uluvjay

[uluvjay]

Kind of odd question but I’m in need, if possible is there anyone on here that makes shirts / hoodies?

I’m interested in getting either a quarter zip, hoodie, or crewneck made for my job! I can provide our logo and I have no problem paying :)

If you’re able to help please just message me!

[uluvjay]

I have so many ideas I wanna write but writers block is truly fucking me over, like I go to do it and my entire brain just farts and I can’t think of anything.

[uluvjay]

wdym Mackie Samoskevich took the cup to the Sandy Hook elementary memorial🥲.

Idc what anyone says, Mackie is such a sweetheart and deserves everything he’s achieved so far.

[uluvjay]

Oh me likeyyyy

pick up the phone. | ln4 + op81. | pt.2

pairing: lando norris x reader x oscar piastri

synopsis: while packing your bag for Logan's sleepover you're interrupted by an unknown caller, it quickly turns from something sweet to sinister as you really it's the masked murderer. luckily, lando gets there just in time.

includings: home invasion, stalking, obsessive/possessive behavior, threatening phone calls, slasher-style violence, chase scene, physical altercation/attack, implied weapon use (knife), emotional distress, power imbalance, creepy dialogue/teasing, pet names, crumbs of frat boy!logan, comfort towards the end

an: i don't like this chapter im ngl, i feel like it was sloppy and a little rushed but it's posted and here!

The silence used to be peaceful.

But after the recent events it was a bit unerving to come back home to an empty and quiet house. You cursed under your breath when you saw the text message from your mom saying her and your father had gone out to grab groceries before it got too dark outside.

You were packing your overnight bag for Logan's sleepover. You had music playing softly from your Bluetooth speaker.

You were zipping your duffel bag up, trying to remember if Logan had said bring your own pillow or not, when the landline rang.

You paused.

It was such an out of place sound that it took a second to register. The shrill, slightly fuzzy ring echoed faintly from the kitchen. It was a sound you almost never heard anymore. No one used the home phone. Not unless it was a scam call or your grandmother.

You walked down the stairs, trying to make sure you weren't just hearing things and as the sound got louder you rushed down the stairs and grabbed the phone from its charger, answering with a slightly raised brow.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then a voice:

“Oh. Sorry….I think I've got the wrong number.”

Male. Warm. Maybe a little older than you. The voice didn't seem familiar, it was deep with a slight rasp.

You let out a breath and smiled a little. “No problem.”

You were about to hang up when he spoke again.

“Actually…wait.”

You froze, phone halfway from your ear.

“You’ve got a nice voice. I wanna talk to you some more.”

You giggled. "They've got a million other numbers for that. Bye bye now." You didn't even listen to the callers protest as you put the phone back on the receiver and turned on your heel to go back upstairs to your room.

The sun had started to set a while after you were done, Lando sent you a text saying he was gonna stop and grab some drinks before he came to get you and you decided to watch a movie downstairs while you waited.

Then the phone rang in the kitchen again.

You groaned, getting up from your spot as you walked to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. You put it against your ear with a sigh. "Hello?"

"Why don't you wanna talk to me?" The caller asked, their tone in a slight whine.

Your brows furrowed as your nails tapped against the marble table. "Who is this?"

"Tell me your name and I'll tell you mine."

"Mmm...I don't think so."

"Playing hard to get?" The voice chuckled and you shook your head. "No, I just don't go out giving strangers my name."

"Smart girl." He hummed. "What're you doing right now?"

"Waiting around for my friend to come and get me. He's taking forever."

"Friend or boyfriend?"

You giggled, walking back to the living room. "Just a friend."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked, voice a bit lower this time.

"Why? You wanna ask me out on a date or something?" You teased.

"Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?" He repeated.

"No, but I don't usually date random guys who call my landline."

"Shame." The caller clicked his tongue. "You know, you still haven't told me your name."

"And just why do you want to know my name so bad?" You hummed, leaning against the back of the couch.

“Because I already know your name. I just want to see if you'll lie to me, Y/n."

You felt your heartbeat pick up as the mystery voice on the other line had said your name, your hand tightening around the phone. "Okay, who is this?"

"You tell me."

Your brows furrowed as you shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

"Not telling youu." The voice on the other end sing sung. “Are you scared right now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Should I be?”

There was a small pause.

“Are you all alone in the house?”

You let out a breathy laugh, almost relieved. “Okay. I know who this is now. Logan? That’s not funny. And also not original if you're trying to be scary."

“Maybe that’s because I’m not Logan.”

Your amusement faded. You blinked, sitting up straighter. “Okay…then who is this?”

The voice dipped lower, darker. “Wrong question.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

A soft chuckle rumbled through the receiver. “The question you should be asking is…where am I.”

That made your stomach drop.

Then the voice added, light and teasing: “Do you wanna guess? Or should I just tell you?”

"I think you should stop whatever this is because if it's a joke, it's not funny." You hissed.

"Who said I was joking?"

That was enough to make you hang up the phone again and you slammed it back onto the receiver, feeling your heart slam against your chest as you started to walk away from it, only for it to start ringing again.

You cursed under your breath as you picked it back up. "Listen here-"

'"No, you listen. Hang up on me again and I'll make sure you end up just like Franco. Bet you'd scream prettier than him, wouldn't you?"

Your entire body froze, hand clenching around the phone again. "What?"

"Oh you heard me. Now let's play a game. Which door am I at?"

You swallowed the lump in your throat, hands trembling slightly but before you could even muster up a response, a loud bang echoed from the front door.

You flinched so hard you nearly dropped the phone.

"Are you gonna check that?"

You hesitated.

"Fuck. You."

The voice on the other end chuckled low and slow. "I thought you said you didn’t date random guys who call your landline, sweetheart."

Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. Jaw set, heart hammering, you moved toward the door, each step painfully slow. You leaned forward and peered through the peephole.

Empty.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped your lips. You started to turn back but just as you went to hang up the phone, a crash exploded behind you.

A cloaked figure burst out of the hallway closet, white mask and knife in hand.

You screamed and instinctively hurled the phone at his head while it hit him square in the mask with a dull thud, and the figure stumbled a step back. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

You bolted, feet scrambling against the hardwood, but he lunged after you, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back so hard you slammed into the floor with a sharp cry. Pain bloomed in your shoulder, breath knocked clean out of your lungs.

Before you could roll away, he was on you.

His weight crashed down as he straddled your hips, gloved hands forcing your wrists above your head. The knife raised just inches from your face, trembling with tension.

You thrashed, one knee jerking up hard, catching him somewhere between his ribs and stomach. He grunted, grip slipping just enough for you to break one hand free and claw at his mask. Your nails scraped plastic, then skin.

He snarled, slamming your head back against the floor with a sharp thud.

The world fuzzed for a second as you groaned from the thumping pain now blooming in your head. The knife was rising again, your blurred gaze locking on it as it hovered, shaking, above your chest.

Your other hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, trying to keep the blade at bay, but he was stronger, your hand trembling as the knife inched lower.

You bucked upward, twisting just as he leaned in and his balance shifted. You caught him off-guard, flipping to the side, and drove your elbow into his ribs again. His grip loosened for half a second and you shoved. Hard. Forcing him off you.

You scrambled to your feet, stumbling over your own legs as you bolted up the stairs, two steps at a time, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to shatter your ribs.

Behind you, you heard his feet pounding after you but you didn't dare to look back as you turned down the hallway and bolted it to your room.

You burst into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattled the hinges. Your fingers fumbled over the bolt and chain, your breath coming out in panicked, shuddery gasps.

You didn’t even stop to think, grabbing the desk chair, shoved it beneath the knob, then your dresser, dragging it in front of the door with a strength born entirely from fear.

You backed away, staring at the door, as footsteps pounded up the stairs.

He was coming.

He was right behind you.

You turned in frantic circles, searching for something, anything you could use. Your phone downstairs. The window was too high up to risk jumping. The closet felt like a death trap. You pressed your back to the wall as you slid down it.

The doorknob jiggled.

You jumped, a scream catching in your throat.

“Open the door, baby, cmon." The voice came again, closer this time, distorted but unmistakably him. Calm. Patient. Sickeningly sweet. Like he was hitting on you instead of trying to stab you.

There was silence for a beat, and then a soft laugh filtered through the door. A quiet, amused exhale that made your blood run cold.

"You're shaking, aren't you?" He said softly, voice almost affectionate. "I can hear your breathing from out here . It's cute." He paused..

Then, silk-slick and smug:

"Tell me, do you sound like that in bed...or just when you're scared for your life?"

Your breath caught in your throat. The way his voice was so smooth and syrupy. It made your stomach twist. You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to quiet the panicked little gasps slipping out.

He liked that. He wanted to hear you unravel.

“Oh c’mon,” He drawled through the door, almost playful now. “Don’t make me talk to myself here, angel.”

“Go away!” You finally screamed, voice cracking under the weight of your fear. “Please just go away, my friend will be here any minute and he’s gonna kick your ass!"

Silence.

Then there was a soft chuckle.

Then knob stopped moving.

You waited. Counted your own breaths. Five… ten...thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. No sound. No footsteps retreating down the stairs. No door opening. Nothing.

And still…you didn’t move.

You didn’t dare.

Every part of your body screamed to stay right where you were. Knees hugged to your chest, fingernails dug into your sleeves, tears streaming silently down your cheeks, your trembling form on the floor.

Then there were footsteps again.

Coming up the stairs.

You froze.

He hadn’t left.

He was still here.

You stared at the door like it might blow open at any moment. This time, you didn’t even have it in you to scream. Just clutched your legs tighter to your chest as the footsteps grew louder. Slower.

They stopped in front of your door.

Knuckles tapped gently against the wood.

“Y/n?” A pause. “It’s Lando.”

You didn't respond.

“Are you okay?” His voice sharpened, a little more panicked now, “Oscar’s tried calling you to tell you we're here and he said you didn’t answer your phone. You ready?”

You hiccupped a shaky sob when the familiar accented voice reached your ears.

You scrambled to unstack the dresser, chair, whatever you could manage. Your fingers slipped on the lock three times before you got it open, and when the door finally creaked inward.

Lando was standing there, brows furrowed in total confusion. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t answer.

You just fell into him, and for once, he didn’t have a single joke to crack. Just held you tight.

"Oh sweetheart, you’re shaking.” He muttered.

“That murderer was here.” You whispered against his chest. “I thought he was gonna kill me.”

His arms tightened around you instantly. “Okay. It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Lando didn’t wait another second. His hand shot out, gently but urgently tugging at your arm. "Come on. We're leaving."

You stared up at him, still in shock. You didn’t know if you were shaking from the adrenaline or the fear still clawing at your chest. All you could do was nod weakly.

He guided you out of the room, past the overturned chair, the dresser still shoved against the door. It looked like a disaster.

He gently pulled you down the stairs, his hand not leaving your back for a second as if to reassure you, but he could feel that you were still tense, as if you were waiting for something to happen.

When you got to the living room, he stopped by the couch, swiping your phone and bag off the coffee table with a single motion. His eyes met yours briefly, his expression soft but determined. "Let’s go."

You followed him numbly, one foot in front of the other, not questioning, just moving. You quickly locked up the house once you got outside, moving towards Lando's car where Oscar was already climbing out of the front seat when he saw you... and froze.

You must’ve looked like hell. You could feel it in the way your skin burned, how your hair clung to your face from sweat and panic. You barely met his eyes, but when you did, his expression shifted instantly from casual to deeply concerned.

“Shit." He muttered, eyes scanning you as he stepped aside and opened the passenger door. “Here, take the front. You alright?”

You didn’t answer. Just slid into the seat, clutching your bag like a lifeline. Lando rounded the car and got in beside you, slamming the door shut and throwing it into gear without another word.

For a while, the only sound was the soft hum of the engine and the tires rolling over asphalt.

You didn’t even realize how tightly you were gripping your thighs until Lando gently brushed his knuckles against your arm.

"Talk to us." He said. “What happened?”

You hesitated. Your throat felt raw, your tongue dry.

“He called the house phone." You whispered, eyes unfocused on the road ahead. "Said it was a wrong number. But then he called back. Again. And again. Just...talking. And he said my name.."

Oscar stiffened in the backseat. “What the hell?”

You kept going, your voice hollow. “Then when I tried to hang up again he said I'd end up like Franco. And then he was in the house. He was in the house, and I didn’t even hear him come in.”

Lando’s hand tightened on the wheel, knuckles bone white.

You looked down at your lap, voice shaking. “He chased me. Slammed me to the floor. I fought him off, somehow, and ran upstairs. He almost had me. He was on me, he had the knife—”

“Christ.” Oscar breathed behind you, but it sounded like it had been punched out of him.

“I locked myself in my room." You continued, your voice a whisper now. “I thought he was going to kill me. I was begging him not to, and then… he stopped. Just stopped. I didn’t know if he left or if he was waiting. I was too scared to open the door.”

You paused. The car was quiet, thick with tension.

“I thought I was going to die.”

Lando exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw clenched, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “But you didn’t. You got out. You’re safe now.”

Your bottom lip quivered. “Why did he stop, though? He had me. He could’ve killed me if he wanted to."

Oscar leaned forward between the seats slightly, his voice gentler now. “Maybe he wanted to scare you. Rattle you. He wanted the control.”

You shivered.

Lando finally looked over at you at a red light. “He doesn’t have control anymore.” He said firmly. “You’re okay now. He's not in the house anymore and you're not gonna be alone tonight."

You looked at him, eyes rimmed with tears, but nodded slowly.

Oscar added, softer this time, “You're okay, Y/n. We’ve got you. Seriously.”

The car rolled forward again, silence falling, not from tense but comforting. For now, you were safe.

The ride to Logan’s house passed in a blur.

Lando drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb brushing across your thigh in attempts to soothe your nerves even more.

Oscar had been the first to move when the car pulled up the long drive. He stepped out and opened your door, grabbing your bag.

“C’mon." He said quietly. “We’re here.”

You nodded, pulling yourself from the seat before following Lando up the front steps. The porch light was on, casting warm light over the familiarity of Logan’s front door.

The door opened before anyone could knock. Logan stood there in sweats, his Greek lettered hoodie snug on his body, eyebrows raised like he’d been mid-rant when interrupted.

“You guys took forever! I-” He paused, his eyes landing on you. His face fell instantly. “Y/n? What happened?”

You sighed, shaking your head and he quickly ushered you inside, straight to the couch. Pietra looked up from a bowl of popcorn, surprised at your expression. Max sat beside her, already scrolling on his phone, headphones around his neck.

“Woah, are you okay?” Pietra asked, putting the popcorn down.

You sat slowly, tucking your legs under you, hands trembling just slightly as you tried to find the words.

“I got a call." You said. Your voice came out softer than you expected. “On the landline. It was... it was him.”

The room froze.

“Him as in...” Logan started.

“The guy." You whispered. “The one who...who killed Franco.”

Oscar didn’t move, but you felt the change in his energy. Lando was already sitting beside you, one arm resting behind you on the back of the couch, watching your every move.

“At first I thought it was a wrong number." You explained. “He was just talking. Like it was some weird, flirty mistake. But then…he said my name. Said he wanted to know it because he wanted to know if I'd lie."

“Wait—he knows you?” Max asked, eyes wide.

You nodded. “That’s when I hung up. But then he broke in.” You glanced at the others, eyes flicking between their shocked faces. “He was in the house. He chased me. Tried to stab me...” Your throat tightened. “I managed to get away. I ran upstairs and locked myself in my room.”

“Oh my God.." Logan muttered.

“And then what?” Pietra asked, voice laced with concern.

“Then he just…left. I don’t know why. I heard someone coming up the stairs and I thought it was him again, but it was Lando.”

Lando gave you a look. Not smug, not proud, just deeply concerned. “She was white as a ghost. Her room was trashed. I didn’t see anyone, but whoever it was, they were already gone.”

Just then, your phone vibrated in your lap.

Everyone looked at it.

You stared at the screen for a second before answering.

“Mom?”

There was a rustling on the other end. “Y/n, what the hell happened in your room? Did something fall because everything is out of place and the hallway closet door’s half off—”

You closed your eyes. “I’m okay. Someone broke in.”

A beat of silence. Then your dad’s voice cut in. “What do you mean broke in? Where are you?”

“I’m with Logan. I’m fine. I locked myself in and Lando got there before....” You hesitated. “Before anything happened.”

“We’re calling the cops.”

“No.” You said quickly, glancing at the others. “There’s no point. He’s gone. There’s no proof. No damage to the downstairs window, nothing taken. They can't do anything.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Your mom said firmly. “You still need to make a report.”

“I will." You promised, even though part of you didn’t believe it. “I just…I need to breathe first.”

You ended the call and dropped your phone to your lap with a sigh.

“Your parents okay?” Logan asked gently.

“They’re freaking out. But yeah.”

Pietra reached over and took your hand. "Well it's okay. You're okay and you're safe thanks to Lando. God forbid he didn't get there in time."

"Yeah." Logan muttered, glancing over at Lando who was still staring at you. The blonde looked like he wanted to say something but he didn't fix him mouth to do so, he just clapped his hands and smiled.

“Alright guys, sleepover time! First up, Uno. No mercy.”

You couldn’t help but laugh a little as he dramatically tossed a deck of cards onto the coffee table. Pietra rolled her eyes and grabbed the snacks from the kitchen counter, carrying a bowl of popcorn in one hand and a mix of chips in the other.

“Uno, really?” Max groaned, already flopping on one of the bean bags. “Can’t we do something less rage-inducing? Something that doesn't end with yelling?"

“Nope.” Logan grinned, already dealing cards. “This is a rage-friendly household.”

The tension from earlier in the day melted little by little. There were groans and competitive curses during Uno, accusations of cheating (mostly directed at Oscar, who sat smugly quiet and somehow always won), and laughter that started to sound genuine again.

You were braiding Pietra's hair at one point while she put Max's into small pigtails. Oscar and Lando were watching some video together, snickering while Logan made more popcorn and managed to burn it slightly, but no one really cared.

The room had gone quiet except for the soft hum of the movie which was a romcom. Everyone else had gradually passed out, leaving you to sit by yourself with the glow of the screen casting shadows across the room.

You weren’t tired. Not yet. Your mind kept racing, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened earlier. The phone call, the chase, the fear.

But you couldn’t stay still for too long. Your eyes kept drifting around the room, landing on random things as if focusing on anything would quiet your thoughts. That’s when you saw it, the glint of something from the corner of the room.

Oscar’s bag.

It was a subtle reflection, something metallic peeking out from the top. You stood up slowly, the blanket sliding off your legs as you crept toward the bag, careful not to wake anyone.

When you reached it, you hesitated, but only for a second. Your fingers brushed against the zipper, and you started to pull it open.

The sound of his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“What're you doing?"

Your heart nearly stopped. You froze in place, eyes snapping toward him. Oscar was sitting up now, staring directly at you, his expression unreadable. The dim light from the TV made his features sharper, more intense.

You quickly withdrew your hand. “I just...I thought I saw something and got curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, y'know. Plus, it's rude to go and look around in other people's stuff."

You nodded, almost like a child being scolded. "Yeah, sorry."

His lips twitched slightly, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "It's fine, just...come here. You look like you're having a hard time sleeping."

You hesitated, still kneeling where he’d caught you, your fingers inches from the zipper of his bag. You still wanted to see what was inside since you only caught a glint, a shape that didn’t belong.

But maybe you were seeing things, it could've been anything. Keys...a piece of jewelry...

"Come here." He repeated, snapping you out of your own thought as he held out an arm.

You zipped his bag back up before crawling closer, cautiously settling beside him. He shifted slightly to pull you in, letting you rest your head against his chest, his arm draped loosely around your back.

His body was warm. Steady. His breathing was calm enough to lull you. No tension in him at all.

"There you go." He murmured, fingertips brushing slow circles against your shoulder. "Just close your eyes, relax. Remember, you're safe here."

Safe. The word landed heavy in your ears.

You didn’t feel safe. Not really. But his touch was so soothing, so practiced, it made your eyelids flutter shut in spite of yourself.

His chin rested lightly on your head.

And as you drifted toward sleep, you didn’t see the way his eyes stayed open, soft and focused while watching you. Studying every breath, every twitch, every movement.

You slept.

And Oscar didn’t move an inch, his eyes momentarily glancing back over to his duffle bag.

In this chapter Lando was the one who made the call and Oscar was the one who was behind the mask!!

Taglist!!: @coaraxisisi @sophxxkiss @teenagetoadghostwobbler @belpsbelps @dinoplushie @whentheautumnleavesfall @keepyoureyesonmeboy @alliseeisversainz @jaydensluv @icecreamitycream @formulaho @angrybirdzzz @trashmouthsahra @ellaadora @notpiastrii @avis-waterlily

[uluvjay]

Arber Xhekaj Masterlist

*indicates smut, -> indicates a part two

Social media edits

Coming soon..

Imagines

*Beg for it - Request: Request: Could you write something about Arber getting teased until he’s desperate to go down on you?

*Rules are Rules- In which the rules state, if you wear a cowboys hat you have to ride him..

Au’s

Coming soon…

[uluvjay]

Macklin Celebrini Masterlist

*indicates smut, -> indicates a part two

Social media edits

Coming soon…

Imagines

Trip to Boston- In which Will & Macklin return to Boston to pay a visit to their girl and attend the annual bean pot. *willmack

->World wide- *request: would you be willing to write something with Will and Mack about going to see them for Worlds? Maybe just a play off of your Boston fic with them?

Au’s

Coming soon…

[uluvjay]

Hey babes would you be willing to write something with Will and Mack about going to see them for Worlds? Maybe just a play off of your Boston fic with them?

Posted it here for you my love!

[uluvjay]

Worldwide- W. Smith & M. Celebrini

Will Smith x Fem! Reader x Macklin Celebrini

Request: Hey babes would you be willing to write something with Will and Mack about going to see them for Worlds? Maybe just a play off of your Boston fic with them?

Warnings?; established poly relationship!, kissing, cursing, slight smut, cursing, mentions of alcohol, secret relationship, if I missed any lmk, ending isn’t the best🫩, sorry for any errors!

Part one

You hummed softly at feeling of soft lips kissing along the back of your neck, soft curls tickling your skin as they kept going as far as your tank top would let them.

You snuggled closer to the chest in front of you chasing the warmth as the room filled with a chill of the early morning air.

“Guys I gotta go, we have practice.” Will spoke softly.

You turned away from Macklin to find the blonde dressed in his usa gear ready to head out to his final practice before the gold medal game.

Despite being knocked out of contention Macklin had stayed in Sweden to watch Will and spend a bit more time with the both of you before he returned to Canada for some offseason training and family time.

“Good Luck baby, have fun” you smiled pulling him down for a proper kiss.

Will smiled against your lips, while he appreciated you doing your best to give a kiss you were half awake and the kiss was more chin then it was lip as you dozed off.

He chuckled as he pulled back, “tell Mack I said I love him, don’t wanna wake his grumpy ass up” Will whispered in your ear as he pulled back.

“Got it” you mumbled with a thumbs up.

“I heard that you dick, I’m not grumpy” Macklin grumbled from his spot on the bed, green eyes still shut as he spoke to his boyfriend.

That earned a laugh from you as the brunette was known to be quite the grump if he was woken up before he wanted to be, even if it was from you or Will.

“Whatever you say buddy, Love you guys” Will shook his head as he made his way over and out the door for practice.

“He’s so annoying, I am not grumpy.” A now grumpy Macklin mumbled from next you.

“I know baby, he’s so mean” you teased cuddling closer chasing the sleep the lingered behind your eyes before it disappeared and you were up for the rest of the day.

“He is” the brunette huffed.

-

When Will finally returned to the hotel room you and Macklin were now wide awake phone in your hand as both you and Macklin watched Tik toks on your phone.

The blonde smiled at the sight of you two, greeting the both of you with a greeting kiss before shoving himself in between both of you.

“Ew dude you stink like the rink, go shower” Macklin laughed pushing Will away onto you.

“Hey! I don’t want his stinky self” you joined in on the laughs pushing Will back towards your boyfriend.

“Wow guys, feeling really loved right now” Will sighed dramatically placing a hand over his heart.

“Oh hush, you know we love you.” You smiled rubbing your fingers through his hair.

“If you really loved me you’d come shower with me” he smirked looking up at you two with bright blue puppy eyes.

“Is that why you didn’t shower at the rink?” Macklin laughed.

Will scoffed, “uh no..they don’t have nice showers there. Waters to cold”

“Nice try big guy but we don’t have time for that.”

Will released another dramatic sigh but he knew it was true both you and Macklin had to get ready and he still had to shower and get dressed before being down in the lobby in two hours.

Will made the first move to get up but he made sure to tease both of you stripping down into his boxers right at the end of the bed before heading into the bathroom.

“He’s such an ass” you groaned.

“Yeah tell me about it” Macklin agreed adjusting his sweats on his now growing bulge.

An hour and a half later Will was dressed in his dress pants and usa quarter zip, hair damp as be styled it in the mirror next to you.

Macklin stood behind you fixing his own hair as you did your makeup, a smith jersey laid out on the bed ready to be put on over your Celebrini hoodie and black leggings.

“You’re still wearing my jersey right?” Will asked eyes shifting over to you as you applied your highlighter.

“Yes, it’s on the bed” you laughed.

It was early on into your relationship that you realized Will had a thing for you in his jersey, and things only got better when you added Macklin to the equation who just so happens to have the same turn on.

“What about you Mack? You gonna wear my jersey and show support to?”

“Fuck no. I love you and I’m coming to support but I’ll never wear a USA jersey in my life” he shook his head with a genuine scoff.

You laughed at the sass that rolled off the younger man while he loved Will he was also a proud Canadian.

“Dude I wore your Canada jersey!” Will protested,

“Yeah for a bet!”

You shook your head at their antics continuing with your routine as they bickered back and forth. Their words continued on for a good ten minutes until Will had to leave.

You gave him a good luck kiss and wished him good luck, Macklin doing the same before the blonde headed out.

You watched through the mirror as Macklin approached from behind, his strong arms wrapping around your waist from behind as he watched you.

“Can I help you mister?”

He chuckled softly at you, a warm smile spreading on his face. “Nope, just admiring”

Your cheeks reddened at his words, Macklin always knew what to say to make you blush or feel good about yourself.

“Well I hate to cut it short but I have to finish getting dressed, we have to meet the other families in the lobby soon.” You frowned at the man.

You hated the pout that formed on his pretty face, “that means I won’t be able to kiss or touch you until we get back tonight?”

That simple sentence broke your heart into pieces, this was one of the hardest things about having to keep your relationship hidden.

Macklin as well as you hated not being able to show affection to one another out in public, things had gotten even tougher after a fan captured a video of you two in the airport when you dropped him and Will off.

In the video they caught the end of the kiss you shared in the car getting you pulling back from his lips as well as the hug behind the car as he and Will grabbed their bags where Macklin hand dipped a little low on your ass.

“I’m sorry baby” you smiled emphatically as you turned to face him, arms wrapping around his mid sections

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault. S’ just hard not being able to show you off in public same as Will, I love you guys.” He shrugged.

You apologized to the Canadian one more time before you pulled him in for a loving kiss, melting against his strong frame when his long fingers tangled in your hair to pull you closer.

You kept going until you were both panting, faces flushed with red cheeks and swollen lips, a dazed look in Macklin’s pretty eyes as he stared down at you.

“Feel better now?”

“A little, think I need another kiss.” He chuckled pulling you right back into him.

-

Three hours later your hand was locked in Macklins as you watched Tage Thompson skate down the ice with the puck on his stick.

You stopped breathing for a minute it felt like the whole arena had gone silent not a peep from anyone until Tage finally shot the puck, the usa fans in the crowd erupting in cheers as it found the back of the net.

You jumped to your feet a loud cheer escaping your throat, “Holy fuck! They did it”

You engulfed Macklin in a hug cheering together before turning to face Will’s sister embracing her tightly.

You shared hugs with his parents, his dad high-fiving Macklin as you all watched the boys hug each other on the ice.

When it finally came time for the players to hold the trophy you and Macklin had luckily found a spot against the boards, slapping it for Wills attention when he got ahold of it.

He skated in a circle around his teammates before slamming against the boards for the two of you.

“You fucking did it!” You cheered.

“Needed some fresh gold eh smitty?” Macklin chuckled.

Will shrugged with a smirk at his boyfriend’s words throwing the both of you a wink before returning to his team to hand off the trophy to the next deserving player.

You didn’t get your hands on Will until the team returned to the hotel lobby, all a bit tipsy and on an adrenaline high of winning gold for the first time in 92 years.

You watched as Will hugged his family who was at the front of the crowd showing off his gold medal to his sister.

His eyes searched the crowd a bright smile overtaking his face as they landed on you and Mack further back.

He was quick to make his way towards the two of you the smell of beer apparent the second he got close enough.

He pulled both of you into a bear hug a bright smile on his face.

“Congratulations Smitty, can’t believe this is number three.” You cheesed up at him.

“Don’t go inflating his ego even more than it already is baby.” Macklin teased.

“Shut up you ass, and thank you baby it doesn’t seem real.” He laughed.

You giggled as he punched Mack’s shoulder as he pulled back turning around to take in the lobby full of friends and family of everyone from the team.

A few of the older guys who were close to Johnny holding his jersey up as they chanted USA.

“We’re gonna head up and get changed, see you up there?” You asked Will, it may have seemed innocent to the average ear but he saw the twinkle in your eye.

“Yeah be up in a second.” He smiled watching as the two of you walked away, Macklin’s hand immediately dropping to your ass.

-

He could hear the sound of lips connecting before he even opened the door Macklin’s heavy whimpers flowing through the wood and out into the hall.

And he wasn’t surprised when he walked in and found you straddling Macklin hands tangled in his soft locks as you kissed down his neck, paying extra attention to the areas that made the brunette whimper just a little louder when your lips touched them.

You were both shirtless, your pants still on however Macklin was stripped down to his boxers. He watched with a heat growing in stomach as Macklin groped and grabbed every inch if skin his hands could find.

“What happened to getting changed?” Will finally spoke up.

“Someone got needy.” You shrugged before going back to your assault on Mack’s neck.

“F-fuck off, she jumped on me” Macklin huffed.

Will didn’t really care who initiated it at this point all he cared about was getting in the mix of you two.

He made quick work of his clothes each item hitting the floor faster than the last, when he was down to only his boxers he moved for the bed.

He climbed on next to Macklin so close their arms were rubbing, he watched as you kissed your way down Macklin’s stomach teeth skimming over the toned muscles.

He looked down at the brunette his thick hands gripping the sheets below him as you went lower and lower macklins sounds got higher.

The Canadian jolted in surprise when Will hands cupped his jaw large fingers turning his head to face Will.

The look in Wills eyes was dark, devious, hungry, and Macklin wanted a taste of all of it. And that’s what Will gave him as he connected their lips in a bruising kiss.

Your movements stopped at the sound of their lips locking, you could feel your body throb with need for them.

Fingers twitching with an itch for them to insert yourself in their kiss, have your hands on both of them-at the same time.

And when Will reached a hand out for you to take you didn’t hesitate to grab it, so quick it was almost pathetic. Climbing up the bed you moved to straddle Macklins chest.

You didn’t pay any mind to the whimpering man below you as you tangled your fingers in Will’s soft curls, yanking his lips away from Macklins and locking them with yours instead.

Macklin grumbled annoyance blooming in his chest before he realized how close he was to you, how warm your skin felt against his rough hands, and how enjoyable the view from below was.

He didn’t hesitate to roll your leggings down revealing a bright red thong that made him moan at the simple sight, your chuckle evident as you pulled back from Will.

“Like those Mack?”

“Mhm, love em” he mumbled but he was far gone, the need taking over any of his senses and both you and Will could see it the second his eyes looked up at the two of you.

It didn’t take long for you and Will to attack the brunette.

-

An hour later you three were tangled in each other, chests heaving, skin hot and sticky, you could hear your phones buzzing from across the room and floor where wills was still in his pants.

Someone’s-you’re not sure who nails ran up and down your back as you placed lazy kisses to Wills neck, Macklin on his other side running his nails along wills marked up abdomen.

Maybe you’d gotten a little carried away but it was fine, they’d be gone within the week and Will certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Did you enjoy your celebration?” You spoke up looking at the blonde.

“Best I could’ve asked for” he cheesed his eyes warm with love and admiration for you and Macklin.

“Damn right, nobody is as fun as us. Right baby?” Macklin smirked.

“Damn right.” You mocked weakly returning his high five he held in the air as your limps were slowly turning into Jelly.

It wasn’t long before the comfortable silence started to send the three of you into a peaceful slumber, cuddled into one another with Macklins soft snores filling the room was the best way to sleep.

And you’d bask in it for as long as you possibly could.

-

[uluvjay]

Can I ask why you don’t write for Nico Hischier anymore? Just curious!

Hi! I just don’t really have the want to write for him anymore, I think he’s a great player but I’m not a fan of him and I don’t really know anything about him and that made it hard to have any motivation or come up with ideas for him ☺️

[uluvjay]

love, love, love

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out | Macklin Celebrini

"Take me out tonight Take me anywhere I don't care, I don't care, I don't care And in the darkened underpass I thought, 'Oh God, my chance has come at last!' But then a strange fear gripped me And I just couldn't ask"

Request: "maybe macklin dating the youngest hughes!sister and like “meeting the family” for the first time at the lake house over the summer? obviously he already knows the hughes brothers but like it’s his first time meeting them as their little sister’s boyfriend. potentially a scene where they like jokingly interrogate him (but it’s lowkey not a joke)."

Summary: You take him to your favourite place... with some requirements still to be met.

Word Count: 13.8k (😬)

Pairing: Macklin Celebrini x hughes!sister fem!reader

Warnings: some alcohol, one mention of blood, other than that nope

Notes:

bye it's 4am i just needed to finish this

this is not proof read i'll do it later

okay bye let me know how u like it :)

Orchard Lake was your favourite place in the entire world. It meant warmth, it meant summer, it meant tan lines and fireworks and way too many coolers downed than you could handle. A place you could truly unwind, forget about the struggles of life for a good few months. Lately, though, it seemed to be becoming a right of passage. 

The first time your oldest brother brought a girl to the lake house, the never-ending shift started. She was nice enough, pretty, long dark hair and legs that belonged on a magazine cover. She made your parents laugh, made his perpetually exhausted face show joy once in a while, but it seemed as if the outcome of that relationship had been decided by your other two brothers by the end of week one. Not good for you, man. Move on.

It didn’t take long for the hypocrisy to set in. The next month, no more no less, you were crouched low in the boat, knees prickling against the sunburnt fiberglass, the scent of mildew and sunscreen curling up from the cooler at your feet. The water lapped just under your chin, a lull that almost drowns out the slap of bare feet stomping down the dock behind you.

You looked up and saw Dumb and Dumber, perusing out towards the docks, each with another beauty queen on their arm. If you didn’t love them so much, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Instead, you swallowed the lump of this is probably not going to end well and smiled wide. 

One thing was always clear, though.

Boys will be boys.  

Those summers came and went, tears shed, skies painted beautiful pinks and oranges as your brothers explored their manhoods while you caught fireflies by the edge of the woods, glancing out the corner of your eye to catch a glimpse of what being mature is. Unfortunately, they’re the only example of that you’ve ever had besides your parents. 

That was, of course, until a pair of green eyes fit for a startled woodland creature stumbled his way into your life. Paired with a mop of thick, brunette hair that never seemed to lay flat, a permanent flush to his cheeks, and a cheesy, gummy smile. Wary was an understatement when you met Macklin Celebrini. 

Because, yes, you had three big brothers, but more importantly, you had three hockey playing big brothers. If you’d learned anything about hockey outside your own playing ability (which was quite pathetic, really) it was that those boys are a big, BIG red flag. 

Now, though, as you gaze into those wide eyes, pupils dilated as hell, you’re certain that it’s not all of them. 

Before you can stay something stupidly cheesy, you run your tongue over your top lip and lean in ever so slightly, eyes fluttering shut. Macklin catches your lips in his, slotting them against each other like that’s how it’s meant to be, deep and slow and so fucking sweet that it punches the breath right out of your ribs—like you’ve been dunked headfirst into the lake mid-July, frozen and sunblind, and all you can taste is him. He nips slightly, pulling a tiny, pathetic squeak out of you before reaching up with a strong, calloused hand and cupping your jaw. His hand moves quickly, lacing through your hair, cupping the back of your head, breaking the lip lock to lean in further, nosing the side of your face.

One gentle press of his wet lips to your cheekbone, then: “Relax. They’re gonna love me.”

Yeesh. You swallow, pursing your lips and tensing up immediately. Macklin must sense it, because he pulls back to look you in the eye, keeping his hand gripping in your hair, a bit of a frown pulling at that sweet face. His lips twitch like they don’t know whether to frown or pout, and his eyes flit to your hands like he's waiting to be pet, to be soothed. Like he’s hoping you’ll say what he needs before he knows how to ask for it.

You open your mouth. Nothing.

You try again, but your throat folds in on itself like it's protecting you from something stupid. From yourself.

“I-I mean… like… historically speaking, they haven’t…”

Macklin’s nose crinkles, freckles already darkened from the sun. The light, dainty green in his eyes starts to gloss over. Your heart basically tears in two.

He’s your weakness, and he has no idea. There hasn’t been a single time within the past six months where you haven’t been thinking of holding him tight and loving on him, peppering kisses to his blotchy cheeks while he whined under your hands and mouth, burning up like a furnace. You think maybe Cupid missed your chest on purpose—went straight for the part of you that makes bad decisions, the part that wants to believe this isn’t another summer story you’ll have to pretend meant less than it did.

You wouldn’t change a thing. Which is why, instead of possibly hurting his feelings (worst case scenario), you aim for those pouty, pink lips again, pressing yours over them, causing the tiniest, sweetest squeak to escape him. Running your tongue across the seam of his mouth, urging him to open up, he complies with another pathetic little noise, letting your tongue explore his mouth. He tastes like Juicy Fruit. He would rather die than chew mint gum.

You lean in and bury your fingers in Macklin’s messy brown hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver against you, his mouth opening under yours like it’s second nature. He kisses you back with a kind of stunned urgency that makes your pulse trip, one arm winding around your waist to hold you right there while the other grips your shirt so tight it’s practically a plea. For a second it feels like nothing exists outside this stupid car, just you and him and the ridiculous way he keeps chasing your mouth like he’ll never get enough. But the universe has other plans, and you don’t notice the way his body freezes, the way his eyes fly open wide and wild until he jerks back like you’ve burned him. He goes quiet and pale all at once, blinking rapidly at something over your shoulder while you just sit there, lips tingling, confused and breathless, wondering what the hell just went wrong.

You don’t get the chance to ask before he starts nodding frantically toward the window, face twisted into an expression that’s half apology and half oh no oh no oh no. When you turn, slow and disbelieving, you see Quinn standing there, mouth hanging open, eyes squinting like he’s trying to make sense of a horror show he didn’t buy tickets for. He’s so thrown he can’t even muster a scowl, his Yankees cap tilted back on his head and hair sticking out in tufts, jaw moving but no words coming out yet, like he’s been given a pop quiz on trauma. You can feel your face going hot enough to roast marshmallows, your hands twitching in your lap as your brain completely abandons you. Macklin lets out a strangled little cough, voice so hoarse it cracks as he tries to say something, anything, but it all dies in his throat before he can form words, leaving you to soak in the slow-motion trainwreck.

And because the universe is cruel and loves a good encore, you hear the world’s most obnoxious tap-tap against the driver’s side window. You turn just in time to see Jack plastered against the glass, shirtless with a towel around his neck, making the most dramatic gagging faces known to man. He’s basically convulsing in mock-horror, dragging a finger down his throat and mouthing hurrrrgh with the commitment of an Oscar-winning actor, leaving actual streaks on the glass because he’s leaning so hard.

You can’t even form words; you just gape at him while your dignity runs off into the woods to die. Macklin whimpers beside you, head thunking back into the seat, eyes squeezed shut as he mutters, “Oh my god. Oh my god. This is it. I’m done. I’m actually dying. Tell them I’m dead,” his voice cracking like he’s on trial for his life.

Then there’s the final nail in the coffin—a slow, satisfied drawl of, “Well, well, well,” and you both flinch so hard you rattle the seats. Your heads snap forward and there’s Luke standing dead-center in front of the windshield, arms crossed with that smug older-brother smirk that could curdle milk. Macklin’s entire body seems to deflate on the spot, sliding lower in the seat until he’s almost gone, like if he can’t see them, maybe they’ll go away. You want to disappear right along with him, pressing your palm to your forehead like you might pass out from sheer secondhand embarrassment. 

You glare at your brothers with all the rage of someone who just had their one private moment turned into a family roast, growling under your breath, “What. An. Ambush,” while Macklin continues to whisper a soft, miserable litany of “I should’ve just taken you to the lake. I should’ve driven us off a cliff. I should’ve stayed in San Jose.”

You reach for his hand without thinking, lacing your fingers with his because you need something to anchor you, your pulse still going triple-time. He clutches back so tight it almost hurts, eyes darting between your brothers like a cornered animal, voice cracking when he rasps, “Do I still get to date you or am I about to get murdered?” You can’t help it—you snort, even if it comes out half-panicked, wiping a clammy palm on your shorts as you say, “Depends how good you are at running.” 

Macklin doesn’t even blink, just croaks, “I skate,” like that’s his only defense in court, and you huff out something like a laugh, shaking your head in resignation. You’re about to reassure him that you’ll protect him from your idiot brothers, but the doors get yanked open at that exact second, Quinn looming over you while Jack basically cackles at Macklin from the other side like some discount horror-movie villain.

Jack’s grin is all teeth as he drawls, “This is the boyfriend, huh?” like he’s announcing the discovery of some new species, and Macklin goes so still you wonder if he’s trying to play dead. His throat bobs, his hand going limp in yours as he whispers, “Oh my god, I can’t breathe, I’m gonna throw up.” 

Quinn doesn’t even blink, leaning an arm on the roof like this is his interrogation room and squinting down at you with all the gravitas of a medieval executioner. “Was that your tongue in his mouth or his tongue in yours?” he asks dryly, and you shriek his name like you’re twelve again, slapping his arm in horror as your entire face burns. 

Meanwhile, Jack has crouched so he’s right at Macklin’s level, towel swinging as he props his elbows on his knees and goes, “I mean, we leave you two alone for ten minutes and you’re playing tonsil hockey in the driveway? Really?”

Macklin looks like he might spontaneously combust, stammering, “I—I didn’t know they were here,” in a voice so pathetic you almost laugh in spite of yourself.

 Luke joins in from your side, voice calm and entirely unhelpful as he leans forward to say, “Clearly. So, you wanna tell us what your intentions are with our sister, or should we just assume you’re naming your first kid after Wayne Gretzky?” You groan so loud it feels like it’s coming from your soul, dragging both hands down your face like you can scrub away reality, while Macklin lets out this sad, garbled little noise that sounds like a deer trying to beg for mercy.

 “I didn’t mean to—” he starts, but Jack interrupts with a wave of his hand like he’s stopping traffic, laughing, “Oh, no. We know what you meant to do. We saw.” You smack Jack in the chest, hissing, “You’re not helping,” but he just cackles, dancing back out of reach with zero remorse.

Quinn finally straightens up, crossing his arms with that solemn big-brother look that used to terrify you when you were ten, his voice firm as he says, “Look. I’m not going to say anything. Yet. But if you hurt her—”

 Macklin breaks in before he can finish, voice cracking, too sharp and way too desperate as he blurts, “I won’t! I swear to god. I—I care about her.” The words hang there, a little jagged and a lot honest, making everyone go weirdly quiet for half a second. 

Luke raises one eyebrow like he’s examining roadkill, saying, “You care about her?” and Macklin flushes crimson, stammering, “Yes. I mean. Yeah. A lot. For a while now. I just—I didn’t want it to happen like this, I didn’t plan—” He’s rambling, words falling over themselves, and Jack makes this calming gesture with both hands like he’s shepherding ducks across a street, murmuring, “Buddy. Stop. You’re spiraling.”

You finally snap, breath coming in shallow, furious little huffs as you glare at your brothers like you want to fight all of them at once. “He’s my boyfriend,” you announce, voice sharp enough to slice through their bullshit, “and I like him. So you can either shut up about it or go inside and tell mom what you just saw.” The silence after that is blessed and ringing, all three of them blinking like you slapped them, Quinn’s mouth working silently as if he forgot how to form words. Jack actually grins, leaning back and letting out a low whistle, saying, “That’s my girl,” while Luke just sighs in deep, pained resignation, scrubbing a hand over his face like he aged ten years in two minutes.

Macklin turns to you, dazed and pink-faced, mouth parted like he’s still trying to process how the hell he got here. You grab his wrist without giving him a chance to say anything stupid and tug him toward the house, ignoring your brothers’ quiet muttering and Luke’s snort of laughter as you yank the door open and all but drag Macklin inside. He stumbles after you without argument, his eyes still wide and a little wild, blinking like he can’t believe you just did that, but he doesn’t let go of your hand, even as you shove the door shut behind you. He stands there for a moment, chest rising and falling, before he scrubs both hands over his face and mumbles, “I’m gonna need a minute.” 

You let out a half-broken laugh, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair as you breathe, “Yeah. Me too.”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours with this shaky, relieved little huff of laughter that feels like it’s been waiting for hours to escape, and you both stand there in the middle of the hall, battered but still holding on, trying to catch your breath and figure out what the hell comes next.

Dinner starts with you all crammed around the long, slightly wobbly table that’s been in your family since before you were born, chairs scraping on the old wood floor and the ceiling fan clicking overhead like it’s threatening to fall at any moment. Your mom’s fussing with platters of roast chicken and potato salad, barking gentle orders at your dad to pour more iced tea while your brothers shovel food onto their plates like they’re prepping for hibernation. Macklin sits wedged between Luke and Quinn, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to minimize his existence, glancing at you every thirty seconds with the world’s most apologetic face. You’re trying to hide your smirk behind your water glass, watching him try to figure out how to make conversation while Luke launches into a story about the time you got your braces stuck in a hoodie zipper, complete with sound effects.

Quinn’s the first to break the ice, nudging Macklin in the ribs a little too hard and muttering, “Eat up, hotshot, or she’ll think you’re ungrateful.” 

Macklin startles so badly he nearly drops his fork, fumbling to scoop up potatoes with a red-faced, stuttering “Yeah—sorry—thank you, ma’am,” directed at your mom, who just raises her eyebrows and waves him off like he’s some lost stray she’s decided to adopt. Your dad just chuckles under his breath, chewing slowly as he observes the absolute trainwreck of social grace at his table, occasionally chiming in with a dry, “Well, he’s polite, at least,” while your brothers snicker like hyenas. It’s chaos, pure and simple, but you can see Macklin’s posture easing a bit, tension bleeding out of his shoulders every time someone laughs and doesn’t immediately follow it up with “Get out.”

Somehow by the time dessert hits the table (store-bought pie your mom claims she made herself), Macklin’s actually leaning back in his chair, arm draped behind it like he belongs there, grinning sheepishly at something Jack’s teasing him about. You watch, chin resting on your palm, as he explains to Luke and Quinn exactly how much blood he’s lost to high sticks, pantomiming getting knocked out while your dad mutters, “Jesus, that’s a safe sport,” and your mom just sighs like she’s heard this all before. The conversation drifts to the league, to training camps, to “the worst roommate you ever had on the road,” and Macklin comes alive, hands gesturing as he tells a story about a guy who insisted on sleeping in compression socks and nothing else. Your brothers cackle like twelve-year-olds, your dad actually snorts beer out of his nose, and your mom shakes her head but doesn’t bother hiding her amused little smirk.

Later, after the plates have been cleared and your mom has declared the kitchen off-limits to “anyone who can’t tell the difference between dish soap and cooking oil,” the boys migrate to the back patio. You’re settled on the old wicker sofa with a book you’re only half reading, peeking over the pages to watch Macklin trying his absolute best to play pool with Quinn, Luke, and Jack. He’s got a beer in one hand, pool cue in the other, and he’s squinting at the table like it’s a complicated physics problem, tongue caught between his teeth while Jack offers loudly unhelpful coaching. When he finally sinks a shot, he pumps his fist in triumph, only to get immediately chirped for celebrating too hard. You see him laugh, really laugh, that goofy gummy grin bright even in the low string lights your dad hung up years ago, and you let out a slow exhale you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Inside, your mom catches you peering out the window like a lovesick teen and clears her throat behind you.

“So,” she says, arching a brow, “which of your brothers is he sharing a room with?”

You blink, the book slipping a little in your lap.

“Uh. What?”

She waves a hand like it’s obvious.

“There’s only so many beds in this house, sweetheart. He can bunk with one of them, they won’t mind.”

You stare at her, scandalized, all your carefully laid plans for slow mornings with him tangled up in your sheets going up in smoke.

“Mom,” you hiss, moving closer, dropping your voice like you’re negotiating a hostage release. “That’s not—I mean—I was thinking he’d be…in my room.”

Your mom’s eyebrows shoot up so high you think they might lift off her face.

“In your room?” she repeats, voice going up an octave like you just suggested inviting Satan to dinner.

You scramble, words tripping over each other.

“Not like that, I mean—just, you know, he can take the floor. In a sleeping bag. Like camp. Like when we were kids. I’ll even give him a pillow, God forbid.”

Your mom narrows her eyes, clearly trying not to laugh at your desperation, lips twitching as she pretends to think it over.

“He’s on the floor,” she finally says.

You throw your hands up in mock relief.

“Fine! Great! The floor is fantastic. Best floor in the whole house. He’ll love it.”

She just shakes her head, muttering something about “teenagers” and “boundaries” even though you’re both adults, before heading off to check on the boys and make sure no one’s broken a pool cue over anyone else’s head.

You watch her go, pressing your palm to your forehead, muttering under your breath, “Romantic weekend, my ass,” and trying to ignore the fact that Macklin is now grinning at you through the patio door, raising his beer in a silent toast like he knows exactly what you’re arguing about.

You flip him off without heat, which only makes him laugh harder, his shoulders shaking with it. And as ridiculous and mortifying and so far from what you planned as this night has been, you can’t help but smile back. Because he’s here. And he’s yours. Even if you’ll be spending the night reaching down from the bed to hold his stupid, perfect hand.

The house has gone quiet enough that you can hear the muted thump of your brothers still laughing outside on the patio, their shadows flickering in the orange glow of the bug-zapper light. You linger in the hallway for a minute, hands stuffed into the pockets of your cotton shorts, chewing the inside of your cheek while you debate how to even start this. When you finally glance up, Macklin’s just there, leaning in the doorway to the guest room, hair messy from where he’s been running a hand through it all night, eyes locked on you with that ridiculous mixture of awe and terror he’s been wearing since dinner. You snort before you can stop yourself, because he’s doing a terrible job pretending to be cool about any of this, and he scowls like you’ve wounded him, pushing off the doorframe to shuffle over.

You don’t say anything when he crowds in, but your fingers hook in the hem of his t-shirt without thinking, tugging him closer until he huffs out a quiet laugh that’s more breath than sound. His hands come up slow, tentative, settling on your waist like he’s waiting for permission even now, and you let out this long, unsteady exhale that you pretend is just annoyance.

He dips his head so your foreheads nearly bump, voice low and conspiratorial. “Your mom definitely hates me,” he whispers, and you snort so hard you actually have to bite your lip to keep from giggling, pushing lightly at his chest. He grins, eyes darting to your mouth like he’s considering kissing you again before remembering where you are, who’s in the next room, how paper-thin these walls are.

Eventually you peel yourselves apart just enough to shuffle toward your room, Macklin’s fingers brushing yours the entire way, neither of you willing to actually let go. You nudge the door open with your hip, flicking on the old lamp you’ve had since you were twelve, casting that familiar warm glow over the mess you pretended to clean earlier. He hovers in the doorway, looking almost comically large and out of place among the clutter of books and the old posters you still haven’t taken down. 

You turn back with an eyebrow raised. “You gonna come in or do you need an invitation?” you ask, mock-innocent, and he shuffles forward like he’s trying not to trip over himself, muttering something you can’t catch but that sounds suspiciously like “I’d follow you anywhere.”

You watch him take it in, gaze sweeping over the bed with its chaotic pile of blankets, the little corkboard pinned with photos of you and your friends at the lake, the half-dead succulent you keep forgetting to water. He does this slow, amazed spin that makes you want to roll your eyes, like it’s a damn museum exhibit. Then he spots the sleeping bag you tossed onto the floor earlier—proof of your mother’s victory—and grimaces. “Really?” he asks, toeing it like it might bite. “The floor?” 

You shrug, trying not to look as disappointed as you feel. “House rules,” you say, flopping onto your bed so the springs squeal in protest. “Be grateful. You’re in here at all.”

He mumbles something that sounds like “I’d sleep in the driveway if it meant I was close to you,” but it’s so quiet you pretend not to hear it. Instead you watch him lower himself onto the floor with dramatic reluctance, arranging the sleeping bag like he’s making a nest, muttering curses under his breath the entire time. It makes you smile, hiding it behind your palm, watching the top of his head as he glances up and catches you staring. He tilts his head, eyes warm and a little too earnest. “You’re gonna make fun of me if I ask to hold your hand from down here, huh?”

Your answer is to flop down sideways on the bed so your arm dangles off the edge, fingers wiggling at him. He huffs, but there’s no bite to it as he threads his hand into yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like it’s second nature already. For a minute there’s no sound but your brothers’ laughter drifting in from outside, the creak of the house settling around you, and your own too-loud heartbeats thumping in time.

It’s you who breaks first. “What do you wanna do tomorrow?” you ask, voice softer than you meant. His grip on your hand tightens like he’s grounding himself. He clears his throat, eyes darting up to your face, catching the way you’re watching him like he’s the best secret you ever got to keep.

“Swim,” he says, voice going low and certain. “With you. Even if the water’s freezing. I don’t care.”

You snort, tugging on his hand. “You’ll turn blue in five minutes.”

“Worth it,” he says, so matter-of-fact it makes your cheeks go hot, and you turn your face into the pillow to hide it.

You’re silent for a second too long before you mumble, “We could take the boat out. Just us. Early.”

His answering hum is so pleased it’s almost smug. “Yeah,” he says. “Just us.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it from down there. “And then?”

“Then you’re gonna show me that trail you keep talking about,” he says immediately, no hesitation, like he’s been planning this. “The one you said has the best view.”

You bite back a smile. “It’s not that impressive.”

He squeezes your hand. “Don’t care.”

You exhale, sinking deeper into the blankets, your other arm thrown over your eyes like you’re trying to hide from how open this all feels. But you don’t let go of his hand. Not even a little.

He doesn’t let go either.

You’re both quiet for a while, just breathing and listening to your brothers’ muffled laughter outside, your fingers tangled together off the side of the bed like you’re both too stubborn to admit you want more than this stupid makeshift compromise. Macklin’s thumb keeps brushing over your knuckles, slow and repetitive, like he can’t help himself. When you risk a glance down, he’s watching your hand in his, eyes all soft at the corners, his mouth turned up just a little. It makes something flip over in your chest, makes you feel like you’re sixteen again with no idea what to do with all this affection pressing up behind your ribs. You clear your throat and start to pull back but he just holds tighter, like he’s worried you’ll actually let go.

After a minute he tilts his head, looking up at you with that open, too-honest face.

“Can I…come up there?”

You blink, cheeks going hot immediately.

“What, the floor’s not five-star enough for you?”

He huffs a breath, eyes darting away for a second before he meets yours again, this time more determined.

“It’s shit. I hate it. And you’re right there.”

You want to tease him more, say something biting to cover how warm your chest is getting, but instead you sigh like he’s the biggest burden in the world and shift over on the mattress, thumping the empty space beside you with your palm.

“Fine,” you mumble. “But no crowding me. You’re like, six feet of hockey boy. I need space.”

He doesn’t even answer, just scrambles up with embarrassing eagerness, knee cracking on the bed frame as he flops down beside you, cursing under his breath. You’re both trying to act casual about it, but it’s painfully obvious neither of you knows how to share a bed without turning into a pair of magnets. He’s warm all over, skin brushing yours in too many places to keep track of, his arm hooking around your waist and dragging you in with all the subtlety of a needy puppy who’s decided your side of the bed is better. You let out this long, suffering groan and try to shove him away half-heartedly, but he just laughs against your shoulder, breath stuttering with how close you are. It’s stupid how good it feels, how safe, his heartbeat knocking against your ribs in time with yours while he shifts and readjusts and finally settles with his nose pressed to your neck like he’s staking a claim. You tell him to quit it, voice low and wobbly, but you don’t actually pull away, fingers digging into the back of his shirt like you’re worried he’ll vanish if you let go.

He hums something that might be an apology but sounds more like a dare, mouth moving against the curve of your shoulder in these soft, lazy kisses that are just this side of teasing. You feel his lips part against your skin and then there’s the tiniest scrape of teeth, so careful it sends a shiver down your spine even as you bite back a curse. You try to elbow him again but he just tightens his grip around you, pulling you so close you’re basically in his lap now, his breath catching like he can’t believe you’re letting him get away with this. He mumbles your name once, so quiet it’s almost shy, before kissing higher, along the side of your throat where you’re most sensitive. When you squeak—actually squeak—he freezes for a second, then does it again with the barest press of teeth, like he’s testing to see if you’ll stop him.

You try to sound mad about it, but it comes out all cracked and breathless, telling him to knock it off even as your hand curls into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan low in his chest. He pulls back enough to look at you, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, cheeks flushed so bright you’re tempted to tease him for it if your own face wasn’t on fire. His fingers tap against your hip like he can’t figure out where to put them that wouldn’t be too much, but you just shift closer, hooking a knee over his thigh like you’ve given up on personal space entirely. He laughs, but it’s breathless, a little desperate, before ducking back in to mouth at your collarbone, mumbling something that sounds a lot like “can’t help it” against your skin. You let your head fall back, breathing hard, pretending to sigh in exasperation while your fingers card through the back of his hair, pulling just enough to make him press closer.

It starts to get messier after that, slower and more uncoordinated, both of you forgetting how to kiss properly because you’re too busy trying to feel every inch of each other. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and you yelp into his mouth, smacking his shoulder even as you kiss him back harder, tugging him closer like you’re not the least bit mad. He laughs, warm and smug, only for it to stutter out when you bite him back, dragging your teeth along his jaw in retaliation. He makes this embarrassing little sound in the back of his throat that seems to shock both of you into freezing, your breathing loud and uneven as you stare at each other, faces inches apart. For a second you think you might both start laughing, but then he’s leaning in again, pressing a gentler, lazier kiss to the corner of your mouth, and you let out a shaky exhale you didn’t even realize you were holding.

You should probably tell him to stop leaving marks—you can feel the hot ache of them already forming on your throat, and your brothers are going to have a field day with that tomorrow—but when you open your mouth all that comes out is a hitched little breath as he kisses just below your ear. He grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself, and you mutter something halfway between an insult and a prayer, trying to shove at his chest again even though you don’t mean it. He doesn’t budge, just drapes himself over you even more, his arm sliding under your back and his other hand coming up to cradle your jaw so he can tilt your face the way he wants it. It’s so absurdly possessive you want to yell at him, but then his mouth is on yours again, softer this time, slower, like he’s trying to memorize it. Your fingers end up tangled in his hair again anyway, tugging him closer like you’re not willing to give up the upper hand so easily.

Eventually you both wear yourselves out, the kisses getting lazier, the laughter more breathless, words trailing off into nothing as you lie there tangled up in each other, your hand resting on his shoulder and his fingers idly drawing shapes along your side. He’s got that sleepy, satisfied look on his face that makes you want to roll your eyes even though your chest feels like it might burst. When you mumble that he’s ridiculous he just snickers against your collarbone, pressing one last annoyingly soft kiss there before resting his head fully, sighing like he’s never been so comfortable in his life. You glare at the ceiling, pretending you’re annoyed even as you card your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his breathing evens out when you do. Neither of you says anything about love, not yet—it’s too big a word, too soon—but you don’t need to. It’s obvious in the way he refuses to let you go. In the way you don’t even try to make him.

You wake before the house does, blinking blearily at the soft gray light filtering through the old blinds. The air is still and quiet except for the muted creak of the floorboards as you roll out of bed, careful not to jostle Macklin more than necessary. He grumbles something unintelligible and tightens his arm around your waist for a second before loosening it reluctantly, blinking at you with one bloodshot green eye. You hush him, hand brushing through his hair, promising you’re just getting up for a minute. He groans but lets you go, slumping back against your pillow in that stubborn way he does everything, like he's protesting even in sleep.

You creep through the hallway on bare feet, the house hushed in that early morning way that makes you want to hold your breath. The screen door creaks like it always does as you push it open, the cool lake breeze brushing across your face. You step out onto the porch and lean against the railing, exhaling slow. The lake is spread out in front of you like glass, that early golden light starting to smear along the water’s edge, the trees still and dark against it. It’s quiet enough you can hear the occasional fish breaking the surface, the gentle thump of the old dock shifting with the ripple of the water. You breathe deep, trying to settle your head, to appreciate the silence before the chaos of your family descends.

You’re so lost in it you don’t hear the door behind you creak open, but you feel it when Macklin drapes himself over your back, chest pressing to your shoulders with his stupid familiar warmth. He wraps both arms around you, slow and a little clumsy with sleep, burying his face against the side of your neck with a groan like he’s annoyed you escaped at all. “You weren’t in bed,” he mutters, voice gravelly with sleep and petulance, as if that explains everything, like it’s a crime you left him alone even for five minutes. His arms cinch tighter, squeezing once before relaxing, settling in as if he’s decided he lives there now, and you bite back a smile, rolling your eyes even as your hands come up to hold his wrists where they rest at your stomach.

“I thought I’d let you sleep,” you mumble, trying not to sound too affected by how good it feels to have him pressed up behind you. He snorts at that, the puff of his laugh tickling your skin. “I was asleep,” he says, like that’s the whole problem. “Then you left. And now I’m not.” He sounds so grumpy you can’t help it, a laugh slipping out that you try to muffle in your sleeve. He groans again, more dramatically this time, before straightening enough to kiss the side of your neck lazily, not quite awake enough to aim properly.

You lean back into him, letting your head rest against his collarbone. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, voice warm even as you try to sound unimpressed. He just hums, nuzzling the spot behind your ear like he’s making sure you know exactly how unbothered he is about being caught needy. His hair is still a mess from sleep, brushing your cheek as he shifts, tightening his arms and letting out a breath that’s suspiciously close to a contented sigh. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, voice dropping low in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, “you’re mine this morning. So deal with it.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-scoff, pretending to squirm just so he has to work harder to keep you there. “Oh, so you’re just claiming me now?” you shoot back, tilting your head to try to glare at him, but it doesn’t quite work with your smile ruining it. He grins against your skin, teeth scraping lightly before he eases off enough to talk. “Pretty much,” he says, maddeningly smug for someone who just spent ten seconds whining at you. “Your mom can fight me for it if she wants.” You snort so hard you actually have to cough, and his laughter rumbles through his chest into your back, warm and easy, no tension in it at all.

Eventually, he shifts just enough to rest his chin on your shoulder, both of you staring out at the lake like you’re trying to memorize it. The water ripples gently, catching the morning light in tiny shifting patterns, and for a minute neither of you talks, the quiet settling comfortably between you. His thumb brushes slow circles over the back of your hand where he’s still holding it against your stomach, casual but possessive in that way he does without thinking. “It’s nice out here,” he murmurs eventually, voice softer, the humor gone but replaced with something real. You nod, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, but you feel the way he tightens his hold, pressing in just that bit closer, like he’s trying to make sure you know he gets it. “Thanks for letting me be here,” he says finally, voice so low you almost miss it. You squeeze his arm in response, not trusting your voice to come out steady. Because you want to tell him he doesn’t get it—this place has never felt this much like home until he was here. But you don’t. You just lean back, letting him hold you up, the two of you breathing in time as the sun edges higher over the lake.

The quiet doesn’t last. It never does here.

You hear it before you see it—one of the screen doors banging open hard enough to rattle the frame, followed by a thud that is definitely a body hitting the porch. Macklin stiffens behind you like he’s about to get scolded by your mom again, but you just sigh and tilt your head to see Quinn stumbling out onto the deck in worn-out sweatpants and an ancient band tee, hair smashed on one side from sleep. He’s squinting at the sun like it personally betrayed him, one hand clamped around a coffee mug so chipped it’s basically modern art.

“God, it’s bright,” he rasps, blinking at you and Macklin like you’re an illusion he’s not equipped to deal with before dropping gracelessly onto a patio chair with a groan. “You two are disgusting, by the way. It’s not even seven.”

You raise your eyebrows, unmoved. “Good morning to you too, ray of sunshine.”

Macklin doesn’t say anything, just sort of tucks his face closer to your neck like he thinks Quinn will forget he exists if he can’t see him.

But you don’t even get to enjoy that because Jack comes next, barreling through the door like he’s being chased by a bear, wearing gym shorts and absolutely nothing else, hair all over the place and eyes half-shut. He’s holding a family-sized box of cereal under one arm and what looks like a mixing bowl in the other, clearly intending to use it as his breakfast vessel.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, twisting to stare at him. “You know there are normal bowls, right?”

Jack just blinks at you like you’re speaking an alien language and shuffles over to flop into the next chair, dumping half the box into the bowl without breaking eye contact. Macklin chokes on a laugh behind you, and Jack raises an eyebrow, nodding at him. “Morning, lover boy,” he says, so dry it’s a miracle he doesn’t cough up dust.

“Shut up,” Macklin mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder.

But it’s too late, because Luke’s the last to appear, pushing the door open more gently but with that annoyingly knowing smirk already in place. He’s fully dressed at least, in jeans and a hoodie with the hood pulled up over bed hair, cradling a mug of coffee he actually brewed himself like a civilized adult. He eyes the three of you for a long beat before sinking onto the porch rail, sipping slowly.

“Look at you all,” he says eventually, sounding way too pleased. “A real nice family photo moment. Someone get mom.”

“Shut up,” you and Macklin say in unison, and your brothers immediately burst out laughing.

You fight the smile pulling at your mouth and straighten up just enough to jab an elbow back into Macklin’s ribs lightly. He only groans, arms refusing to budge.

Eventually you twist around enough to look at Quinn, who’s already watching you with that older-brother suspicion dialed to eleven. “Hey,” you say casually, like you didn’t practice this in your head twice already. “Can I drive the boat today?”

Quinn barks a laugh so loud Jack actually snorts cereal onto the deck.

“Oh, fuck off,” you say immediately, but he’s cackling too hard to respond.

Luke sips his coffee, eyebrow raised. “Pretty sure you’re banned for life after last time.”

You glare. “It was one time. And the dock survived.”

“Barely,” Quinn chokes, wiping tears from his eyes. “Absolutely not. But nice try.”

Jack waves his spoon in your direction, milk sloshing dangerously. “Don’t worry. Captain Quinn’ll get us there. No one dies on his watch.”

Quinn salutes with his mug. “You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes so hard it might sprain something. “Fine. Whatever. I guess you can drive. But I get to pick where we go.”

Quinn considers that, squinting at you over his coffee. “Deal. As long as you don’t try to wrestle the wheel out of my hands again.”

“One time,” you repeat, voice rising.

Macklin’s been silent this whole time, face buried against you trying not to laugh, but now he finally loses it, shoulders shaking behind you. You reach back to smack at him halfheartedly and he just squeezes you tighter.

Jack points at you with his spoon. “I’m bringing beer.”

Luke nods solemnly. “Obviously.”

You huff, twisting just enough to see Macklin’s grinning, sleep-rumpled face. “You coming?”

He pretends to think about it, humming low against your skin. “Let’s see. Boat ride with you, getting sunburned and humiliated by your brothers in open water? Yeah. I’m in.”

Quinn raises his mug in mock-toast. “It’s settled then. Breakfast first, then we pack the cooler.”

Jack whoops like he’s six years old. Luke just shakes his head, muttering something about lost causes, but he’s smiling too.

And Macklin leans in close to your ear, voice low and smug and so stupidly fond it makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Told you,” he murmurs. “Best morning ever.”

***

The boat ride is easy, hot sun on your shoulders, the water calm enough that even Quinn can’t find something to bark about. Jack’s flopped across the bow like a lizard on a rock, feet propped up, sunglasses sliding down his nose. Luke is halfway through a beer before noon, dealing cards onto the seat beside him with elaborate, suspicious precision that has Quinn calling him a cheater before the game even starts.

You’re on the side bench with Macklin, pressed hip to hip under the pretense of sharing the small cushion. But you both know he could spread out if he wanted. He doesn’t. Not even a little.

He’s warm beside you, one arm slung casually behind you, fingers brushing over the thin tie of your bikini top every time the boat bumps. You try to keep your focus on your cards, but it’s hard when he’s so obviously watching you instead of the game, green eyes tracing the line of your shoulder, your collarbone, your chest like he’s the one getting burned by the sun.

When you shift, pretending to lean forward for the cooler, his hand slides down your spine, fingers dragging slow. You shiver, swallowing a grin, trying to hide it behind your drink. He leans in so close you feel his breath on your cheek.

“Cold?” he murmurs, voice way too smug.

You roll your eyes and clink your can against his just to distract yourself, but your voice comes out softer than you mean. “Shut up and play.”

He doesn’t. He plays with you instead.

His fingers find the knot at your side, brushing it lightly, not enough to untie it but enough to make you squirm closer without even meaning to. You soak it up, leaning into the heat of him, the way his thumb slides over your ribs and settles there like he owns it. He catches the little sound you make and grins like he won something, pressing a kiss against the curve of your jaw, teeth grazing lightly.

Luke throws down a card with unnecessary force. “Hey, horndogs. Your turn.”

Macklin doesn’t even look away from you, fingers pressing into your hip as he takes your card for you and slaps it onto the pile. “Go fish,” he mutters absently, before leaning back in to mouth at your ear.

Jack actually groans. “I hate this. I’m moving to the front.”

“Good,” Macklin mutters, only half under his breath.

You laugh, high and breathy, your hand catching his wrist as he traces your bikini strap like he’s plotting something. You don’t tell him to stop, though. Not even close. You shift so you’re practically sideways on his lap now, legs draped over his thigh, your card hand resting against his chest for balance.

He wraps his arm around your waist like it’s instinct, pulling you snug so there’s no question where he wants you. He noses at your temple, lips brushing your hairline. “You’re too far away,” he murmurs like a complaint.

You smirk and wriggle just to be mean, pressing in even closer when he hisses through his teeth. His other hand drops his cards entirely to catch your knee, fingers spreading warm and sure against the skin there before sliding up to hook at the side tie of your bottoms.

You go still, breath catching, heat spreading low in your belly when he gives the string the tiniest tug, enough to threaten but not loosen it. He watches your reaction with the worst satisfied glint in his eye, dipping his head to kiss under your ear again, softer this time.

“Relax,” he whispers, voice gone low and rough. “I’ve got you.”

You melt. Absolutely melt. You tip your head back, eyes fluttering shut, breath stuttering out. He hums against your throat, nosing along your jaw while his thumb rubs the edge of the tie in a way that’s not even close to innocent.

You don’t even notice your brothers until it’s too late.

Luke’s voice cuts through like a goddamn airhorn. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You jerk, blinking like you’re waking up from a dream, only to yelp as you’re physically lifted. Luke’s arms come around your ribs from behind, and he hauls you bodily off Macklin’s lap like you weigh nothing, setting you unceremoniously on the seat beside him with all the gentleness of a bouncer tossing someone from a club.

You’re still catching your breath, hair in your face, bikini strings askew, grinning like an idiot.

“Luke—”

“Nope,” he says firmly, wedging himself on the bench between you and Macklin with big-brother finality. “I don’t care. I can’t watch that shit. Jack, shuffle. Quinn, shut up. You two—” He points at you and Macklin like you’re children. “Behave.”

Macklin, to his credit, looks caught between laughing and sulking, adjusting himself not at all subtly while trying to find somewhere else to put his hands. He’s red as hell but grinning, biting his lip to keep from saying something that will get him tossed overboard.

You lean around Luke, eyes sparkling, voice low but smug as you mouth at Macklin. “Best seat in the house?”

He glares at you for one second before breaking, the laugh coming out broken and breathless.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, voice cracking with how hard he’s trying not to keep grinning.

You kick Luke’s shin under the bench, still smiling like a lunatic.

“Thanks for the save,” you say sweetly.

Luke just grumbles, shoving the deck of cards into your hands. “Play, before Quinn decides you’re both swimming home.”

And even though you’re pretending to pout, even though Macklin’s sulking and shifting, you’re all laughing too hard to care.

The rain comes down so hard later that afternoon it’s all you can hear, a constant rumble overhead that turns the old lake house dim and close, its corners going quiet as everyone settles into bored, half-sullen truce with the weather. The windows blur with rivulets, the dock vanishes behind a curtain of gray, and the living room goes dark enough that your mom clicks on the old brass lamp in the corner and sighs in resignation. Jack’s sulking on the couch playing solitaire badly, Luke’s got his nose buried in the sports section even though it’s yesterday’s paper, and Quinn’s halfheartedly reading ingredient lists in the kitchen like he might actually help cook. Macklin hovers close to you, one hand always grazing your hip or your wrist, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than stuck inside with your entire family watching him like an exotic zoo animal.

When your mom calls you over and asks if you’d please go find those old quilts in the attic, you don’t even wait for her to finish. You’re halfway across the room before she can clarify which ones. You can feel Macklin at your back, his heat, the hush that seems to fall whenever he’s too close behind you. He doesn’t even ask if he’s coming; you know he is. He just follows. He always does.

The attic is dim and warmer than you expect, the rain drumming so hard on the roof overhead that it makes the low ceiling feel like it’s pressing in on you. It smells like cedar and old cardboard and the faint, musty sweetness of boxes that haven’t been opened in years. You duck under a sloped beam that’s always been too low even for you, flicking on the single hanging bulb that throws soft yellow light over piles of trunks, stacked boxes with your mom’s ancient sharpie scrawls, and baskets full of faded linens. You watch Macklin hesitate on the threshold, eyes roaming over the mess, before he steps in after you, big and awkward and trying not to hit his head a second time.

You drop to a crouch immediately, scanning for the box you know your mom means, ignoring the way your heartbeat thumps faster when you hear him shuffle closer. He doesn’t really help at first, just stands there with his hands on his hips, watching you with that inscrutable expression he wears when he’s trying to look unimpressed but can’t quite hide the way he likes seeing you all focused. When he finally drops down next to you, his knees bump yours, and he doesn’t move away, just leans a little heavier, smelling like the lake water and sun-warmed sweat even now.

You dig through boxes marked XMAS and KIDS STUFF and OLD TOWELS, pulling lids aside and tossing them carelessly behind you, feeling Macklin’s eyes on you the whole time. He’s silent, but not in that polite way—more like he’s watching you work out a puzzle he wants to solve himself. When you glance at him he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, and doesn’t bother to look away. You want to swat him, but you don’t. You just shake your head and keep going.

Eventually you find the trunk you need, old brass corners dulled and scuffed, and you open it to find the quilts your mom wanted—heavy, floral-patterned things that smell like dust and cedar, the weight of every summer you’ve ever spent here. You tug one out, the bulk of it resisting you, and Macklin just reaches over without a word, takes it from you easily, folding it with slow, deliberate movements that make you pause and watch him for a second too long.

He glances up at you through his lashes, expression unreadable, then sets the folded quilt aside and rests back on his heels, knees spread, arms braced across them like he owns the entire cramped, musty attic. His shirt rides up a little when he moves, exposing a sliver of skin you don’t even mean to stare at, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. He notices, of course he notices, and one corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but something.

The thick old dust clings to your bare knees, the scent of cedar sharp in your nose as you reach into the half-crushed box marked PHOTO ALBUMS in your mom’s faded scrawl. Macklin’s still crouched beside you, gangly and big and taking up too much space, his legs splayed wide for balance so his knee keeps bumping yours every time you shift, his breath weirdly loud in the hush, uneven like he’s trying not to make it obvious he’s watching you more than the mess you’re sorting through.

You pull out the first battered album, the plastic cover yellowed and cracked, the pages inside sticking where moisture’s warped them over decades of summers. When you try to pry them apart they give with a soft tearing sound that makes you wince, and Macklin just makes this stupid half-chuckle, low in his chest like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to laugh. He’s leaning too close—his head brushing your shoulder, hair tickling your skin. You can smell him even over the cedar and mildew. When you glance over you catch him looking not at the photos but at the line of your throat where your tank top’s shifted, pupils dilated and unfocused like he forgot you even asked him to help. He doesn’t bother to hide it when you catch him; he just raises one eyebrow slow, mouth tipping up in that half-smile that’s too pleased with itself, and you scoff under your breath and turn back to the album before you say something you can’t take back.

The first photo is your mom and dad before you were born, skin flushed and summer-brown, arms slung around each other on the dock with the old canoe behind them. Your dad’s hair is ridiculous, a mop of curls smashed under a too-big baseball cap, your mom’s in a bathing suit that’s all 80s neon stripes that makes you cringe on her behalf. You stare at it longer than you mean to, thumb brushing the brittle edge of the page, the way it’s curled in on itself. Macklin leans even closer to see and doesn’t say anything insightful or sweet, just breathes a dumb, too-loud “Huh,” like that’s a real contribution, and you want to shove him but also you don’t want to move because he’s so warm and solid at your side in this weird, too-small space.

You flip the page and there’s Quinn at maybe eight, face pinched in a squint from the sun, one front tooth missing, arm wrapped inexpertly around your shoulders while you make this enormous, unselfconscious grin that shows off every baby tooth in your head. You feel your own smile tug at your mouth unwillingly, biting it back as you turn the page again. The attic air feels thicker with every new picture, the smell of the old cedar chest, the rain hammering overhead like it’s trying to get in, Macklin’s skin warm where it brushes yours, grounding and distracting at once. You find one of you in the lake in a bright pink life jacket, hair plastered to your cheeks, looking genuinely pissed about it. Macklin snorts at that one, reaching past you with one big hand to tap the photo, the dirt under his short nails scraping the plastic page.

“You look so mad,” he says, voice pitched low but not in any meaningful way—just like he doesn’t know how to whisper with you this close. His breath hits your temple and it’s warm and gross and you kind of want to punch him, except for the way your chest pulls tight and warm because he’s seeing it, really seeing it, even if he’s not saying anything worth hearing.

You shove his hand off gently and keep turning pages. The old paper crackles. There’s one of all three of your brothers piled on top of each other on the porch steps, all skinny legs and scraped knees and matching sunburns. Another of you sulking at a birthday cake with a frosting smear on your chin, your mom’s hand in frame holding a match to light the candles. Macklin’s arm slips behind your back so subtle you almost miss it until his fingers land heavy and certain on your hip, not moving, just settling there like he’s staked a claim. You can feel the tremor in his hand when you shift under it, your own breath catching a little too audibly in the small attic space.

Neither of you says anything for a while. The rain rattles so hard it sounds like it might break through the roof, the walls shivering with it. You turn another page, and this one makes your chest ache. It’s your mom in the porch swing with you curled into her lap, your hair tangled over your face, her fingers brushing it back, her eyes caught mid-laugh at something you can’t remember. You stare at it too long, your vision going blurry even though you don’t let anything fall.

Macklin shifts again beside you, bumping your shoulder with his like he doesn’t know what else to do, voice cracking with how quietly he says, “You look like her.” You don’t bother answering because you know he’s not trying to be deep, he’s just saying the first dumb thing that hits him, and you kind of hate that it makes your throat close up. His fingers flex on your hip like he thinks you might bolt, but you don’t. You just keep turning the pages.

You lean into him without thinking about it, letting your weight settle against his chest, your shoulder pressing into him hard enough you can feel the way he stiffens for half a second before he melts, the exhale rattling out of him warm and slow against your hair. His chin ends up propped on your shoulder stupidly because there’s no room and you’re both too stubborn to move.

Your voice comes out small, wrecked, even though you try to make it steady. “I used to hate these. Mom made us do photos every summer.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, fingers pressing slow circles over the waistband of your shorts, not saying anything that would make you feel better because he doesn’t have it in him. Just staying there, breathing hard and dumb and alive, heat rolling off him like a furnace in the sticky attic air.

You swallow hard, blinking too fast as you turn another page. “They’re not even good pictures,” you try, voice cracking with the laugh that doesn’t quite make it out.

“Whatever,” he mutters, forehead bumping your temple clumsily. “You look good.”

You actually do punch him then, weak and half-laughing and half-crying all at once, smacking his chest with the back of your hand because he’s so fucking useless at this. He just huffs a breathless laugh right against your ear, not even pretending to block it, his arm tightening around your waist like he’s worried you’ll get up and leave him here alone with these dusty boxes and the sound of your mom’s life all around you.

You don’t.

You just sit there, pressed into his side, sweat-sticky and shaking with leftover tears you won’t admit to, turning one old page after another while the rain keeps falling, the thunder rumbling deep enough you can feel it in your ribs. His fingers trace nonsense on your side, too hard to be gentle but too careful to be rough, and when you finally look up at him, he’s not looking at the photos anymore at all. Just at you. Like he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with the fact that he’s here with you, that you’re letting him.

You don’t say it. You don’t even think it too loud. But it’s there in the way you lean in closer, the way you let your fingers hook in the edge of his t-shirt to keep him there, the way you turn the last page together and stare at a blurry, overexposed shot of a sunset you don’t even remember taking. You can feel it beating in your chest like a secret you’ll never say. That this—this stupid, hot, cramped, dusty attic with him—is exactly where you want to be. That you’re so far gone for him it’s terrifying. That you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to tell him without wrecking it completely.

By the time you make it back downstairs the rain’s finally eased up, leaving the whole house humid and smelling like wet pine and mud. The screen door is propped open to let in the cooler air, and the old floorboards groan with every step you take. The lamp in the corner is still on because it’s too dim to see much without it, but the light outside is slowly brightening, the storm clouds breaking apart in ragged stripes to show patches of washed-out afternoon sky. You wipe at your face with the back of your wrist without even thinking about it, smearing sweat and dust off your forehead, trying to get your breathing back under control.

Macklin is gone for the moment—probably in the bathroom or rummaging in the fridge for something he doesn’t have permission to eat—and you’re stupidly relieved because you don’t think you could look at him yet. Not after that. Not after the way he didn’t say anything at all and somehow made it mean everything.

You hover in the doorway to the living room, watching your brothers spread out in their usual wreckage of damp towels and half-finished drinks. Quinn’s got one ankle propped on his knee, the newspaper folded on his lap that he’s not even reading, eyes flicking up the second he notices you. Jack’s sprawled sideways on the couch like he’s been shot, arms over his face, one sock missing for no discernible reason. Luke is perched on the windowsill with his mug cupped in both hands, watching the pale light break over the lake, steam curling up into his curls.

They don’t say anything at first. Just watch you hover there, shifting your weight like a kid caught sneaking in after curfew. The quiet is uncomfortable in the way only family silence can be, full of history and expectation and the heavy weight of everyone knowing everyone else too well to pretend.

Finally Quinn clears his throat, that tiny movement enough to snap your eyes to him, and he raises both brows like he’s reading your thoughts. “You good?” he asks, the question so short and clipped you can hear everything he doesn’t bother to say.

You blink, because you hate that your throat closes up, and you force a nod, crossing your arms over your chest like that’ll hold anything in. “Yeah,” you say, voice flat. “Fine.”

Jack huffs from the couch without uncovering his face. “That’s a lie,” he mumbles, voice muffled against the cushion.

You glare at him automatically, and he lifts one hand to give you a lazy wave. “I’m just saying,” he adds, tone too light, too careful. “We know you.”

Luke shifts, shoes scraping against the floor as he sets the mug down on the sill. The sound is stupidly loud in the hush. “You’re gonna stand there and make us ask you?” he says, not unkind, just resigned, like he’s tired of this dance you all do every time something real needs to get said.

You roll your eyes because it’s easier than letting anything else show. “What do you want me to say?” you shoot back, but there’s no heat in it.

“Try the truth,” Quinn suggests dryly, leaning back in the armchair but watching you like he’s got you pinned.

Your arms tighten around yourself. You can feel your pulse in your throat, the leftover ache from the attic still raw. “It’s not your business,” you mutter, but it’s weaker than you want it to be.

Luke lets out a low exhale and pushes off the window, crossing the room in a few long strides. He doesn’t grab you, doesn’t corner you. Just stops close enough that you can’t pretend not to hear him. “Except you’re our sister,” he says quietly, voice dipping in that serious way that always used to make you listen when you were little. “So it kind of is.”

Jack finally peels himself off the couch with a groan, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair until it sticks out worse than before. He points at you, dead serious for once. “We just wanna know you’re not gonna wake up tomorrow crying about it,” he says. “About him.”

You open your mouth, close it again, swallow hard enough it hurts. You look at Quinn because he’s always been the worst about this, always too protective, too unmovable. He just raises his brows, waiting.

Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “I’m not,” you say finally. “I don’t… want to.”

Jack makes a little noise in the back of his throat like he doesn’t believe you, but Luke elbows him before he can say anything else.

Quinn watches you for a second too long, that older-brother stare that always made you crack when you were a kid. He scratches his jaw, glances away at the window, and then back. “You don’t have to explain anything,” he says finally, voice tight like he hates admitting it. “But if you’re gonna keep dragging him around like a lost puppy, you could at least tell us you want him here.”

Your eyes sting before you can stop it, and you press your lips together so hard they hurt. “I want him here,” you whisper.

Quinn nods once, sharp, like that’s all he needed. He leans back, folding his arms. “Good.”

Jack slouches forward, elbows on his knees. “Just don’t let him eat the last of the good cereal or it’s fucking war.”

You laugh wetly, scrubbing your face with your hands, and Luke reaches out to squeeze the back of your neck once before stepping away. “We don’t care,” he says over his shoulder, voice light but steady. “As long as you’re good.”

You don’t say anything back. Just stand there, hugging yourself, eyes stinging, watching the gray light spill across the old rug, the rain dripping off the eaves outside. It’s quiet for a beat too long, and then you hear Macklin’s voice drifting in from the kitchen, complaining loudly about the state of your fridge, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t hear any of it.

Your brothers don’t even look at him. They just snort and shake their heads and pretend they’re busy.

And you let yourself breathe.

You slip out when the house is half-asleep, the screen door creaking traitorously in the dark. It’s cooler now but the heat still lingers under the eaves, damp and heavy with the day's storm. Crickets rasp in the grass and the lake is glassy black beyond the old dock, reflecting the last bruises of sunset dying behind the tree line. Your flip-flops smack quietly on the boards as you walk, a rhythm that makes your pulse tick faster because you’re trying not to think about it.

Macklin is already there, half-hidden in the gloom, sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet dangling just above the water. His hair is damp from a shower, curling at the nape of his neck in dark ringlets that gleam in the patchy moonlight. He’s wearing just his old team shorts and a threadbare T-shirt that clings to his shoulders, his knees pulled up, elbows braced on them. He looks weirdly small like that, like someone’s sulky kid brother, except you know he’s not.

You pause behind him for a second, just listening. The lake sighs against the pilings, frogs croak deep in the reeds. You can smell the green tang of algae and the wet wood of the dock, the last ghost of barbecue smoke from your dad’s old kettle grill. Macklin glances back over his shoulder when he hears you, squinting in the low light. His grin is lazy and immediate, crooked with relief.

“Hey,” he says, voice gone hoarse from the day. “Took you long enough.”

You roll your eyes and sit down beside him, tucking your knees up to your chest. The dock shudders a little with your weight and the water sloshes gently against the old posts. He bumps his knee into yours, casual and obnoxious. You bump him back.

The silence feels good now, companionable. The wind ruffles your hair, cool against your sticky skin. You pick at a splinter in the dock while he leans forward to squint at the water, elbows on his knees.

He’s the one who spots it first.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice cracking boyishly.

You glance over, following his line of sight, and then you see it too—the subtle glow that pulses just under the black surface, threads of green-blue light twisting like smoke every time the water moves. It’s faint at first but you can see the algae blooming with every small wave, bioluminescent sparks that flare bright when you both shift and the dock dips.

Macklin’s eyes are huge. He straightens and leans so far over you have to grab his shirt to keep him from falling in. “Dude. That’s—it’s—fuck.” He laughs breathlessly, not even caring how dumb he sounds, eyes tracking every swirl of light like a little kid at fireworks. “Is that real? That’s fucking real?”

You can’t help it. You laugh too, soft and breathy, because you’ve seen it a hundred times and it’s still magic. “It’s plankton,” you say, too quietly. “When it’s hot enough all day and it rains after—it makes them bloom.”

He twists to stare at you, eyes wide, hair sticking to his forehead. “You’re telling me you have fucking glow-in-the-dark water here and you didn’t think to mention it?”

You shrug, trying to sound nonchalant even though your face feels hot. “It’s just… always been here.”

“Shut up,” he says, voice pitching high like he can’t process it. “That’s insane. I’m gonna swim in it.”

He says it like he’s challenging you, like you’d ever stop him. Before you can reply, he’s shoving his T-shirt over his head, hair rucked up even worse, the pale line of his scar catching the moonlight where it curves over his ribs. He kicks off his shorts so hard they slap wet against the dock and he’s down to black compression trunks that leave nothing to the imagination. He grins at you, too wide, too excited, too beautiful in the worst possible way.

“Coming or what?” he asks, voice cracking a little on the end.

You roll your eyes and peel off your tank top, tugging your shorts down with more dignity than he managed. You shiver when the night air hits you, goosebumps racing over your arms, but you can see the glow in the water better from here, the algae winking and swirling like ghostly fireflies trapped in liquid.

He doesn’t wait. He jumps in with a whoop, legs kicking wildly, and the splash sends bright green light shooting out in every direction. The surface explodes with luminescence, outlining every ripple in electric neon, shimmering in jagged lines. You watch, breath caught, heart hammering.

He comes up gasping and grinning, pushing his hair back, eyes impossibly wide. “Holy shit. Holy shit.” He slaps the water just to see it spark again. “I’m a fucking wizard.”

You snort and slide in after him, the cold shocking the breath from your lungs, the algae lighting up in a burst around your arms and legs as you scull to stay afloat. He’s right there, grabbing at you under the water, fingers sliding over your waist, your ribs, anchoring you with ridiculous, possessive teenage certainty.

It’s quiet except for your breathing, the lapping of the water, the wet hush of his thumb brushing over your ribs like he can’t help himself. The lake seems huge and private at night, the shore reduced to shadows and trees, the dock a distant dark shape. The bioluminescence curls around you both with every movement, swirling in lazy, magical arcs.

He’s too close, breath hot against your temple even in the cool water. “You didn’t tell me it did this,” he whispers, sounding half-offended, half-reverent.

You lean back against him just enough to feel his chest at your spine. “Wanted to keep something just for me,” you admit, voice too quiet.

He goes silent for a second, arms coming around you under the water. The glow lights the swirl of your legs, the drift of his fingers against your stomach. You can feel him smile against your hair.

“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking, teenage and stupid and so earnest it hurts. “Okay. But I’m keeping it now too.”

The glow wraps around you both like some ancient magic, the green-blue light sparking at every breath, every subtle shift of your legs kicking under the water. Macklin’s arms circle your waist tighter than they need to, and you feel every rise and fall of his chest against your back, his skin slick and warm where it slides against yours. He’s breathing in these ragged, awe-struck huffs that keep puffing hot against the side of your neck, and you can hear the smile breaking in his voice before he even says anything. He shifts behind you, nosing at your temple clumsily like he can’t get closer, voice cracking with excitement as he mutters, “Look at it. Just—holy shit, look at it.” The water pulses and ripples with light as he moves, algae blooming in swirling currents around your bodies, highlighting the curve of your arm where it floats and the long, lazy strokes of his fingers when he can’t help dragging them along your ribs.

You’re quiet for a while, too caught up in watching it with him to speak. The lake is black and bottomless, the sky overhead a mess of half-shredded clouds with the moon peeking through, silver light tracing the ripples in the water and catching the algae so it glows even brighter. There’s something dizzying about being out here like this—just the two of you, the rest of the world hushed on the shore behind you, the dock nothing but a silhouette. You turn your head a little to see him and catch that look on his face: eyes wide and glassy with wonder, mouth parted like he forgot he was even breathing. He looks so stupidly young like that, boyish in the worst way, like he’s never seen anything so cool in his life. His hair is dripping onto his eyebrows, his skin gleaming wet, the pale scar over his ribs catching flashes of green light every time he moves. He catches you staring and grins, teeth on display, cheeks bunched up. “What?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know, like he’s not half in love with himself for being here with you.

You swallow hard, trying not to sound as wrecked as you feel. Your voice comes out tight anyway. “Nothing.” You turn your face away too late to hide the flush that’s probably burning down your chest, but his laugh rumbles out low behind you and you can feel it vibrate against your back, arms tightening like he’s never letting go. He drops his head to rest on your shoulder and you hear the wet smack of his lips against your skin as he mumbles something unintelligible, like he’s too embarrassed to say it out loud. You close your eyes for a second, let yourself lean back into him, water slipping and curling luminous around your waists as you float there.

When you finally open your eyes again, the lake seems even darker. The glow is softer now, less of an explosion and more of a steady, ethereal shine that outlines your joined bodies in pale, ghostly green. The water laps gently at your chins. The breeze has died down so the world feels muffled, your breath and his the loudest thing here, and you find you can’t keep it in anymore. You twist in his arms so you’re facing him, your legs bumping and tangling under the surface, glowing like you’re made of moonlight and magic. He blinks at you, dazed, eyes too big in his stupid face. His mouth is parted, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and his hair is sticking everywhere.

You don’t even try to be smooth about it. Your voice breaks halfway through, husky and raw. “I love you,” you say, the words tumbling out like they’ve been trying to claw their way free all night. For a second everything stops. Even the water seems to go still around you. His fingers dig into your waist, like he’s making sure you’re not about to vanish. He just stares, mouth working uselessly, eyes going glassy in the algae-light. And then he lets out this sound—half-laugh, half-choke, all disbelief—and breaks into the biggest, stupidest, gummy grin you’ve ever seen. He doesn’t even try to look cool about it. He just beams at you like an idiot, teeth on full display, eyes crinkled up and wet.

“You—fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking horribly. “You love me?” He says it like he can’t even believe it, like he has to hear you confirm it before he’ll let himself keep breathing. You can’t help it. You roll your eyes and huff out a breathless laugh, shoulders shaking in the water. “Yeah, asshole. I love you.” He actually whoops at that, grabs your face in both dripping hands and pulls you in so fast you barely have time to shut your eyes before his mouth is on yours, clumsy and too-hard and perfect. He kisses you like he’s drowning, water splashing between you as you both fight for balance, the glow exploding around you with every movement.

When you finally break apart for air, he’s panting against your lips, eyes wild, still smiling like a maniac. “Jesus,” he rasps, voice shot. “I fucking love you too.” He says it like it costs him everything and nothing at the same time, like he’s waited years to be able to say it and now he can’t believe he’s allowed. You make a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, pushing your forehead into his, arms wrapping tight around his neck. He nuzzles against you shamelessly, mouth brushing over your cheek, your jaw, your ear as he keeps mumbling it over and over. “Love you. Love you. Holy shit.”

You can’t stop laughing, wet and choked and relieved, and you bite his shoulder lightly just to make him shut up. He yelps but doesn’t let go, just hauls you in closer until you’re pressed chest to chest, legs tangling in the glowing water. He dips his head and mutters, breath hot against your ear, “Your brothers don’t hate me, right?”

You snort wetly, tightening your grip on him. “They don’t. They’re fine. They just… want me to be happy.”

He goes silent at that, arms going even tighter around you, like he can’t help it. You feel the way he exhales slow, shaking. “Yeah?” he says finally, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, pressing your nose to his neck, breathing him in.

He sighs so deep it feels like he’s deflating, nuzzles into your hair. Then he mutters the dumbest, softest thing you’ve ever heard him say. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna make you so fucking happy.”

You roll your eyes, smile against his skin, and let yourself believe him.

You hold each other there in the glowing water, the whole lake lit up like some secret promise you’ll both try too hard to keep. 

And you know it’s real because neither of you lets go.

[uluvjay]

Wdym Simon Minter made it into the f1 movie😭

[uluvjay]

Girl hood at its finest

[uluvjay]

I will be adopting Matthew Shaerfer, he is so precious.

[uluvjay]

Absolutely loved the kaiden fic girly!! We need more soon 🥲

Just posted a new little something!!!

[uluvjay]

Summer Nights-K. Guhle

Kaiden Guhle x Fem! Xhekaj reader

In which you and Kaiden know it’s wrong but you can’t help yourselves, even when your brother is on the floor below.

Warnings?; Smut, semi public sex, oral (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (A NO NO), cursing, kissing, secret relationship kinda, lying, ass slapping, hair pulling. Sorry for any errors!

Part one

Arber could not find out about you and Kaiden.

There were no if, ands, or buts, your brother could not know.

And even with that thought flowing through your mind it didn’t stop you when Kaiden pushed you out on the balcony, cornered you and pushed your dress up.

His fingers slipping between your thighs, wasting no time as they slipped into the lace material of your panties.

“Kaiden” you gasped, hands gripping his arm manicured nails leaving half moons crescents in his flesh.

Arber was right below you two, his room, his balcony. And if there was one thing about your brother he always enjoyed a good balcony view with a glass of whiskey.

“Shh baby don’t want your brother to hear.” He taunted lips curled in an evil smirk.

Your head dipped back as his thick fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit, you were dripping for him and you had been from the second he tugged on that stupid linen shirt and dress pants he wore to dinner.

The shirt was now abandoned on the bedroom floor from when you tore it off his body after returning from dinner.

You’d intended to have your fun in the comfort of the hotel room but Kaiden had other ideas.

“Such a dirty girl, your brother is right there and yet you’re still letting me use you.” He chuckled deep and malicious in your ear.

His breath was hot against your skin sending a shiver down your spine as it tickled your skin his lips inches from your sweet spot.

You slapped a hand over your mouth when he dipped two thick fingers inside of your awaiting cunt, his fingers sliding in with ease stretching you open for him.

Kaiden chuckled as your hand flew to your mouth, your small pants of pleasure spilling free as you dripped down his wrist.

He had been waiting two days for this, from the second you arrived in the Bahamas and he found out your hotel room had a balcony he wanted to fuck you out here.

It wasn’t supposed to be you on the trip but when Cole canceled last minute and your brother offered you the spot you jumped at it, especially after learning you’d be sharing a room with Kaiden.

Kaiden wasn’t complaining either, especially not when he has you spread open and ready for him, your needy cunt throbbing around his fingers.

His fingers move at a brutal pace fucking you closer and closer to an orgasm, you can feel it coming, the heat simmering in your lower stomach, panting as the pleasure takes over your entire body.

“K-Kaiden..fuck I’m close.” You whimpered voice as low as you could manage.

“I know baby.” The blonde nodded, “but you’re not coming yet”

And with that his fingers were pulled from your warm center, you whined at the emptiness that filled your body.

You watched as he moved back and towards the couch that sat across from you, he sat on the expensive furniture.

His thighs were spread wide, his massive body taking up a majority of the space, the average person would be intimidated by the sight.

Kaiden was a very big man, and not just body wise.

On shaky legs you made slow steps towards him and just when your within hands reach his soft voice speaks up.

“On your knees.”

You follow his words obediently, sinking to your knees in front of the blonde movements slow as you keep your eyes locked on his pretty blues.

Your touch is teasing as your nails run along his thick thighs, Kaiden hates the shiver that runs down his spine at the mere feeling of you on his skin.

You’re his best friends sister, he shouldn’t have you on your knees, he shouldn’t have fucked you in that restaurant and he absolutely should not want to bend you over the railing and fuck you stupid with your brother on the floor right below you.

But at the end of the day he’s just a man, a man with an unrelenting need for you.

“Take my cock out.” His voice is deep and commanding.

You don’t have to be told twice, leaning up on your knees you reach forward for the button on his dress pants before pulling the zipper down.

Kaiden lifts his hips for you allowing you to pull his pants and boxers down in one go, his thick cock springing free.

Your mouth waters at the sight of it, the thick head swollen and glistening with cum.

He groans when your hand grips his cock, a low, a rough sound that sends a wave of arousal through you.

You start slow, stroking his cock slow and deliberate watching as his head dips back eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him.

“Fucks sake” he grumbles when you kitten lick the tip, the sight is erotic, one he shouldn’t even have the pleasure of seeing.

He gasps when you take him in your mouth choking slightly as you move your way down his cock. His fingers tangle your hair into a makeshift ponytail one that he uses to guide you.

Your tongue swirls around him, teasing him just enough to make his chest heave, his nails dig into your scalp, and as you work him deeper, cheeks hallowing around him he starts to let himself slip deeper and deeper into the sweet abyss of you.

His hips shift sending him deeper in your throat and when you moan around him he swears he sees stars.

He’s not sure how much longer he’ll last, not with the way his cock is hitting the back of your throat, the way your eyes look up at him as your between his strong thighs gagging on his cock.

He’s unraveling, faster than he’d like to admit. You’re mouths working over him like it’s nothing, hands working the parts of his cock your mouth can’t reach.

“Sh-shit, I’m gonna cum baby.” He groans.

His jaw clenches as you pull off of him, a ‘pop’ sounding in the air as you take in a deep breath of air.

Your cheeks are flushed and your makeup is running, your hair is pointing in every direction from the way he had it balled in his fist.

And he swears you’ve never looked better.

You don’t say anything, just watch him with a glint in your eye hand stroking him teasingly until you dip back down.

He can feel his orgasm coming, his breathing is fast and erratic, hips thrusting into your mouth unconsciously chasing a high he so desperately needs.

It only takes a few more swirls of your tongue, tracing the thick vein on the underside of his cock, a slight scrape from your teeth before he’s crumbling apart underneath you.

His hands pull your hair, hips stuttering, jaw twitching as he comes in your mouth with a raspy moan.

He watches as you swallow every drop pulling off his cock for the final time he grips your chin and you know what he wants. Dropping your mouth open you stick out your tongue showing him you swallowed every last drop he gave you.

“Good girl.” He pants leaning forward to lock your lips in a hot kiss.

You don’t pull back from him, not even as you climb into his lap pushing him against the patio furniture rutting yourself against his already hard cock.

“Need you.” The whine is needy and full of desperation as you kiss down his throat.

Kaiden pushes you to your feet, kicking off his shorts he backs you to the balcony. You don’t get a chance to even think straight before he’s spinning you around making you face the ocean.

“Kaiden we can’t! My brother could go outside at any time.” You panic.

The Canadian chuckles behind you, “guess you better keep quiet then.”

And that’s all you get before his thick cock is splitting your open, dress pushed up around your waist, panties pulled down to your knees as he pounds into you from behind.

Your hand flys over your mouth doing your best to keep quiet as he fucks into you.

Kaiden’s pace is anything but kind you can feel his hands digging into your hips and you pray they don’t leave a bruise behind.

You can’t think straight, can’t breathe straight, every part of you is consumed by him and the feeling of his body against yours.

And just when you think you can’t take anymore one of his hands reaches around thick fingers rubbing slow, torturous circles over your swollen clit causing your hips to buck against his hand desperate for more.

Kaiden smirks as he watches the way your body trembles against the railing, your hands gripping onto the metal for dear life as he fucks you, the metal is cool from the evening air, a nice contrast against your burning skin.

“Stuffed with my cock and you’re still greedy for more.” He teases in your ear, breath hot against your skin.

You whimper at his words and Kaiden can tell your getting lost in a cloud of pleasure the way your head is dropped back, hips fucking back into him.

The sharp sting on your ass brings you back to earth, another quickly following behind and it takes you a second to realize that he’d smacked your ass.

You can feel your body trembling, legs growing weaker and weaker by the second, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks all thanks to his relentless assault on your cunt.

He can tell your getting close, he feels like he can’t breath every time your pussy clenches around him. He lets out a low groan his pelvis pressing against your ass as he leans over you.

“Gonna come for me like a good girl? I can feel you squeezing me baby.” He coos but it’s anything but comforting.

You choke out a sob, “yes, yes, please Kaiden.”

He smirks at your pleas doing his best to hold back his own orgasm he gives you the green light.

You do your best to keep yourself together as both of his hands return to your hips, their grip even stronger than last time as he fucks into you again, his pace rough and ungodly.

Every inch of your body is on fire, every nerve screaming with the need of a release as he fucked you hard, his thick cock filling you to the brim.

It only took a few more thrusts before you were convulsing around him, the band in your lower stomach snapping as pleasure flooded your body.

Your orgasm tore through you body shaking as tears streamed down your neck, you didn’t even feel Kaiden pinning your back to his chest as he chased his high.

Kaiden’s hips slammed into you one more time his own orgasm hitting him hard enough to leave him breathless and panting, his hands shaking as you hugged you close.

He fucked you through his high finally pulling out when you began to whimper in over stimulation. He picked you up and carried you into the hotel room laying you on the soft bed.

He was quick in grabbing a warm wash cloth to clean you up, taking his time and being gentle as he went over your sensitive skin.

“That was fun” you finally spoke up after a few minutes of silence.

Kaiden couldn’t help his soft chuckle, “yeah?”

“Mhm, terrifying knowing Arbs is right below us but the adrenaline rush was great.” You explained.

The blonde nodded in understanding, he was cautious enough to listen for the sound of a sliding door opening and he wouldn’t tell you but he heard it right as you came around his cock.

He pulled you back quick enough to where you wouldn’t get caught because even though it was wrong to do to his best friend Kaiden was obsessed, addicted to you, whatever you wanted to call it but he knew he wasn’t getting enough of you anytime soon.

He grabbed you one of his shirts to change into and a pair of boxers and shorts for himself before changing both of you and climbing into bed.

The voice in the back of your head told you to stop as you cuddled into his chest, that it was wrong to lie to your big brother, but as Kaiden’s fingers ran down your back and his lips touched your head you told yourself it was okay.

Arber wouldn’t find out before you were ready for him too and everything would be okay.

-

[uluvjay]

Do they bite?- F1 edition

Other headcannons!

| CHARLES LECLERC | Everyday Charles does not bite however Tipsy horny Charles is a different story. When he’s got some liquid courage he turns into a piranha nipping at any skin he can reach while you help get him ready for bed. Not the biggest fan of getting bit in return, he’ll blush and go shy.

| LANDO NORRIS | Yes, sexually, teasingly, anyway he can sink his teeth into you he is. Likes to get bit back tbh…it’s a game he very much enjoys.

| MAX VERSTAPPEN | Yes and no. Similar to Charles it’s not his everyday thing. However mad max loveees to bite on his girl. Hips, boobs, lips, neck, thighs, anywhere he can sink his teeth. He’ll smirk when you bite his lips or nip at his skin when you kiss down his neck but that’s about as far as he lets you get.

| OSCAR PIASTRI | Oscar is not a biter, he’ll occasionally teasingly bite your finger if you feed him something. But just because he doesn’t bite doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to be bit…

| LEWIS HAMILTON | Not really his thing, he’ll occasionally bite your lip during a makeout but it’s not something he typically does. He’s not into getting bit either, it’s just not for him.

| CARLOS SAINZ | Yes, yes, yes, he loves when you wear outfits that show some skin, he always nips your shoulder when he places a kiss there. Inner thighs always littered with bite marks and left over bruises, lips always slightly swollen from where he bites. Biting is only for him, he wants to bite not to be bit.

| ALEX ALBON | Yes but not sexually, he’ll bite you to piss you off or if you’re not paying attention to him, bites your fingers when you feed him something, honestly just does it to be a little shit. Doesn’t care for being bit back, only he gets to bother you with that.

| DANIEL RICCIARDO | Yes, does it to be a shit but also enjoys it in the bedroom. Lips, neck, hips, ass, thighs, inner thighs, anywhere he’s able to sink his teeth during sex you’ll find a bite mark left behind! Enjoys when you bite back :)

[uluvjay]

I just saw that I have reached 4,000 followers and it’s actually so crazy. I just went to say a big thank you to everyone that follows me and keeps up with my blog. I know I’m not as active anymore as some of you would like but I promise I’m doing my best and there is a lot to come!!

I love every single one of you so much and i genuinely never thought this many people would be following me and want to read my silly writings. Thank you again to everyone who has helped me reach this number you have no idea how much this means to me 🥹.

With so, so, so, so much love- Jay🤍