEW! A GENIUS!" Jack howls, grabbing his phone to immediately take a picture to send to their group chat.

Quinn just covers his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

You stand there, your son on your hip, his tiny hand still proudly raised, and look at Luke. He's looking back at you, his face split by the biggest, proudest grin you've ever seen.

[deepvend]

my way - macklin celebrini

request: "Olivias "My Way" and its reader getting hit on by someone else in the league and mack starts a fight on the ice bc whoever was hitting on her started chirping during a game" warnings: swearing, brief description of a physical fight, one sex joke, beckett catching strays I’M SORRY wc: 2.5k note: another olivia inspired fic because we love her on this blog!!! @kitnootkat love you for sending this in 😭 writing this was very different since i basically considered ‘my way’ to be mostly from mack's pov, but let me tell you i had FUNNN

macklin knew he was about to have a bad day.

it just happened sometimes that he woke up in the morning and could sense something was off. it wasn’t the tidiness of his room - because everything was in its designated spot -, neither something physical like an ache or anything of the sort, he felt absolutely fine. he just felt like something was about to go south, and he was hardly ever wrong.

the best way to deal with it, he had figured, was to just ignore the feeling and go on with his day. that’s what he did: he took the same route to reach the rink, did his usual warm up and the same drills he always did during practice, had the usual breakfast, shot you a good morning text at a time he knew you’d be awake.

except, the message he got back from you wasn’t what he’d expected.

‘when you come over later, i have to show you something. just promise me you won’t get mad.’

that couldn’t have been a good sign, he thought to himself. maybe it was one of your little side quests gone wrong, like that time you’d asked him to help you remove wax stains from your sheets, or the time when he’d had to kneel by your bathtub and help you unknot your hair after you’d tried a rather ruinous hairstyle tutorial.

either way, he decided that for his own mental wellbeing, he was going to avoid his lingering questions until you’d answer them.

when macklin knocked on your front door, he was welcomed by the sight of you rather in distress, fidgeting and fumbling with your phone. his confusion grew even further as he leaned down and kissed your lips tenderly, after fantasizing about that moment for the entire day. you were tense, your shoulders and your overall posture felt stiff.

you led him towards the couch, sitting down beside him.

"so, what on earth did you do?"

"nothing!" your eyes widened, and your head shook frantically. he could see the slight shaking in your hands as they carefully unlocked your phone. "so, i got a text this morning. from a guy."

macklin's thoughts suddenly grew erratic. he wasn't usually one to blame you for receiving attentions from other people, he knew it was inevitable when being as perfect as you were. however, you'd never been nervous about it, you had never been so hesitant to tell him or show him. if anything, you oftentimes just laughed it off. why was this time different? was he someone you liked? someone better than macklin? had he made you realize how much higher you could aim?

before all his doubts could swallow him, you turned your phone so he could look at the screen. "don't get mad, don't do anything stupid. i'm just showing you so that you're aware this happened."

it took one second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, then he read the name on the top left corner. there was no fucking way.

out of every single scenario he'd pictured in those past few instants, there was not a single one in which beckett sennecke sent a message to his girlfriend, let alone one that said 'don't you think you're way too pretty for someone like celebrini?'

he had some fucking nerve, for sure.

then, it clicked. you knew this was going to ignite something in macklin that was usually lenient, that was the reason behind your cautious approach. he took a deep breath, acting like his stomach wasn't turning and twisting with the utmost anger he'd ever experienced.

"okay, i see." he nodded once, slowly, voice slightly shaking. "what stupid thing were you scared i might do?"

"i don't know, send him something, probably?" it was more of a question than an answer, but that was enough for macklin.

"no, okay, i won't do that. don't worry, baby." he mumbled, arms wrapping around you and pulling you into him just enough to press a kiss to your forehead.

you thought that was the end of it, you thought it had gone well, but macklin was exploding inside. he felt challenged, he felt disrespected, he felt furious about how that prick had devalued you and reduced you to just a pretty face when, to macklin, you were so much more. you were his entire world.

two weeks passed and macklin had to physically refrain himself from letting his mind wander over to beckett and the stunt he'd pulled with you. he was nearly embarrassed by how much reading that stupid, dull and idiotic message had gotten to him. afterall, it was a type of sentence he'd only ever heard coming from teenagers in minor leagues. so, ridiculous.

he couldn't deny, however, that it had left a bad taste lingering in his mouth. he couldn't just shake it off, the proud and overly stubborn part of him was hard to keep quiet.

that only worsened when he realized the highly-anticipated next home game his team was going to play was against anaheim, for a sharks-ducks game that fans awaited for. great, he was going to be forced to see his annoying, moronic face for the entire night, unable to react to it. he had told you he wouldn't have done anything stupid, even despite numerous following attempts of his to reach out to you again, that you had clearly ignored.

he just never seemed to get the message, and macklin's fists itched to show it to him themselves.

he walked into the locker room without his usual warm, gentle demeanor, that afternoon. he was the beating heart, the center of the team, and it was nearly impossible for his teammates not to notice the faint frown on his face as he wore each piece of equipment and tied his skates with his daily meticulousness.

will, who was sitting in the stall to his left, nudged his side with an elbow, trying to gain his attention. "dude, what's up with you?"

macklin looked up, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. he hadn't planned to share his preoccupation with anyone, but it was impossible to keep a secret from the curly-haired blond at his side.

"nothing, just... someone hitting on my girlfriend. i told her i wouldn't do anything stupid about that, but i don't know if i can keep that promise."

"oh, man, that's it?" he scoffed, hand jokingly shoving him away by the shoulder. "relax, you're probably never even going to see that loser."

the younger boy nearly laughed in his face, igniting will's confusion. no wonder he failed to see the irony in that story, he'd left off the most important detail.

"no, smitty, that's the problem." he signed, frustratedly running his fingers through his hair. "it's sennecke."

will's lips shut immediately, forming a thin, straight line. brows pinched together, he tried to decode what he'd just heard. he stared at the floor in front of him for a couple of seconds, before raising his head and shifting his gaze towards his best friend.

"as in beckett sennecke? anaheim ducks' beckett sennecke?"

macklin inhaled heavily through his nose, then nodded slowly as he exhaled.

"sorry boys, didn't mean to overhear but i couldn't help it." tyler spoke up from his stall, looking between the two boys like he was trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. "mack, you gotta kick his ass."

"see, that's the point, i can't!" he exasperatedly muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wooden panel.

he stood like that for a minute, pinching the bridge of his nose as his two friends returned to their regular locker room talk, after whispering a 'good luck' to him.

macklin knew you were sitting in the lower bowl with cat, that night. he knew that was your favourite area to sit in and he even spotted you halfway into the sharks' warm-up. you jumped up when your eyes met, arms swinging left and right and smile reaching your ears as you greeted him. he thought about that poor excuse of a boy on the other team, at how he wished - despite having been able to avoid him so far - he'd watched how excited you were to see your boyfriend. not him, macklin.

things went smoothly during the anthem, and oddly enough throughout the first period. then, eight minutes into the second period, the ducks opened the scoring with a slapshot, inevitably rubbing in the crowd's faces how slow the sharks' defence had been that night. macklin couldn't bear to be on the losing end, he needed to do more, to do better.

his game turned nearly desperate, he strode along the ice with a different force than before, he looked for the puck more often, the mumber of shots he attempted grew substantially. yet, his first real shot got stopped by a glove save just as the intermission came around.

macklin went back to the bench, listened to his coach's instructions obediently, because that's just what he always did. he gulped down some water and quickly rinsed his face from all the sweat, before skating back to the middle of the ice to take the face-off. before he bent over the puck, he looked over towards you once more. he saw you sitting there, lips pressed in a tight smile as you sent him a reassuring wink. then, he was shaken out of his little bubble.

"if you're scoring as well as you're fucking, she'd be better off with me."

beckett's smug voice reached macklin's ears right as the referee let the puck fall in front of his stick. with his muscles shaking with anger he shoved the puck to the side, not even checking to see if someone was there to catch it. in the blink of an eye, his gloves were dropped and his fist made contact with the duck's face, finally wiping that disgusting smirk off of it.

his burst of rage was so sudden, before they could even finish one single passage, that players from both teams were left speechless, unsure whether they should've dropped the gloves as well or just waited for the two youngsters to resolve whatever kind of conflict was going down.

if he was being honest, he didn't exactly know what to do either: he was the star player that his teammates defended with their lives, he was the one cheering them on from the bench, hitting his stick against the boards and starting chants. hell, he wasn't the one throwing the first punch. he hadn't been in at least a couple of years.

all he knew was that his vision was blurred with flashes of hot, white anger. the messages, the chirping he'd just received, the mere disrespect towards you, they were all lines that the man writhing under him had plenty stepped over.

macklin's hands grabbed the rough fabric of his jersey, pulling him up slightly. "say that again to my face, you fuckin' idiot." he barked, bloodshot eyes, before punching him square in the face again.

he did it again and again, and he barely felt the hits on his face coming from the boy underneath him that fought back, at least until he felt the hold of what he assumed to be a referee grab him by the arms, pulling him out of the scuffle.

he was expecting to feel some sort of guilt creep up from his stomach, but he could only feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. afterall, he hadn't started the fight out of the blue like you feared he would. it was beckett's snarky comment that had made him resort to that.

the crowd was cheering in a way he hadn't heard in a while, everyone in the stands was jumping excitedly in their spots. everyone but you, nervously at the edge of your seat with your leg bouncing the way it did when you felt uneasy. your eyes met his for a brief second before he got locked in the penalty box and out of your line of sight. your head shook slowly, a tight-lipped smile faintly making an appearence.

he really wanted to feel bad for betraying your trust, but he couldn't. not when the images of that guy's overly-confident and pathetic grin were still so clear in his head.

the adrenaline was running so quickly in macklin's veins that he went on to score two goals for the sharks, which ultimately led them to take a 2-1 win over anaheim. he felt like he had a point to prove, and he did.

the guys had cheered him on to no end, and will and tyler exchanged knowing glances with him, hiding a hint of mischievous delight. that wasn't important. all macklin seriously, truly cared about, was you. his shower was quicker than usual, he was pretty sure he'd skipped a couple of buttons when closing his shirt, but he had to see you.

he rushed his way across the arena and found you by the back exit, where you always stood waiting for him. at least you weren't so mad you ditched him there. you were leaning against the wall, typing something on your phone before looking up at the sound of his steps approaching.

"look who we got," you announced, hands spreading theatrically in the air. "the enforcer."

he was about to laugh, but then he saw your stone cold expression. that wasn't a joke, that was you telling him he'd fucked up. yet, when your eyes glimpsed over at the dark bruise forming on his cheekbone, he saw your hard façade falter for a moment.

your knuckle came up to his face, carressing the swollen area above his cheek. your touch was soft, soothing. everything macklin needed.

"what was that, mack? you weren't supposed to do that."

"i mean, in my defense i wasn't really planning to." he remarked, hands circling your waist like a peace offering.

"and then what happened?"

"then he acted like a jerk and said something about you. look, baby," he held you closer, weak pout tugging at his lips. "he was being fucking weird and i wasn't going to let him disrespect you like that. especially not in the middle of a game, fuck's sake."

you dwelled on his words for a moment, he could see it in your eyes. what you were secretly dwelling on was the way his breath had quickened with irritation, the way his eyes had narrowed when talking about something he felt so deeply. you couldn't lie and say the beaten up, bloody tough guy act wasn't sparking up something within yourself.

you finally broke out in a soft smile, and macklin felt a weight lift off his chest. his hand found yours without looking, fingers intertwined as you two walked across the parking lot discussing all the other aspects of the game you’d witnessed from the stands.

"what did he even say to you to get you all riled up?" you asked as you got into his car.

macklin's brows raised under your curious gaze, and his head shook dramatically. "no way in hell i am ever telling you."

[cattyb2]

never again | will smith

Pairing: will smith x reader!gf, platonic mack x reader

Prompt: the house is packed as your boyfriend’s family is visiting. and when you and mack go to the store, you never expected it to end up the way it does. as you and mack are caught in an armed robbery, all you can do is think of the man you love

Warnings: detailed descriptions of: armed robbery, blood, gunshot wound, hospital —— please heed the warnings!

Will loves when his family is in town, but he especially loves nights like this. Grace, him and his mom move fluently around the kitchen. His best friend and girlfriend sitting on the chairs at the island, fitting into his family likes you guys have been here all along.

“Oh shoot.” Colleen says from the fridge, and everyone’s attention turns to her.

“What’s wrong?” Grace asks, and Colleen groans.

“I forgot to pick up more butter.”

“I can go.” You say, standing up and grabbing your phone off the island counter.

“Just give me ten minutes baby, I’ll come with you.” Will says, stirring something a bit faster than before.

“I can go to the store by myself.” You joke, but Will is still stirring fast.

“I’ll go with her.” Mack says standing up and heading over to his shoes.

“Keep cooking, we’ll be right back.” You say, kissing Will’s cheek and putting your shoes on.

Will watches as you grab your keys off the hook, and you wink at him as you and Mack leave the house, the cool November air of San Jose hitting you both as you get into the car, and make your way to the store.

—

“Now what is that!” You exclaim with a laugh, as you notice Macklin throwing another random item into the basket.

“Since when do you control me?” He asks in a teasing manner.

“Since you left your wallet at home.” You say with a dead pan stare.

“Yeah, okay that’s fair.” He says with his usual gummy smile. But you see his eyes catch on something behind you. And you turn to see the cooler packed full of Red Bull.

“Go on then!” You say, and Macklin smiles gratefully. “Meet me at the front!” You call as you both split up in two different directions.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?”

“Not nearly enough!” You say back, laughing as you make your way up to the front. You’re excited to get back to the house, the smell of whatever Colleen was cooking is calling your name.

But before you could make it to the registers, something strange catches your eye. A man is walking around, hood up and skiddish. Suddenly, you regret not sticking with Macklin.

And at that moment too many things happen all at once. Mack rounds the corner, about two aisles separating you guys from each other. Then the man starts yelling, and before you know it shots are fired into the air as people scream and hit the ground.

You and Mack both duck, and the man screams for everyone to get down. You look around, a woman with her child tucked tightly to her, an elderly couple shaking on the floor, random men and women all scattered around the checkouts. And then your eyes flash back to Macklin, “don’t move” Mack mouths to you. And you nod your head so slightly, like you are too afraid to move it half an inch.

Then, the silence was broken.

WILL SMITH, your phone announces into the store. His contact picture pops up, and your eyes go to it as it’s on the floor near you. But you’re too paralyzed to make a move to stop it, because the man has already heard it. His sights already set on you.

“Who the hell was that?” The man asks, approaching where you’re kneeling on the ground. You get a good look at him as he does. He’s frantic, his hand shaking as it holds the gun. His eyes look wired, and then, as they flick to Macklin, they light with recognition.

“Holy shit.” The man says, and you feel the blood drain from you. He recognizes Mack, recognizes the name that called your phone. “You’re that kid.” He says, waving the gun around in hopeless abandon, but his words seem.. angry.

“Hey, man, it’s okay. Nobody’s doing anything.” Mack says as he raises both hands slowly.

“You’re that fucking hockey kid! You know I bet against you, you made me lose a lot of fucking money!”

“Mack.” You whimper before you can stop yourself, and that makes the man’s gaze snap to you.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” Mack’s voice goes sharper.

“You want me to spare her?” The man asks, and Macklin says yes instantly. “Then give me your fucking wallet, kid.”

“I don’t have it with me.” Mack says, and you can see how hard he’s forcing himself to remain steady.

“Bullshit.” The man calls, his gun aimed directly at Macklin.

“I don’t.” Mack’s hands stay up, but his eyes keep flicking to you. “I left it behind, I swear.”

“What about you?” The man demands. “You’re with him, you’ve got money.” And you watch as the gun swings toward you and your entire body locks.

“Okay, okay.” You say, your voice shaking as you slowly reach for your pocket. Mack moves half an inch, so little that you almost miss it, but the man doesn’t.

“Don’t!” The man screams, and it causes Mack to freeze.

“Okay!” Mack says, voice trembling now. “Okay. Just… just don’t point that at her.”

Your fingers fumble, and you stare at the weapon still pointed at you. And for a moment, your life flashes before your eyes. You see Will on the ice, in the kitchen on a lazy morning, you see Mack next to you at the kitchen island while he sneaks chocolate chips away from his best friend. You see the blonde shine of Grace’s hair, and feel how she’s always loved you from the second you guys met.

And then, you see movement behind the man. And your eyes widen as two men go to tackle the robber down. It all moves so fast, fast enough to make the gun jerk, fast enough that pain registers before the deafening shot rings out through the grocery store.

Then Mack screams your name, and there’s so much pain in his voice that you focus on that. For a second, your not really sure how you got onto your back, or why Mack leans above you, why he’s screaming, why his hands are pressing against you.

“No, no, no, no!” He’s pleading, voice breaking. “Stay with me. Stay with me. Look at me. Hey, look at me.”

And you try, try to focus but his face swims above you. He looks pale, and younger than you’ve ever seen him.

“Mack?” You breathe out with a question, but the pain rips through you then. And you cry on the floor of the grocery store.

“I’m here.” His says as his hands press harder against your abdomen. “I’m right here. You’re okay, I’m not leaving you, you’re going to be okay.” His voice is cracking, tears dropping down from his eyes and landing around you.

“I want Will.” You croak out, and Macklin nods. Nods but doesn’t take his eyes away from you as you can hear the sirens approaching.

“I’m going to call him, I’m going to call him as soon as they get you stabilized okay? You’ll see him very soon, I promise.” Mack says, and despite his tears, despite the pain, despite the tunnel vision starting in your eyes, you believe Mack. Because Mack wouldn’t lie to you, so you nod in agreement.

“I love him.” You whisper to Mack, but you don’t hear his reply as your eyes start to shut.

“No, no, Y/N!” Mack says, one of his bloody hands coming up to cup your face. “You’ve got to stay awake, stay awake for Will, please.” He begs you, but your eyes shut completely, and as you go limp in his arms, Macklin screams.

—

Colleen wipes her hands on the towel as Will’s phone misses another call.

“Will.” She says to her son, who is just finishing up on his portion of the meal. “You missed another call.” She says, and he starts washing his hands, but then her phone rings.

She pulls it from her back pocket, the unknown number displayed across the screen. But for some reason she feels the need to answer it.

“Hello?” She asks, and the person on the other end of the line makes her heart stop.

“Is this Colleen Smith?”

“Yes this is.” She says, and the eyes of her husband, son and daughter fly to her.

“I’m calling from the San Jose Medical Hospital-“ The voice says, and Colleen gasps as the nurse relays the information to her.

Robbery. Gunshot. Surgery.

Her eyes fill with tears as Will and Grace are begging her for some information.

“We need to go now.” Colleen says quickly to her family, still remaining on the phone as the nurse continues to fill her in.

“Mom what’s going on?” Will asks her, and she bites back a cry as she responds.

“There was a robbery at the store. Honey… Y/N’s in surgery.”

Will’s lips part, and for half a second he just stares. Then his knees buckle, but his dad catches him under the arms before he fully drops.

“No.” Will gasps. “No. Mom, no.”

“Get your shoes on, let’s go.” She says, and the Smith family rushes towards the door.

“Macklin!” Will exclaims. “Macklin was with her.”

“Was there a boy with her? Macklin Celebrini?” Colleen asks, and when she tells him that Mack is unharmed, Will squeezes his eyes shut, a sound coming out of him that is half relief and half agony.

But he doesn’t dwell on much else as his family rushes towards the hospital. As Will rushes to you.

—

The ER is just as horrible as Will thinks. The smell crawls through his senses, the lights seem too bright, and as he runs towards the direction that the front desk attendant told him, he sees his best friend.

Macklin Celebrini sits in a chair in a small private waiting room, a shirt on his body that is definitely not his, but it’s his hands that cause Will to choke.

Mack’s hands are shaking so violently, and Will stares at the red staining them. It’s in his nail beds, in the cracks of his skin. Like he tried to scrub it, but it wouldn’t all come off.

And like Mack could sense that he was no longer alone, he looks up. And his face crumples the second he sees Will.

Will crosses the room in three strides, and for one second, Mack flinches like he expects Will to smack him. Instead, Will grabs his best friend and pulls him into his arms.

Will and Mack completely break and the feeling of the other.

“I’m sorry.” Macklin sobs into Will. “I’m so sorry, Will. I was right there. I was right there and I couldn’t-“

Will grips the back of his shirt so tightly his knuckles go white.

“It’s not your fault Macklin, it’s not your fault.” He sobs, so relieved that his best friend is okay, but so terrified at the same time. His family is still behind them both, the three crying silently and trying to give the pair a moment.

“It should have been me.” Mack says, his voice so crackling and wet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Will says, pulling him in tighter if that’s even possible.

“I should have protected her.”

“Look at me.” Will says, pulling back a bit to look in the red bloodshot eyes of Mack. “I need you, Macklin. I need you to tell me what happened, and I need you to not fall apart on me because if you fall apart, I’m gonna fall apart.” Will says, like they both aren’t already falling apart. “Do it for her.” Will whispers, and Mack nods quickly, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand, leaving a faint red smear against his cheek.

Will sees it, and his stomach turns. Blood. Your blood.

They all sit down as Mack tells them exactly what happened, exactly how he split up to grab Red Bull because he knows Will loves them.

It cracks his heart in two, and as he listens to Macklin, Will looks toward the double doors.

Surgery. You’re in surgery. Somewhere in this hospital you’re cold, alone, and in pain. And Will can’t breathe.

A nurse comes to update them after what feels like hours, when Will sees her he shoots up so fast he knocks the chair back. The loud scrape causing Macklin to jump.

“She’s still in surgery.” The nurse relays. “But she’s tough, she’s a real fighter.”

“Yeah.” Will says, new tears falling. “Yeah she is.”

He listens as the nurse gives them more information, but he can’t get himself to rip his eyes away from Mack’s hands. Colleen managed to grab some wipes from the nurses desk, and she’s been carefully working on cleaning your dried blood from them.

“I need air.” Will finally says, standing and walking towards the doors.

“Will-“ Grace says, but their father grabs her arm softly, probably whispering something about letting him go.

He makes it out the automatic doors, moving towards the side of the hospital that is not facing the parking lot. He closes his eyes for one moment before he hurls over, puking in the bushes.

His stomach rolls, his throat burning as he thinks he’s done only to realize he’s not. But when he’s sure now that his stomach is completely empty he spits a few times, too scared and too tired to be embarrassed by it.

He walks towards a bench, biting his lip to stop the tears from leaving his eyes as he tilts his head back. The San Jose sky is clear tonight, the stars shining brightly down on him. And he almost laughs at the irony of it. How many times have you laid in the backyard staring at the stars? How many times have you pointed to them, telling Will which constellation is which? And yet here they are, shining bright, but you aren’t here to see them.

Will initially wants to scream at them, almost begging for clouds instead. But then he pictures your face, how happy you are when you’re able to lay under them. So he cries, he looks up and sobs.

“Please.” He begs, and he doesn’t feel any ounce of embarrassment for begging the stars. “Please don’t take her from me.” He says, voice cracking. He keeps staring up, like maybe they’ll answer him, like they can promise him that you’ll be okay. “She’s everything to me, please.” He whispers, putting his head in his hands and sobbing.

He doesn’t notice someone coming towards him until they are almost next to him, and without looking he can tell it’s Macklin. He sits down on the bench, and Will turns into him, holding tightly onto the fabric of the shirt the hospital must have given him.

“I can’t lose her Macklin.” He sobs. “I can’t I can’t I can’t.”

“You’re not going to.” Mack says, voice shaking but firm at the same time. “She’s stubborn as hell. She’s gonna wake up and be pissed about them cutting your sweatshirt off of her.”

Will snorts, nodding his head. And he and Mack stay on that bench for a long time.

—

The doctor comes to the waiting room at 1:17am. Will knows that because he’s been staring at the clock, watching the minutes tick by for a few hours since him and Mack came back inside.

Everyone stands up, anxiously waiting as the doctor confirms what Will has been hoping to hear.

“She made it through the surgery.” The man says, and Colleen sobs, covering her mouth, Grace cries into their father, and Will and Mack both grip the arms of their chairs, processing the words.

“She lost a lot of blood, but she’s stable. You guys have a real fighter, you should all be proud.” He says with a smile, and Will runs his hands through his hair in relief.

“Can we see her?” He asks, not realizing when he moved towards the doctor a few steps.

“Yes, but we need calm and quiet in the room.”

“Of course.” Colleen says, and everyone swallows their fears and emotions as they walk into the room.

Will stops in the doorway as he sees you, wires and tubes hooked up to you in various places, but all he can look at is the rise and fall of your chest. Like seeing that is finally what he needed to tell himself that you’re alive.

He rushes to your side, the nurse kindly stepping out of his way. He sits down in the chair positioned right next to your bed, and he so gently, so carefully grabs your hand.

“I’m here, baby.” He whispers, eyes so glossy that his vision shakes. “I’m with you. And you’re okay, you made it.” He kisses your knuckles softly, your skin cool to the touch. “You’re so strong, you’re the strongest person I know.”

Someone behind Will whimpers, but he doesn’t care enough to turn around and see who. All he’s focused on is you, and for the next few hours, he doesn’t dare tear his gaze away from your body. He refuses water, a sweatshirt, food. Will Smith barely breathes until your fingers twitch in his, and he sees your eyes slowly open.

—

To say you have no clue what happened is an understatement. But as your eyes adjust to the dimmed hospital lights the memories come flooding back.

The grocery store. The man. The gun. Macklin. The urge to see Will one last time.

Voices sound to your right, but they sound muffled. Like you’re underwater. But there’s that familiar feeling, that feeling of home. And as you look to your right, you understand why.

Will sits there, eyes wide as his mouth moves. And then finally you can hear it.

“Hey, hey. Don’t move baby. You’re safe, I’m here.” He keeps uttering like a broken record.

A few nurses come in, and Mack has to pull Will back while they adjust the machines around you. But he stays locked in on your eyes, and they find his, glossy and wide, and you make an attempt to reach for him.

One of the nurses steps aside, softly reminding Will to be careful, but letting him reach for you back.

His hand takes yours, his other going to your face and resting on your cheek.

“Will?” You ask, and Will has never heard a more perfect voice in all of this life.

“I’m here. I’m right here with you.” He says, and you cry with him.

“I love you.” You say, because that’s the first thing you want him to know. The most important thing to get off of your chest.

Will laughs, sniffling as he plants the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you more, beautiful girl.” He says.

And as Mack and his family stand behind him, as he lets you get reacquainted with your surroundings, Will Smith promises to thank the stars every night for the rest of his life for giving you back to him.

[linaaawrites]

Heyy, could you write a similar one to whispers of three but with Garrett G. and Dean D. in which they break up with you because they think it’s for your best, but they love you and hate to see you hurting, and you don’t know why they broke up with you bcuz it was rlly out of the blue. Maybe your family isn’t rlly supportive of the relationship, and they end it so you won’t fight with your fam anymore but they still love and you love them and everyone is hurt and sad and they try to win you back and tell the truth. Sry if this is rlly confusing.

Ghosts of Three

pairings: Dean Di Laurentis x ex!reader x Garrett Graham

description: It's been four weeks since Garrett and Dean broke up with you without any explanation. A tragic accident makes them reveal why they really broke up with you.

TW: Angst, heartbreak, emotional distress, poly relationship, breakup aftermath, hospital scene (after accident), flashbacks, family conflict.

masterlist

The dining hall buzzes with conversation and laughter, the sounds bouncing off the high ceilings and polished floors. You push food around your plate, your appetite nonexistent, as you've done every day for the past four weeks. Twenty-eight days since your world collapsed.

Then you see them.

Garrett and Dean enter with their teammates, their laughter cutting through the noise like a knife. Your breath catches, your fork clattering against the ceramic plate. Dean's head tilts back in that way that always made his Adam's apple prominent, the way you used to trace with your fingers during lazy Sunday mornings. Garrett runs a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit you once found endearing.

A memory crashes into you without warning: last winter, curled between them on the couch as snow fell outside the window. Garrett had been reading aloud from some boring textbook, his voice a low rumble against your ear, while Dean's fingers traced patterns on your arm. "You're going to fall asleep," Dean had whispered, his breath warm against your neck. "Already am," you'd mumbled, contentment washing over you like a warm blanket.

The memory dissolves as quickly as it came, leaving behind the familiar ache in your chest. You look down at your plate, blinking back tears.

When you risk another glance, Garrett's eyes meet yours across the crowded room. The connection lasts only a second before he looks away, but in that moment, you see something that looks suspiciously like pain in his expression. You shake your head, dismissing the thought. You're imagining things, projecting your own hurt onto them.

Another memory hits: your first anniversary, when they'd surprised you with a weekend trip to the cabin. Garrett had cooked your favorite meal while Dean had set up a telescope on the deck, pointing out constellations you'd never noticed before. "Make a wish," Dean had said as a shooting star streaked across the sky. You'd wished for moments like that to last forever.

Forever turned out to be shorter than you'd imagined.

You stand abruptly, gathering your tray. You need to get out of here, away from the memories, away from them. As you turn toward the trash cans, you nearly collide with someone.

"Sorry," you mumble without looking up.

"It's okay," Dean's voice says, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. "Are you alright?"

You finally look up, your heart hammering against your ribs. His eyes are filled with concern, the same concern he used to show when you were sick or upset.

"Fine," you lie, stepping around him. "Just busy."

"Wait," he says, his hand reaching for your arm but stopping just short of touching you. "Can we talk? Please? Just for a minute."

You shake your head, your throat tight with unshed tears. "There's nothing to talk about."

"We made a mistake," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "Breaking up with you, it was the biggest mistake of our lives."

You laugh bitterly, the sound harsh even to your own ears. "A mistake? You called me into your apartment, sat me down and told me it was over without a single explanation. You wouldn't even look at me and Garrett couldn't even speak. And now it's a 'mistake'?"

His face pales. "If you would just let us explain..."

"Explain what?" you demand, your voice cracking. "That you both fell out of love with me at the exact same time? That our two years together meant nothing? That all those nights we spent tangled together, all those secrets we shared, all those plans we made....they were all just what? A lie?"

"Never," he interrupts, his eyes intense. "We never stopped loving you. Not for a second."

Before you can process his words, your phone buzzes. It's a text from your mother: "Your father and I need to talk to you this weekend. Don't be late."

You freeze. When you look back up, Dean is watching you with an expression you can't decipher.

"I have to go," you say, turning and walking away before he can say anything more.

That night, as you're leaving the library after closing, the sky opens up. Rain pours down as you fumble with your umbrella, which refuses to open. Cursing under your breath, you make a run for it across the slick parking lot.

You don't see the car until its headlights flash in your peripheral vision. The screech of tires, the blare of a horn and then impact. Your body hits the wet pavement, pain exploding through your left leg and the back of your head. The world goes dark.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the sterile smell of antiseptic. The second is the low murmur of voices.

"She's awake," one says and you recognize Dean's voice.

Your eyes flutter open to find both of them standing beside your hospital bed, their faces etched with worry. Garrett looks like he hasn't slept in days, dark circles under his eyes. Dean has his phone pressed to his ear, talking rapidly to someone.

"...yes, she's conscious now… we're not leaving… no, we'll stay until she's discharged…"

He ends the call and turns to you, his relief palpable. "Thank god. How are you feeling? Do you want some water? Another blanket? Do you remember what happened?"

You try to sit up, but a sharp pain in your leg stops you. "What are you doing here?"

"We got a call from campus security," Garrett explains, his hand hovering over yours as if wanting to touch you but afraid to. "There was an accident..."

"Why do you care?" you interrupt, your voice weak but filled with bitterness. "You don't get to show up now and act like you're concerned. You don't get to be here."

Dean flinches at your words. "We never stopped caring about you, baby. That was never the problem."

"Then what was?" you demand, tears welling in your eyes. "You broke up with me out of the blue, without any explanation. You wouldn't even talk to me. And now you're here, acting like..."

"Because we love you," Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. "Because seeing you hurt like this kills us. Because breaking up with you was the hardest thing we've ever done and we did it for all the wrong reasons."

Your head is spinning from pain and confusion. "What reasons? You never gave me any reasons."

Dean exchanges a look with Garrett before turning back to you. "We heard your mom on the phone that day before we broke up. She was talking to your aunt about how disappointed she was in your 'lifestyle choices,' how she was considering cutting you off financially if you didn't 'come to your senses' about us."

You stare at them, speechless.

"We couldn't let you choose between us and your family," Garrett continues, his voice cracking. "We thought we were protecting you by ending it first, by making the decision for you so you wouldn't have to fight with them anymore."

Tears stream down your face as their words sink in. All this time, you thought they had stopped loving you, when in reality, they were trying to shield you from your family's judgment.

"You broke my heart," you whisper, your voice trembling. "You made me feel worthless. Abandoned. And all this time, you were trying to 'protect' me?"

"We know we messed up," Dean says, reaching for your hand. "We see you on campus, pulling away from everyone and it kills us because we're the ones who put that look in your eyes."

"We want to fix this," Garrett adds. "We want to earn back your trust, to show you that we can face anything together. Including your family."

As you lie there, your head throbbing and your leg aching, you're torn between the love that once felt like home and the betrayal that still stings fresh. Part of you wants to throw yourself into their arms, but another part remembers the pain of their abandonment.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," you say honestly. "I don't know if I can trust you again after this."

"Just give us a chance," Garrett pleads. "A real one this time. No more decisions made without you. Please. Let us make this right. Let us fix what we broke."

As they stand there, their expressions raw with regret and hope, you can't help but wonder if you can truly overcome a betrayal this deep? Or if you are just setting yourself up for more heartbreak?

[kirasblog01]

Imagine Mack x reader where you´re both stranded at an airport overnight due to a blizzard and you end up sharing a hotel room because everything else is aready booked

Airport Delay - Macklin Celebrini

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

summary: You and Mack are stranded at an airport overnight due to a blizzard and you end up sharing a hotel room.

CW: Fluff, only one bed, blizzard.

The announcement echoes through the cavernous terminal, each word dousing your hopes in icy reality: "Due to severe weather conditions, all flights have been cancelled until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience."

You join the herd of stranded travelers making their way to the information desk, where a harried employee is doing her best to manage the chaos. You're not the only one with this idea, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with brown hair arrives at the same time and you both end up at the counter simultaneously.

"Excuse me," you both say at once, then share an awkward laugh.

"Sorry, you first," he says, gesturing for you to go ahead.

"I was just wondering if there are any hotel accommodations available? Or what we're supposed to do now?"

The employee sighs, rubbing her temples. "The airport has arranged for shuttle buses to take passengers to nearby hotels, but I have to be honest, most places are already booked solid due to the storm. We're doing our best to find rooms for everyone, but you might need to share."

The guy beside you clears his throat. "I'll take whatever's available. I'm not picky."

"Me neither," you add quickly.

The employee types rapidly on her keyboard, her expression growing more frustrated by the second. "Well, this is unexpected. There's exactly one room left at the Marriott down the street. One king bed. That's it."

You exchange a look with the stranger beside you. He's handsome, with kind eyes and a hesitant smile that somehow puts you at ease despite the circumstances.

"We'll take it," you both say simultaneously again, then laugh.

"Great," the employee says, clearly relieved. "Here are your vouchers. The shuttle is waiting outside door 7."

As you walk toward the designated door, the man extends his hand. "I'm Macklin, by the way. And I promise I don't snore. Much."

You laugh, shaking his hand. "I'm not worried about snoring. I'm worried about you trying to murder me in my sleep."

"Fair enough," he says with a grin. "I'll try to control myself."

The shuttle ride is silent, both of you lost in your own thoughts about this bizarre turn of events. At the hotel, the check-in process is mercifully quick and soon you're standing in a perfectly nice room with one very large bed dominating the space.

"You take the bed," Macklin says immediately, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. "I'll sleep on the couch."

You glance at the small armchair in the corner. "That's not a couch, that's a decorative piece of furniture that would break if you looked at it wrong. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Absolutely not," he insists, already grabbing pillows from the closet. "You're taking the bed. End of discussion."

"But..."

"No buts," he says, his tone gentle but firm. "I insist."

You sigh, knowing you won't win this argument. "Fine. But at least let me help you make a proper bed on the floor."

Together, you arrange the extra pillows and blankets into a makeshift bed next to the actual bed. The domesticity of it all feels strangely intimate, like you've done this a hundred times before.

After getting ready for bed in the bathroom you settle in for the night. The storm outside rages, wind howling against the windows, rattling the panes with increasing intensity. You try to ignore it, pulling the covers up to your chin, but your heart races with each gust of wind.

"You okay?" Macklin's voice cuts through the darkness.

"Just the storm," you admit quietly. "I'm a bit scared of storms."

He's silent for a moment. "Do you want to talk about something else? To take your mind off it?"

"Please," you whisper.

"What brings you to San Jose?" he asks, his voice calm and steady.

You tell him about your reason for traveling and as you speak, you find yourself relaxing, the sound of his voice a soothing counterpoint to the storm outside.

"That sounds… intense," he says when you finish. "I'm impressed."

"What about you? Why are you headed to San Jose?"

He hesitates. "I have a game tomorrow."

"A game? What kind of game?"

"Hockey," he admits reluctantly. "I play for the Sharks."

You sit up, turning to look at him in the dim light filtering through the window. "You're a hockey player? And you gave me the bed when you have a game tomorrow? No way. You need proper rest. Get in this bed right now."

He laughs, but it's clear he's uncomfortable. "I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."

"I won't take no for an answer," you insist, patting the empty space beside you. "We can build a pillow wall. A fortress of solitude. You'll never even know I'm here."

He considers this for a moment. "Only if you're sure you're comfortable with that."

"I'm sure," you say, already grabbing pillows to create a barrier between you.

He reluctantly gets into bed, maintaining a respectful distance despite your reassurances. The pillow wall rises between you like a miniature mountain range.

"So," you say, settling back against your pillows. "Hockey player for the Sharks. That must be… a lot."

"It is," he admits. "The pressure, the expectations… sometimes it feels like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders."

"What kind of pressure?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He's quiet for a moment, as if considering how much to share. "Everyone expects me to be the savior. The franchise player who's going to turn everything around. But I'm just a kid trying to do my best. I just wanna play hockey, you know? Some days I feel like I'm failing before I even step on the ice."

You're struck by his vulnerability, by the weight he's carrying at such a young age. "That sounds incredibly lonely."

"It is," he agrees. "Most people don't ask about that part. They just want to know about the goals, the wins, the stats."

"What do you wish they would ask?" you probe gently.

He turns onto his side to face you, the pillow wall between you suddenly feeling ridiculous. "They could ask if I'm happy. If I miss home. If I ever regret choosing this life. They could ask about the person behind the jersey."

You reach across the pillow barrier, your hand finding his in the darkness. "Are you happy?"

He laces his fingers through yours. "Some days. Other days, I miss being a normal kid. But tonight… tonight I'm pretty happy."

You talk for hours, about dreams, fears, families and futures. The storm outside gradually subsides, but neither of you notices, lost in conversation. At some point, you both drift off to sleep, your hands still joined across the now-crumpled pillow wall.

You wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the surprising weight of a leg draped over yours. Your eyes flutter open to find Macklin still asleep, his face peaceful, his body having migrated across the pillow barrier during the night. Your legs are tangled together, your arms still loosely joined.

Instead of embarrassment, you feel a strange sense of rightness, as if this is exactly where you're supposed to be. Macklin's eyes open slowly, a sleepy smile spreading across his face when he realizes your position.

"Morning," he murmurs, not moving to untangle himself.

"Morning," you reply, smiling back. "I guess the pillow wall wasn't very effective."

"Guess not," he agrees, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I'm not complaining."

You lie in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before reality intrudes. "We should probably get ready. The airport…"

"Right," he says, though he makes no move to get up. "The airport."

Eventually, you both untangle yourselves and prepare for departure. At the airport, you check in separately, but when you reach security, Macklin stops you.

"Come with me," he says, taking your hand and leading you to a different counter. "I need to to something."

Before you can protest, he's speaking with the agent, handing over your boarding pass. When he returns, he's holding a new one.

"Macklin, no," you say immediately. "Why would you do that? I can't repay you."

"You don't have to," he says, handing you the new pass. "I just… I wasn't ready to stop talking to you. This way, you're sitting next to me."

You look at the boarding pass, business class, seat 4A, right next to his 4B. "You're impossible," you say, but you're smiling.

The flight passes in a comfortable blur of continued conversation, laughter and the occasional brush of hands. By the time you land in San Jose, you feel like you've known Macklin for years rather than hours.

As you gather your things at baggage claim, he turns to you, suddenly looking nervous. "So… I know this is forward, and you probably have plans, but I'd love nothing more than if you'd text me. And if you're free tonight… I'd be the happiest man if you'd come to my game."

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin thoughtfully. "I don't know… I've heard that there is this Sharks player that is a bit of a blanket hog," you tease, a playful glint in your eyes. "I'm not sure I can handle another night of that."

Macklin's face breaks into a relieved grin. "I promise to keep to my side of the pillow wall. Scout's honor."

"Alright," you concede, pretending to be put out. "I'll come. But only because I want to see if you're as good on the ice as you were at building that pillow fortress."

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Deal." He pulls out his phone, and you exchange numbers, your fingers brushing in a way that sends a small jolt through you.

With your bags claimed, you stand awkwardly for a moment, neither of you wanting this strange, perfect interlude to end.

"Well," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I guess this is it for now."

"I guess so," you agree, suddenly feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of parting.

To your surprise, he opens his arms. "Can I?"

You nod, stepping into his embrace. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close. The hug is warm and secure, smelling faintly of his cologne and the clean scent of hotel soap. You rest your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

"I'm really glad I got stranded with you," he murmurs into your hair.

"Me too," you whisper back.

You stay like that for a long moment, two strangers who suddenly feel anything but. When you finally pull apart, his eyes are soft, full of an emotion that makes your breath catch.

"Text me when you get settled?" he asks, his voice hopeful.

"I will," you promise. "Good luck at your game tonight, Macklin."

"Thanks," he says, his smile widening. "Having you there will be all the luck I need."

With one last look, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, watching until he disappears into the crowd. You touch your lips, still smiling from your last interaction, already looking forward to seeing him again.

As you make your own way out of the airport, your phone buzzes in your pocket. It's a text from an unknown number:

Didn't want to wait to hear from you. Already missing our pillow wall. - M

You laugh, typing back a quick reply:

The pillow wall misses you too. See you tonight.

[kirasblog01]

Can I request a MC imagine?

Mack is her best friend and she’s in love with him. He picks her up when she has her wisdom teeth taken out and she confesses?

Thanks 😊

Unwilling Confession - Macklin Celebrini

pairing: Macklin Celebrini x female reader

summary: You accidentally confess your feelings to Macklin Celebrini while under anesthesia after your wisdom teeth removal

CW: Fluff, wisdom teeth removal mentioned, reader is on drugs.

The waiting room smells like antiseptic and stale coffee. Macklin sits beside you, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rests protectively on your knee. You're trying to act casual, but your heart is racing like crazy.

"Nervous?" Macklin asks, glancing up from his phone with those warm eyes that make your stomach do flips.

"Just a little," you admit, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. "I've never had surgery before."

"It's not really surgery," he says reassuringly. "They're just taking out a few teeth. You'll be fine."

Easy for him to say. He's the one who's not about to be put under anesthesia. You've been crushing on Macklin for months now, ever since he became your best friend really. But you've never had the courage to tell him how you actually feel.

The nurse calls your name and Macklin stands up with you. "I'll be right here when you wake up," he promises, squeezing your hand.

You're led into a small room where they explain the procedure and administer the anesthesia. The last thing you remember is Macklin's smiling face before everything goes fuzzy.

When you open your eyes again, the world is blurry and your mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Someone is gently shaking your shoulder.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Time to wake up."

Macklin's voice cuts through the fog in your brain. You blink a few times until his face comes into focus. He's grinning at you and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it.

"Mackie?" you slur, your voice muffled by the gauze in your mouth.

"That's me," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back against the pillows. "Easy there. You just had surgery."

"Did it hurt?" you ask, your words still coming out slurred.

"You were asleep the whole time," he explains. "But now it's time to get you home and into some comfy pajamas."

As he helps you into the car, you can't stop staring at him. The anesthesia has lowered all your inhibitions and your filter seems to have completely disappeared.

"You know, Mackie," you say as he buckles your seatbelt, "you have really nice hair."

He chuckles. "Thanks, I think?"

"And your eyes," you continue, "they're beautiful. I could stare at them all day."

Macklin glances at you with a raised eyebrow but doesn't say anything as he starts the car.

The ride home is a blur of trees and buildings, but your focus remains entirely on the man beside you. You've never seen him from this angle before, profile illuminated by streetlights, jaw set in concentration as he navigates traffic.

"You're so good at driving," you announce suddenly. "And hockey. And being my best friend. You're just good at everything."

"I try," he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

When you arrive at your apartment, Macklin helps you inside and settles you on the couch with a pillow and blanket. He returns with a glass of water and your pain medication.

"Here," he says, holding out two pills. "This will help with the pain."

You look at the pills, then back at him. "Are you trying to drug me, Celebrini?"

He laughs. "I'm pretty sure you're already drugged enough."

You take the pills with a sip of water, then lean your head back against the couch. The room is spinning slightly, but Macklin's presence anchors you.

"You know what's funny?" you say, looking at him with unfocused eyes.

"What's funny?"

"I'm in love with you."

The words tumble out before you can stop them and the room falls silent. Macklin freezes mid-motion, his eyes wide with shock.

"What?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm in love with you," you repeat, the medication making you bold. "I have been for months. But I was too scared to tell you because I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

Macklin sits down on the coffee table in front of you, his expression unreadable. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," you say, nodding vigorously. "I love your smile and the way you laugh at your own jokes. I love how passionate you are about hockey and how you always check to make sure I'm okay. I love everything about you."

You reach out to touch his face, but your hand is clumsy and you end up poking his nose instead. He catches your wrist gently, his eyes searching yours.

"You're not just saying this because of the medication, are you?" he asks, his voice hopeful.

"Nope," you say, shaking your head. "I've been holding this in for way too long. It feels good to finally say it out loud."

A slow smile spreads across Macklin's face, and your heart does a little flip. "Well, in that case…"

He leans forward, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm in love with you too."

Your breath catches in your throat. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms. "I have been for a while now. But I was also scared to say anything because I didn't want to make things weird between us."

You can't help but laugh, which sends a sharp pain through your jaw. "Ouch," you mutter, clutching your cheek.

Macklin's expression immediately softens. "Easy there. Don't move too much."

He stands up and disappears into the kitchen, returning with an ice pack. "Here," he says, gently placing it against your cheek. "This should help."

You close your eyes as the cold soothes your throbbing jaw. When you open them again, Macklin is watching you with such tenderness it makes your heart ache.

"So," you say, your voice slightly clearer now. "What happens now?"

"Now," he says, taking your free hand in his, "we take things slow. You go to sleep and if you tell me that you love me again tomorrow, while you're not high on drugs, we'll see where things go."

"Okay," you agree, squeezing his hand. "But can we at least kiss?"

He chuckles. "Not with your mouth full of gauze, we can't."

"Right," you say, feeling slightly disappointed. "Later then?"

"Later," he promises, his eyes twinkling. "Definitely later."