unbridled. unkempt.

re: hockey teams

generally sports-wise im a ny fan (rangers down) but i also cheer for the caps via forced proximity

my writing:

unholy trinity masterlist | w.smith x popstar reader x m.celebrini

-challengers inspired au

all i need is you | m.barzal x reader

-in which he takes care of you when you get white girl wasted

must be love on the brain | m.rempe x figure skater reader

-in which no thoughts head empty but he still knows he needs your number

sue me i wanna be toxic wanted | r.leonard x reader, frat au

-in which the party girl deserves love too

on reqs

i kinda write as it comes to me but def if you have thoughts or reqs send them my way, but don't be offended if nothing comes from it cause some players just dont rock my shit like that (do NAWT come in my inbox talking about chopped ass slugs like the tkachuks)

i am trans but i do generally write from a fem perspective - i would be willing to write from any other lens if u have a particular request! just lmk but no promises

﹌﹌﹌

William Charles Patrick Smith (the third, of course) is no stranger to shame, the one constant in life that remains more unshaken than his faith.

It’s a heavy feeling with an origin he can’t remember, but with a shadow-like presence he can’t quite escape. 

It’s not a state that’s eased into as much as it’s engrained - he’d been a practicing Catholic his whole life, spent each and every Sunday in an oak pew before a leather kneeler with his family, summer weekends in Vacation Bible School before any sport took off. 

He can recall his first Communion, and even more so the Reconciliation prior. 

Bless me Father for I have sinned. 

At a ripe 7 years old, there isn’t much that he could have done inherently wrong.

I called my sister stupid. I didn’t do my chores. I cheated on my homework.

Regardless, a sort of fear of God plants itself within him, brain stained with near photographic memory of a laminated sheet naming any and every avowed wrongdoing, deterrence from acts he had no choice but to deem as bad having had no prior cognisance of what these verbs even meant.

I am sorry for these sins and all of those of which I have forgotten. 

An empty feeling that somehow weighs multitudes, a breath of air as all wrongdoings are declared absolved.

The elation of making right in the eyes of God. 

It’s something he carries close to him, a trust he places in those who want what's best for him, and it follows him throughout the years.

He can recall early high school, becoming himself in all the best ways, being a boy in a locker room in all of the grossest. 

“Yeah well at least I don’t get off to the girl’s soccer team stretching.”

And he remembers the other guys laughing in tandem with the confusion within him, the tinge of embarrassment as he doesn’t quite get it.

“Get off what?”

There’s a short pause before one of the guys snorts into a fist, another one punching him in the shoulder to shut him up.

“Get off? Like, jacking off? Yanking your hog?”

He stands there like a deer in headlights, shaking his head slightly before his teammate motions vulgarly below his belt, heat in his cheeks growing.

Because he knows what they’re getting at now, but he isn’t any less confused, because this is St. Sebastian’s, and he remembers ‘Theology of The Body’ with Sister Mary Michael, sitting next to some of the guys in this very room, being told the crime of masturbation goes beyond fornication, fed contempt towards what was described as an assault against himself, an act of perversion towards his own temple of a body.

It was only really in prep school that he ever felt a desire to fit in, some sort of urge to be what he felt might be normal. 

He’d never admit to his friends that on most days, he’s stuck staring at the ceiling with a pit in his stomach, and the best he’d get is with the lights off, eyes closed, a blanket over his lap so as to pretend that he’s done nothing wrong.

Just some months later, he goes to some party at the house of a teammate whose parents have gone out of town, a first kiss and some nagging friends urging him to score, nevertheless ending up with him making out with a girl from his English class in some guest room on the upper floor.

It’s going well, second thoughts properly mutedly and heavy feelings compartmentalized, when her hand drifts from his jaw to his belt, his gaze dropping down to a jewelry clad finger.

A golden ring, a sacred heart. 

His stomach sinks, and maybe it’s the alcohol but he can feel an acidity in his throat, his hand dropping to hers, fingers wrapping around her wrist to pause it in its place.

“I- sorry,” he starts, and she leans back a little bit with confusion and concern, “I… I can’t.”

She smiles sweetly to him, and Will has to hold on to the fact that it might be in empathy rather than disappointment, and the two tidy themselves up before rejoining the party. 

Highschool Will never tries again.

⋆ ★

Just a year later, Will finds himself in the same house under similar circumstances. 

He’d left St. Sebastian’s not long after, joining the USA National Team Development Program and becoming what he would hope to be the best of himself.

When he returned in the summer, his old friends and teammates insisted they pick up where they left off, getting stupid drunk off of whatever could be found in unattended liquor cabinets while they’re still young and dumb and able to reconcile with their mistakes scot free. 

But, they’re sitting in a circle in the living room when Adam points out how long it’s been since Will had been there, how much things had changed, how he ought to give him a new house tour.

And he’d been willing, following him along like a dog through the lower level, ignoring the flip of his tummy when the boy loosely grips his forearm to lead him up the stairs, not thinking of the natural lift of his cheeks when they’re sat beside each other atop his bed, derailed by some drunk, off-topic conversation as it often goes. 

He wills himself to forget the way the conversation drifted off, the image of two boys looking at one another with mere inches between them, the dryness in his mouth and tightness in his chest as he feels prompted by some metaphysical force to lean in. 

The shout from downstairs that pulls them apart before anything can happen, the silence that assumes.

He returns home the next day as though nothing happened, because nothing has, greeted by his mother in the kitchen as he drops his keys on the island.

She smiles up at him from where she’s mixing flour for some sort of dough, “how was the sleepover?”

He shrugs, grabbing a glass from the cabinet before moving to get water from the fridge, “was good.”

“Are you sure? It seems like something’s bothering you.”

And he loves his mom so deeply, but he’s really not in the mood for hashing things out, nevertheless this, so he shrugs once more when he responds just as dryly, “‘m fine.”

Her lips are straightened out in a line and there’s a furrow in her brow when she returns to the dough and reassures, “Ok, just.. You can tell me if anything’s wrong, yeah?”

He nods, rounding the corner of the counter to leave the kitchen with one last call from behind him, “just, don’t forget: we’ve got mass later this evening.”

Once upstairs, he makes haste to strip himself of his clothes, avoiding any glimpse of the chain hanging from his neck before he can step into the shower and scrub himself of any sweat, alcohol, and guilt from the night before.

It’s only after a minute under the steaming water that he finds himself zoning out, leaning his forehead against the tile before him as he breaks out into silent sobs. 

⋆ ★

Another year comes and goes, and Will? 

Well, he goes on a bit of a death spiral of sorts.

Stepping back to a locker room of half dressed and even naked guys after whatever the hell it was that didn’t even happen with Adam was less than ideal, so he responds in the only way he deemed appropriate and made swift work out of hooking up with any girl that looked at him for longer than 5 seconds. 

It’d started after gold at World Juniors and continued into his freshman year of college, the entryway of his dorm room becoming nothing short of a revolving door, so much so that even Leno had started making jokes about his habits. 

He’d have a conversation with some guy that maybe was a little too pleasant, or someone would make some taunt on the ice to throw him off his a-game, and he’d be scrolling through his contacts, or Instagram following, or sidling up to some girl at an afterparty. 

Sure, these behaviors came with a guilt of their own, but he viewed it as a necessary lesser evil for the greater good of numbing his mind from the thoughts he was too scared to confront alone, and he makes up for it in silent prayer, fingers clutching the pendants hanging from his necklace in the shadow of night when he can’t make sense of his own being.

Until fall break, and he’s back in his bed in his family home, and it’s just past 1 o’clock in the morning, and he can’t sleep despite how much tossing and turning he’s been doing. 

So, he does what he hasn’t since he was probably about 12 or so: he pulls a hoodie over his head and pads his ways down the hall to Grace’s room, pausing for just a second or two before softly knocking on the wooden door.

He can hear the soft rustling within the room before she opens the door, eyes squinted and hair lightly messed from sleep. 

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

Her eyes soften and she immediately turns sideways to let him walk in, and he immediately climbs onto the mattress and takes up the side he knows she prefers least. 

She takes a sip of water before climbing back under the covers, flipping onto her side to face him.

“So,” she whispers with a sigh, “what’s wrong?”

He shrugs, not responding for a minute or two, sniffling lightly before softly speaking.

“I don’t think I know who I am.”

The silence continues, not judgmentally or uncomfortably, but reverently. 

“That’s okay.”

He feels a sharp pain in his eyes at the quiet reassurance, but he holds steadfast. 

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

The room is quite dark, but he can still make out her soft smile.

“Does it ever?” she lifts a hand to gently ruffle his hair, “you’re still so young, everything will fall into place eventually.”

Nothing else gets said after that, and by the grace of God he’s granted the peace to actually get some sleep.

⋆ ★

He fairs much better upon his return to campus, but he never really eases out of whatever whore phase he’s going through.

Then spring rolls around, and pen presses to paper in the calligraphic shape of his name, jumping coasts in late May before he can begin to settle all of the turmoil in his veins. 

The first month or so was.. rough. 

He coped with the pressure of professional hockey and a room full of hot shots years older than him by taking on the persona of the happy-go-lucky young gun, all while still making himself impossibly small so as to not be seen for who he really is – whoever that may be.

But, he pays so much time and attention towards how he’s perceived that his cup is left empty and all that he’s given carries over into the following week, leaving him absolutely drained of all that he is, to the extent that it’d be impossible for others not to see all the ways in which he’s failing. 

And then, Macklin signs, and his arrival is akin to magic.

It’s almost as though a life is breathed back into him, and he has to remind himself on numerous occasions that it’s just nice to have someone just about the same age in such a new and intimidating environment, and nothing more lies beneath the surface.

But he can’t ignore how everything is just so intimate, hardly stopping to learn each other’s favorite color or middle name before doing just about everything together, as close to twin flames as his faith might let him claim.

Then, there’s the first away game.

It’s late, and the room is impossibly dark, and Will’s staring at the ceiling while staving off thoughts that several years passage have failed to cease, and the sound of constant rustling coming from across the room is just too much on top of the already overstimulating feeling of trying not to have a fucking existential panic attack. 

So, without stopping to think of how rude it might come off because he’s already asked him once to cut it out, he’s flipping himself over and flicking on the light with one swift motion, at his wit’s end and in dire need of some sleep. 

“What is your-”

And… oh.

Because, Mack makes out a sound he hasn’t heard before, not from another dude, and a single word has him looking down at the guy’s lap, and now his throat’s gone dry and the air in the room suddenly feels so heavy.

He doesn’t even process what the other man is saying, gaze fixed and cheeks a deep red, surely from the awkwardness of the whole ideal, but he finds himself speaking nonetheless. 

“No, yeah,” he waves off, casually, “I mean… you can. If you want.”

Cause that’s just what guys do, and it’s really just a sucky situation if you think about it.

So there’s a pause, and it’s not weird or anything that he watches the boy as he shyly stuffs a hand down his pants and gets to work, or that he returns his gaze while he rubs one out.

And, it’s pretty normal that Will slips his hand beneath the sheets and starts running it over the silky, soft skin below his navel, because it’d arguably be weird if he didn’t join in. Probably more gay, somehow. 

He only speeds up his movement as Mack’s breathing gets heavier because it’d be more uncomfortable if he stayed lagging behind, having to catch up after he’s already finished, and it only feels so good because it’s just a little bit taboo and comes with its own unique rush compared to going solo in the safety of his home. 

The racing thoughts only resume once he’s gone to the restroom to wipe himself clean, eyes caught on the crucifix hanging from his neck.

A mark of penance, a noose of failed virtue,

He swallows with a clenched jaw, blinking once, twice before crawling back into his bed and flicking off the lamp with a soft spoken goodnight.

⋆ ★

The first time he touched Macklin feels like blasphemy.

They’re drunk off of wine that they’d had at some dinner while on the road in Canada following their… relational breakthrough at your concert just last month, and the buzz beneath their skin and the way they keep drifting into each other on the walk back to the hotel only thickens the already pressing tension between them.

So, it’s almost like clockwork when they press up next to each other in the otherwise empty elevator up to their floor, and their clothes come off for the sake of their newly adopted routine before Mack looks at him with these dopey eyes that has Will saying c’mere.

Then, he’s hovering just above him, flesh rutting rhythmlessly against flesh, brunette hair fanned out like a halo against the crisp linen.

A simulacram, his golden calf.

Unyielding looks through hooded eyes, skin tugged against skin, soft pants shared between mouths like a muted prayer.

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

Two foreheads, noses beginning to mush against one another, pressed so tightly their atoms may perfectly align and make them one.

A soft, warm mouth slipping against his, the barely there stubble of his fellow man scraping against his jaw in a way that feels unjustly good.

Hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee…

A slow rock of his hips backwards, another roll of his hips forward. A string of precum connecting them at the tip of where they both throb. 

Deep reds of flushed skin where they’re most sensitive.

Holy Mary, Mother of God…

Another whimper, another thrust, another meeting of flesh to flesh. Another bead. A full decade. 

Broken skin where gapped teeth clench over his shoulder to not make too much noise. The broken whine that slips through the cracks anyways.

“Will- fuck, I’m coming.”

Glory be to the Father,

And to the Son,

And to the Holy Spirit,

As it was in the beginning is now and every shall be, a world without end,

Amen.

⋆ ★

Will’s 21 years old and has sworn himself to be an honest man from here on out, having grown the pair it takes to open up to none other than Cat Toffoli about his newfound relationship.

Disregard that the confession was ugly, maybe even a little bit embarrassing, and indirect, and not even intentionally initiated. It’s the principle of even getting it done that counts, and he’s been so completely normal about it after the fact.

Really.

He’s in the locker room after a free skate, toweling out his hair as Toff approaches him at his stall.

“What’re you doing the rest of the day?”

Will drops the towel in his lap, flicking his head back to toss his damp hair out of his face, then looks up at him.

“Dunno, haven’t really planned anything.”

“Good, I’m taking you on a hike.”

Will’s forehead scrunches in humored confusion, grabbing his phone from the cubby above him.

“Okay? Let me ask Mack-”

Before his hand even grazes the case, there’s five fingers wrapped gently around his forearm, pausing him in his tracks.

“Actually, I wanted it to just be us two.”

He’s silent, entertained smile now gone as he looks at Toff, a new wave of nerves making itself known within him.

It could be a million things. Trade rumors. Toff moving. Hell, Toff retiring. 

He drops his forearm with a less than reassuring it’s just a hike, dude, which is apparently enough for Will to leave his phone where it lays, nodding in agreement with a soft smile.

All things considered, it is just a hike, taking turns to jab at each other’s inability to breath or their mediocre shot at crossing creeks as they traipse over the foothills before reaching an overlook of the canyon.

“I should’ve said no,” Will breathes out, embarrassingly sweaty for a professional athlete as he drops down to sit on a boulder. 

Toff rolls his eyes, shaking his head silently but visibly worse off than him as he catches his breath through his mouth.

He falls into a seat next to Will, sitting silently while drinking water and gazing through the clearing of oak trees before them.

“Listen,” Toff breaks the silence, “I’m gonna try to make this as painless as possible - you know it’s okay, right?”

Will feels his heart rate quicken, a tightness in his jaw as he turns his head to face him.

“What?”

He rolls his eyes in return, “you know what.”

A buzzing silence consumes Will’s brain, and he doesn’t know if he should return to facing forward or to make a challenge by holding his gaze, a pitiful attempt at maybe threatening this conversation away.

Tyler is looking at him intently with a crease between his brows, and hand raised between them with a slight turn of his head as he continues, undeclared concern lingering just behind his words.

“This shit between you and Mack. None of that is, like, bad. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

He hums in acknowledgment, undaring to move his own lips, just tense and sweaty as someone he might consider similar to a father figure poses him such vulnerable statements in the air of a faux question, like there’s something for him to answer for.

Will knows he must look a mess, because the look on Toff’s face drops into something much softer as his eyes look over his own.

“Just, I’m not saying none of that shit is real,” he gestures vaguely at the sky above them and the hills before them, “but, I know that whatever that is, is, and you’re allowed to have something good.”

Still, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, but he scrounges up the confidence to nod his head lightly, maybe relax his jaw just a bit.

“Whatever you do or don’t tell anyone doesn’t matter to me, or coach, or anyone, but… it’s okay to be happy bud. Whatever you choose to do, regardless… it doesn’t make you any less human, or any less one of us.”

And, fuck, he crumbles, can’t stop himself from crying, only faintly recognizant of Tyler’s ‘get over here’ before he’s pulled into a tight hug. 

They stay like that for just a moment or two before Will pulls back, tugging up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face dry.

“We good?”

Will looks at him, lips pursed, then he gives him a soft, still slightly wet smile with a light nod, “yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” he offers his own smile, “now man the fuck up so we can get you back to your boyfriend.”

He punches his shoulder before Toff quickens his pace down the return trail, forcing Will to chase after him, conversation functionally forgotten.

Shame momentarily displaced. 

The pendants of his chain beat metronomically against his breastbone as he catches up beside him, but as the conversation between them picks up into something less serious, he finds himself paying no mind for the first time in… well, time. 

Instead, he focuses on the beat of his heart behind his flesh, the rhythmic thump resembling something of a humble prayer of his own.

⋆ ★

The castle crumbles in the off season, naturally. 

Mack comes to Boston with him the weekend of the season’s end, crashing at his childhood home in the days surrounding the marathon. 

Nothing’s gone wrong per say, his parents love Mack to bits, love the friendship that exists between the two boys, so much so that they just can’t help but tell Will they’re so happy he’s doing well every time he leaves the room.

But, Colleen mentioned some restaurant she’d been meaning to try in the city, and Will manages to convince her to have a nice night out with his dad, leaving the two boys entirely home for a couple of hours or so. 

He’s a good Catholic boy, for God’s sake, so they just order in some food for themselves and play some chel on the nice living room TV.

But they start nudging each other during each game, and it gets a little physical with each push, and then they’re full on wrestling each other, but then Will is hovering over Mack, and their noses are impossibly close, and they don’t even really do this normally but his tongue is slipping against his best friend’s as he slowly relaxes, dropping his weight onto his lap. 

Which is important, because it’s for this reason that he’s thoughtless enough to not notice the crunch of gravel beneath tires, and the gentle shutting of a car door that follows.

They do notice when the front door swings right open, Grace standing in the entryway just in the line of view of the loveseat where Will is perched over Mack. 

“Oh, shit,” she immediately snaps her head to the side and brings a hand up to cover her eyes.

“Fuck-” 

“Sorry!”

“No, I-,” but it’s no use, because she promptly turns and leaves right out the door, and he can hear the sound of her car starting back up before driving away.

He’s sitting stock still on the couch, having thrown himself off Mack’s lap the second he heard the creak of the front door, barely cognizant of him saying something right next to him but too far somewhere else inside his brain to make out what it is. 

The vibration of his phone on the coffee table is enough to snap him out of it, picking it up to find a text from none other than his sister.

I’m gonna go for a drive around the block 7:41PM We can talk when I get back 7:41PM

“Will, please, can you say something? You’re kinda freaking me out here.”

But he can’t, he just leans forward, elbows pressed into the top of his thighs, palms pressed against his face.

“Like, it has to be fine, right?”

He doesn’t even process that he’s sobbing until he feels Mack’s hand rubbing circles against his upper back, quiet reassurances whispered into the room. 

Then they just sit there. For minutes, but it really feels like years, taking deep breaths, wiping harshly at his eyes.

When the sound of gravel returns, Mack wordlessly excuses himself to Will’s room to grant them some privacy, not before giving him a shoulder squeeze and a soft it’s gonna be okay. 

He’s still just sitting there, eyes locked in on the coffee table in front of him, hands rubbing up and down his thighs over top of his jeans to soothe his nerves.

The second time she comes in is far less eventful, maybe more meek.

“Hey.”

He can’t bring himself to look at her when he begins speaking, “Look, I’m sorry.”

I confess to almighty God,and to you, my brothers and sisters,that I have greatly sinned.

Except, she stops him before he can continue, “no, I just… didn’t realize.”

He swallows dryly, still avoiding her gaze.

“This is just… Well, it’s a lot, Will.”

He offers a nod of his head in response, pinpricks in the corners of his eyes as he inhales sharply through his nose. 

“... are you at least breaking up with her?”

And he’s still staring straight ahead as his teeth shred the flesh just behind his lips.

“No. It’s not,” he clears his throat before trying again, “I’m not, uhm… It’s all of us. Like, together.”

“Will.”

He finally looks at her, and her gaze is soft. Revered, maybe.

“Oh, come here.”

Within seconds, she’s sitting on the couch next to him, hand at the base of his neck to pull him closer, guiding his head into her shoulder as his body begins to wrack in sobs.

“I’m so disgusting.”

“Hey, no.”

She leans back, hand grabbing the side of his face to force him to look at her.

“First of all, I’m sorry. I was only coming to surprise you while you were in town. Second of all, yeah. All of this is… complicated, and I won’t lie, it’s a lot. But this doesn’t change anything,” her hand moves up to ruffle his hair gently, “You’re always gonna be my baby brother.”

He sniffles hard, turning his head to wipe the tears off his nose on his own shoulder.

“Which is why it’s my prerogative to say, doing that in the living room? Rookie mistake.”

A near-giggle punches its way out of his nostrils, playfully shoving her with a pitiful stop before she’s laughing. 

“I mean, really, I was sneakier in middle school.”

And now they’re shoving each other, a smile on his face at last, almost forgetting what had transpired just 15 minutes earlier before she speaks again.

“Hey,” her hands grasp his forearm, making him pause.

“I love you.”

He’s barely able to croak out an I love you, too for the sake of not crying any more tears, but it doesn’t come off as any less meaningful, taking a couple of deep breaths before grabbing his phone to give Macklin the all clear.

It’s there in that room that they spend the next hour or so before their parents come home, the three of them, Will baring his soul in ways he never had before. 

And it feels good. Right and just, even. 

⋆ ★

So, there’s a plan, and a promise, and it leaves Will standing in his kitchen with unsteady legs and sweaty palms while everyone else is hanging out in the backyard for a casual family barbecue just a week and a half later. 

Well, everyone but his mom. 

She looks up through the window out onto the yard, lips curling upward at the sight of you and Mack taking turns chasing Rigney around the lawn.

“You know, I sort of thought you and her had something going on, but she and Mack are so cute together.”

And none of this is going according to how he planned it, and now he’s got no preamble for what comes next, and the wind was just sucked right out of him because of a wholly innocent comment.

Colleen notices the lack of response from her son, and with a glance over her shoulder the fruit she’d been washing is long forgotten. 

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean,” and he must look pale or nauseous or something because she’s immediately fussing over him and moving him to sit on one of the stools, “here, let me-”

“No!” 

She pauses, looking at him concernedly, but listening nonetheless.

“Just, I need to say this.”

Her eyes are scanning his face, worry eating away at her heart, guilt eating away at his. 

“Mack and I. We’re, well… together.”

And there’s a shift in her eyes, and her face does something he can’t quite name, but he can hear his heart beating in his ears and the prick of sweat at his nape. 

“Oh, Will, sweetheart.”

Her hands move up to frame his face, just for a moment, before she pulls him into a warm embrace, hand rubbing circles into his upper back. 

“But, Mack is…?”

“No, we’re- It’s… all of us.”

The three of us. A triune prayer.

A moment passes where nothing gets said, and he can hear her take a deep breath inward. 

“Will, the only thing your father and I have ever wanted for the two of our kids is for you to be happy. Yes, this might be a little… confusing, but it’s not because of who you are, or who you might like.”

He nods in acknowledgement, replies to her soft smile with one of his own. 

There is no contrition, nor penance. Yet there also is no retribution, no lighting bolt sent down to smite him. 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. 

A moment or four gets spent between them, mother and son, and the things that are said are probably best left unspread. 

But they return to the lawn after the fact, Will’s eyes thankfully now a hardly noticeable red, and he doesn’t need to share anything for the two of you to notice the weight that’s been lifted off his back, and nothing else changes save for the reassuring smiles sent from Colleen, or the inconspicuous yet knowing squeeze of his shoulder from his father and the low love you, son spoken when passing behind him later in the evening. 

The normalcy persists as the night winds down and the guests all go home.

At least that is until you’ve all said your goodnights, retiring to your respective rooms, when Bill sticks his shoot out to prevent him from fully shutting the door to the room where he previously claimed you and Mack would be sleeping on the air mattress. 

He looks at him in confusion, brows creased with a raised hand as an appropriate means to say what the fuck is that as his father continues down the hall.

“Keep the door open four inches.”

The three of you are mortified, exacerbated by the laugh from his sister’s room and the Bill from his mother in the master bedroom, but Will grasps onto the humiliation, nails digging in to this feeling of embarrassment, grasping on to that familiar feeling from a new angle like a rosary bead. 

We become what we love and who we love shapes what we become.

If we love things, we become a thing. If we love nothing, we become nothing.

﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌

You weren’t even supposed to be in this situation, really, but college does as college goes, and when a friend texts that her boyfriend’s frat is throwing that night, well. It’d be stupid to say no.

You’d pregamed with your girls, taking shots of cheap liquor out of plastic cups having not yet reached that point of growing up where you hunker down and buy a proper shot glass or two, offering clothes to borrow and outlining individual goals of the night. 

It’s that last detail that matters most, a sworn promise between you and friends both old and new: no canoodling with Rho Upsilon Kappa Kappa. We’ve played these games before, we know we’re better than that. Girls don’t leave other girls alone with a ΡΥΚΚ. 

There’s some small sliver of you, maybe your dignity, that wishes you would’ve crossed your fingers behind your back, some ‘get out of jail free’ card to alleviate your own guilt for making a promise you knew deep down you had no means of keeping. 

But that’s the problem. Part of you’d meant to keep it, because you have played these games before, and you’d spent your makeup routine complaining about every other greek-letter-riddled rendezvous you’d suffered through.

And you made it quite far, to be completely honest. From the pre to the clumsy dap up at the front door when the pledge makes the cognitive link between Emily and Voter’s girlfriend, even through the first drink in your hand. 

It’s an accomplishment to say the least.

But then one drink becomes a second and maybe even a third, and you’re playing pong with some brother in the frat, and you get a little mean with the shit talk because you can’t quite resist, and then everything else just crumbles after that. 

The memories are foggy and come through in glimpses, but one second you’re in the game and the next you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, the brother- no, Ryan- approaching you after what must’ve been minutes of you sending faux-innocent and fully intentional glances his way. 

He drops an unopened water bottle into your hand, and you disregard the insinuation that you might need it as you crack it open and take a sip, vocal fry soothed by the cool liquid.

“You enjoying yourself?” he slurs out slightly, hand occupied by his own water bottle but eyes locked on none other than you.

You smile playfully with a shrug before responding, “hard to say.”

He responds with a low whistle and a smirk, “Sheesh, cold.” 

You smile, swaying into him playfully with cunning eyes, and the look returned by him is enough to let you know that you’ve already got him right where you need him.

Hook, line, and sinker, every time without fail.

He clears his throat, uncaring, as he continues.

“I mean, could always go upstairs. A little more quiet,” and your lips are already spreading into a bit of a cheshire grin.

“Oh, is that right?” you say a little bit condescending, knowing exactly where this is headed.

“Yeah, just,” he begins, trying way too hard to come off indifferent, “we gotta slip away, don’t make a scene.”

And, well. You’ve played these games before, and you’d be damned if the first thing you and your friends did was anything other than explore the layouts of the land, and you know exactly where it is that you need to be going, and frat boys are just so annoying.

So, as embarrassing as it feels to look back on it, it’s a bit admirable when you look him dead in the eyes and say, “I don’t think it’s that serious”, before pushing off the counter and making your own way upstairs, him trailing shortly behind.

You make it to the upstairs hallway where all the bedrooms branch off, halting in your steps as your prior exploration came with no cheat sheet of who exactly sleeps where, but the hand that finds the small of your back to guide you in the direction of his particular door keeps you on track.

The rest is just static, random flashes of heat and pleasure between two sweaty bodies pressed together, a roll of the hips that feels just right, a crescendo and an end. 

It’s there, you pressed into his side under navy sheets, that a new pact is made.

“We should do this again,” he speaks out into the room, thumb moving lightly back and forth over your shoulder where you lay against him, “just, casual. No strings attached.”

You’re still grinning 30 minutes later when you finally reunite with your friends, a look in their eyes that tells you they already know when you meet them with a ‘you will never guess where I’ve been’. 

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

For having broken a swearing off of frat boys, this dynamic that formed between you was quite flawless.

Before leaving the frat that Friday, Ryan came to you one last time to make sure he personally grabbed your number. 

“For business purposes, of course.”

And, fuck it. Maybe you blushed. Whatever.

Obviously, you said it would be casual, but damn if that word didn’t cover it. 

The bar isn’t by any means difficult to beat, but he surpassed the expectations laid before him by his greek-lettered predecessors. He’d text you between classes, modestly, just short and mundane conversations about your day before later inviting you for a quickie between class and practices and before or after events. In person, he never jumped straight to the chase, decent enough to ask a question or two about you or your day before bending you over and breaking your back then sending you on your merry way. 

Small acts, yes, but enough that you’re tempted to mark his chest with a stamp proclaiming exceeds expectations for all others to see. 

That’s inevitably where the problem lies - not specifically in his case, but in all cases of this type of dynamic. The very one that you had sworn to finally stay away. 

Regardless of the fact that you will likely never admit this thought aloud, there’s some part of you that is fully aware that this is like some sort of game for you as well. To a therapist, they might call it a vicious act of self destruction, or maybe even harm. Because regardless of how well they sweet talk you between one fuck and the next, frat boy and fuck boy are synonymous terms, and the behaviors of the respective type of guy are damn near parallel. 

There’s the smart part of you that knows this is forever and always a bad idea, that you’re being treated as disposable, that to get in your pants is nothing short of a victory in the leagues of masculinity, and that the more foul parts of this machine have perceived you as subhuman.

But then there’s the other part of you, one you can’t name other than maybe just when these boys turn you evil. Addicted, competitive, combative, sick and twisted, whathaveyou- when these men go low, there’s an insatiable urge within you to go lower. It’s not that you accept that you’re being treated like dogshit, it’s the rush that comes from matching their energy, matching their freak, the dopamine of getting your lick back before the tension reaches a boil and ends through a nasty fuck, and then the circuit completes before restarting.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Fight as you might, there’s something about that cat-and-mouse that you can’t quite beat. Even if you know damn well that there are many, many other mice in your position before and after you leave, and there are many girls that have seen or will see what you’ve seen.

So, try as he might, all the icebreakers in the world won’t save Ryan Leonard from the beast that will inevitably arise after that third hookup following the party, breaking the silence and presuming normalcy as he oh so kindly cleans up the sensitive area between your legs after wreaking havoc just moments before. 

You’d leaned up on your elbows on his bed, looking down when you asked him what his plans were for the rest of the day. 

“Nothing much, getting dinner with some girl from econ later.”

And then, there’s that tinge in your jaw. That other feeling, and that rush that comes with the anticipated high, the forecasted roller coaster that now sits before you. 

Perhaps it’s the confused brow when you look down at him with a smile and an ‘ok, great’ before grabbing your things that makes you feel intoxicated, or maybe it’s the confusion in his face when he tries to politely walk you out of the door before you toss a ‘have fun on your date’ and slam his door in his face. 

But the jitters are still within you when you’re texting later that evening, and surely you make a petty joke about him being in the girl’s bed when he responds with a selfie of him in his own, a glimpse at a purple mark peeking out of the collar of his shirt granting you leeway to this game that you love so deeply.

is that a hickey 12:14PM

You see the three dots in the bottom left corner of the screen appear to show he’s typing, before disappearing and doing so thrice more, time passing before a message finally comes in.

Why 12:16PM

Jealous? 12:16PM

Poor thing doesn’t even know what he’s got himself into, because your thumbs are moving without a real thought, and the send button is hit before you can dare to reconsider.

yea maybe if i was 16 but you just look stupid as fuck 12:16PM

An additional message or two comes through before you mute him as a contact, messages unread until he finds you in your dorm the next day.

Yeah, maybe you leave him three more hickies of your own beside the first, marking a shared commodity as your own, but damn it if the mere thought doesn’t get you hot and bothered.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

Things presume as normal, all things considered, texting one another when an insistent urge arises. 

It’s another Friday night pregame, this one with just the girls going out while the boys have some stupid internal bonding event. Before even leaving the dorms, it’s Ryan’s number that you’re texting while you get prettied up.

have fun at your circle jerk 9:07

Your friend taps you to let you know she's done using the flat iron, so you take the opportunity to finally use the bathroom and get stuck taking a selfie or five in the good lighting when he finally texts back.

Bonfire* 9:09PM

Wyd 9:09PM

And you’re already smiling, because now is your time to shine.

going out tn lol 9:09PM

But, well. Clearly you've underestimated where you had him, because the reply you get in return is less than interesting.

Have fun 9:10PM

And, well. That text just isn’t gonna cut it, the reaction not enough, so you’re already texting again.

lyla says theres probs gonna be other guys there 9:13PM

hope theyre cute LOL 9:13PM

You bite your lip, satisfied with your own work and chest warm from either the thrill of the tease or the shot you'd taken just minutes prior, but apparently it still isn't enough to push him over.

Ok? 9:13PM

I really dont care 9:13PM

If anything, the dry responses just piss you off, which makes you all the more inclined when you swipe to the camera app and take one quick fit pic and hit send.

[image attached] 9:14PM

can’t keep my ass in this skirt LOL 9:14PM

And that? Yeah, that does it. Because within seconds, his name flashes on your screen, and you’re fighting back the smile when you hit answer and even as he lights your ass up in a hushed tone on the other end of the line. Something about how you’re so fucking weird, how you need to act fucking normal, and some sort of question along the lines of what the hell is wrong with you.

But you’re still smiling when, after letting him go on his spiel with no interjections, you hang up with a ‘gotta go, uber’s here’, leaving him with nothing but sporadic texts throughout the night about the men you’ve been hit on by and everything you’ve been up to, all to no reply.

And, like clockwork, the bartender shouts out last call before your friends starting organizing the uber back home, Emily opening her phone to find a life360 notification that you’d already arrived to the ΡΥΚΚ house 30 minutes before.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

The casual of your affair begins to creep in slowly but surely, and it’s about a month in when he asks if you want to hang out on an unassuming Monday morning, grab coffee before going to the library and working on some homework together.

It’s almost heartwarming and a step in a wild direction, if not for the fact that he cancels the night before with a lack of an excuse in the form of a vague ‘something came up’ text.

You’re hanging him out to dry and leaving his messages unread all through the next day until a facetime call that very night, in which he fills you in on his crazy hookup the night before that must’ve just left him far too tired to commit to his own plans.

He’s screensharing in the call as he shows you her insta and spews some shit about her that you really couldn’t care less about, and it’s your uninterested hum that makes him pause mid scroll and actually address you.

“What?”

You reposition yourself in bed, coming out of that slightly zoned out state of boredom before speaking, “nothing just,” and you shrug, uncaring as you continue, “she looks a lot like me.”

And then the phone screen goes black, because he hangs up. And you laugh, bewildered, before the screen lights up to a slew of texts, but one stands out.

You fucking wish it was you 8:37PM

Because yeah, you might just be a little crazy, maybe a bit toxic. But you are not jealous.

So you send back a quick are you serious??? before blocking his number entirely, slamming your phone down on your nightstand before cracking back open your laptop and resuming the homework you’d been working on before he disturbed your peace.

Except you don’t get all that far in, because it’s mere minutes later when there’s a knock on your dorm room door, and you’re met with a heated kiss, lips next to your ear with a pathetic I’m so sorry baby, didn’t mean it, hot kisses on your neck before he begs to eat you out. 

But you stand your ground, sort of, calling him a fucking mess before you tangle your fingers in his hair while you let him go down.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

So, time passes and the relationship (if you can even call it that) remains the same, but you get closer nonetheless.

Closer as in, maybe spending more time together nonsexually, but more importantly, the learning of phone passcodes. 

You’re hanging out in his room one night watching some Adam Sandler movie, and he gets up around halfway through to use the bathroom when you decide to take your chances.

Sure, it’s a little insane. Yes, you are just a hookup. Of course, there are others. But these aren’t exclusionary qualities.

God forbid a girl wants to know.

So the second he leaves his room, you’re waiting to hear the click of the bathroom door shutting before you pick his phone up from where he set it face down, and already you’re pissed the fuck off.

Because instead of being met with the lock screen, you’re met with the camera app, camera flipped to front facing, video already recording. 

You? Caught red handed.

“Oh, you’re such a bitch.’

You slam the phone back onto the mattress, not bothering to put it back in its original place or even pause the video because there really is no getting out of this.

He comes back just moments later, immediately looking to where you’re sitting criss-crossed on the bed with your arms folded in front of you.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

And you’re shaking your head in annoyance, a thousand percent deflecting when you bite back, “why are you so worried about me being in your phone?”

“Well you fucking checked it!”

“Clearly you’ve got something to fucking hide!

He scoffs, moving his phone to the nightstand before speaking again, “can we just watch the fucking movie, Jesus Christ.”

You stare at him for just a moment or two before silently facing forward again, arms still folded in front of you when he presses play with a muttered thank you under his breath.

The silence only lasts for a short chunk of the movie, because push comes to shove and the movie gets perpetually paused when you offer an apology blow job, eyes watery as he pushes you to take him just a little bit further, tears shed when he returns the favor and curls his fingers between your walls to hit that spot that makes you crumble, and just like that all is right again.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

None of this is to say that there aren’t people looking in from the outside without confusion or even concern.

Your friends know your habits, know that you’ve got this whole schtick with unbecoming frat boys where you walk them like dogs, know better than to tamper with an immovable object.

They even see it as empowering, in some ways.

His frat brothers? Well, they try to intervene once. 

You’d been amidst your most recent argument when you pulled up to the frat house from some bar, one of his longterm friends standing at the kitchen island and graced with the misfortune of becoming a third party in this dispute. 

To be frank, the situation didn’t make a whole lot of sense to begin with - they’ve been hooking up, both of them, and Ryan’s all pissy because the bartender started flirting with you when you went alone to get another drink.

Ryan starts going off about how supposedly you had acted flirty back, whatever that entails, but Gabe has just had his fill of their whole shitshow when he puts his hand up with a dismissive, “I’m not doing this, you guys are fucking freaks.”

He’s nothing short of correct, cause about an hour later they’re met with a hollered ‘you guys fucking suck’ from Smitty down the hall after the headboard hits the wall just a few too many times to be mere coincidence.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

Things get a little too nasty, and Ryan reacts by saying you two should really focus on the noncommittal of no strings attached. 

Sure, there’s a bit of a sting to it, but it’s only natural. Yes, you know you mutually agreed to this nonmonogomous whatever-the-fuck between you, which inherently includes seeing other people, but it’s so totally and completely normal to feel a bit dejected at being told its time to ease off. 

But you’re not bothered anyways, truly, and you don’t face much of a struggle going home with someone else in the meantime.

So, when the game inevitably starts itself again, and you’re met with a cocky text from none other than Ryan about whatever girl he hooked up with in the back seat of a sedan, you don’t even finish reading his messages before you snap a pic of the guy from the bar sleeping next to you, hitting send without a second whim.

Your phone immediately starts buzzing, and your heart rate speeds up lightly out of fear of the man next to you awaking, rushing to hit decline.

And then it rings again, hit with another immediate decline.

After the third time, you’re immediately met with texts.

Clearly youre on your fuckin phone 1:31AM

How are ouy gonna just ingore my calls 1:31AM

You roll your eyes, typing out a petty reply with a new lack of consideration of the body next to you.

wait call again 1:32AM

LIke clockwork, your phone lights back up with his name, and within a second you’re hitting decline

Just like that. 1:32AM

And now you’re biting your lip to fight back a smile as the texts roll in.

You know what 1:33AM

Fuck you 1:33AM

This isn’t fucking cute 1:34AM

Your such a piece of shit 1:36AM

And now you’re trying not to laugh as you push back.

i’m not cute?  1:40AM

*you’re 1:40AM

And all you’re met with is a fuck you.

…Until 15 minutes later, when your phone buzzes again from the guys bedstand. 

You unlock your phone to follow up messages from Ryan, and it’s… a mess.

So fucking hard baby 1:56AM

Talk me through it 1:56AM

You glance at the guy over the shoulder, a blush rolling through you that you may not see in the darkness of the room, but can certainly feel. 

didn’t you just nut 1:58AM

Your brows are still furrowed in confusion when his response comes in just a second later

Couldn’t 1:58AM

Fuck dont make fun of me 1:59AM

Please 2:01AM

You bite your lip and release a quiet sigh, shaking your head at yourself before getting to work. 

It’s dirty, for sure, but the guy doesn’t need to know the filthy words you type out on your screen to another man while actively in his bed, nor does he need to learn of the picture with evidence splattered across a toned set of abs after the fact. 

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

As with all things done without care and consideration, the two of you reach a point of what could be called exhaustion, resulting in the first ever not-lovers-lovers-quarrel.

It’d been another day at the frat house, him gloating about some other one off he had with another girl when you’d cut him off in annoyance.

“Honestly, I really don’t care anymore. Go ahead and fuck whoever you want, make yourself a woman of the night for all I care, just stop fucking telling me about.”

And he scoffs, putting his cup back down on the counter angrily, “what, like you’re any better? I could list out the shit you’ve aired out on me.”

You whip around, looking it him with squinted eyes, hands out in front of you like you could reach out, grab him by the skull, and shake him, “who the fuck did it first. Like really, are you not sick of yourself?”

He kicked you out shortly thereafter, you regressing back to old behaviors and blocking his number again after he had tried to insinuate that you were acting crazy. But the jokes on him, because you’d already gotten a text from some girl friends about going out to one of the bars, sans any men, and you’d be damned if you let literally some guy put a damper on your Saturday night. 

Except the uber driver played the entirety of No.1 Party Anthem during the ride to the bar, and maybe it’s the shots you took in someone’s suite but it feels as though it’s set the tone for the night, because one long island and a jello shot in and you’ve found yourself sitting out back on the patio of various friends, listening in on talks of relationships both old and new, and there’s this deep-seated heavy feeling in your chest, a sinking feeling behind your eyes.

In reality, you were and always had been sick and fucking tired of finding yourself in these twisted scenarios, raveled up in these frat boy types. Even Ryan fucking Leonard could’ve been a chance to step away from that - you’d known Will for some time, having met a while back through Emily, and had heard through stories the type of guy he really was, or at the very least could be. But what is a habit if not damn near impossible to break. The situation was doomed from the moment the word casual slipped through his lips. It’s what was familiar to you, so you settled on taking whatever he gave you.

But, fuck, you really shouldn’t have had that long island, cause everything is feeling a bit more shifty, the alcohol making itself known not in a Shaking Ass On Top Of Cars way, but cementing itself in a Cinnamon Girl, I Need A Goddamn Cigarette sense. 

So it’s only natural when you hear the word uber in some conversation proximal to you, latching onto it like a life preserver with hopes that these friends-of-friends are girls’ girls and will let you chip in with a promise of a zelle back in the morning.

There’s some confusion and verification when they pass you the phone to punch in your destination as a stop, double-checking its both correct and wanted when they watch you clumsily punch in some frat house. 

The ride to the ΡΥΚΚ house is uneventful, and you part ways with the girls with one last check in and some sweetly spoken good nights before you find yourself knockingly softly and consistently on the front door.

A half awake and pissed off Ryan swings open the door, jaw set but mouth agape to ask what the hell you want at 2:00AM, but his eyes quickly shift to confusion before he can even speak.

Because you’re crying, without even realizing it, some ugly, messy thing that’s even more amplified by the way the alcohol has left you disjointed. 

You stumble just a bit when he gently grabs you by the shoulders, guiding you through the door way with a soft spoken get in here, standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets and concern in his eyes after dropping you off on the living room couch.

“Did someone do something to you?”

And you shake your head no, but it doesn’t do much to make him feel better when you immediately break down into a fit of sobs, hearing shuffling as he moves to sit near you on the couch.

“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep doing this back and forth game anymore.”

He’s visibly a little confused, eyes flicking between your own, head shaking slightly as he responds, “I thought you wanted this.”

“It’s not,” you whisper hoarsely, choking on the still lingering tears and inebriation before swallowing and continuing, “I thought it was what I wanted, but it’s not.”

The perplexity visible settles in his eyes, and his gaze softens just a bit as he takes in what you’re laying out for him.

“Okay,” he settles for, not quite sure what to say.

“I can’t just keep going on like this is all fine and fun, I’m gonna go fucking crazy.”

You’re voice cracks through the last word, and you’re folding in on your self before you can even finish the sentence, breaking down out of exhaustion, embarrassment, shame, you name it.

“Shhh, hey,” and you can feel his hand heavy on your back as he moves to soothe you in gentle patterns along your spine, “hey. I’m sorry.”

You’re tears don’t necessarily stop, but you tilt your head to look up at him regardless as he continues, “This isn’t… that’s not what I wanted. And I’m sorry.”

The two of you sit in the quiet living room for a while in silence, his hand still making circular motions in hopes of you being able to calm down, an occasional shhhh offered in comfort until your breathing is steady enough for some semblance of a proper conversation.

The palms of your hands are pressed against your eye sockets when you find the confidence to speak again.

“I don’t even know what we’re supposed to do with this.”

He scoffs lightly from beside you, “first off, this is both of our issue, so you don’t need to figure that out,” his hand pauses briefly on your back, hand raising to gently untangle a piece of your hair before resting it on your shoulder and offering a lazy shrug, “I don’t know, we just.. start over.”

You huff in the loose shape of a laugh, and he lightly ‘punches’ you in the shoulder at the insinuation of a bad idea, “I’m serious.”

Then you let out a real giggle, and he smiles in return at even just the split second of seeing you not so fucking sad before he speaks again.

“Okay listen, I’m not… I don’t think I really know how to be what you need.”

Your stomach drops, and that sharp feeling behind your eyes comes back far stronger than it was when you’d shown up at this very house. 

“...but, I wanna try. And I know you’re more than capable of putting me in my place, if this is what you want to do.”

Just a moment pauses, and with a single tear and a sniffle you find yourself nodding your head softly.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper out after a deep breath.

“Yeah?” and you nod, more certain this time.

His hand raises from your shoulder to the base of your head, tilting your head slightly downwards before he presses a kiss to the top of your head. Soft. Gentle.

“Now go the fuck upstairs, I was trying to fucking sleep.”

And you punch him gently in the ribs with a smile before grabbing his arm and dragging him his now painfully familiar room.

✮˚. ᵎᵎ 𖦹彡⋆｡˚

Greek letters be damned, the change was immediate.

The last few minutes of your night was unceremonious, to say the least. He’d tossed you some (clean) boxers and a t-shirt to wear to bed, being oh-so-sweet enough to lend you a fresh toothbrush from the pack to foster some semblance of a night routine in the horrors of a frat house after hours. 

Old habits die hard, and you made one petty jab when you asked if any of his side pieces had left any makeup wipes in his bathroom, immediately feeling bad when he answers with a pointed no one else has stayed the night before sneaking off and stealing the makeup remover that Voter keeps for when Emily stays over. 

In the morning, you’re sitting at the kitchen island, still in Ryan’s clothes, when Gabe and Smitty come down the stairs to grab a bite before an optional skate, pausing in their tracks when they recognize your presence and look to him with raised brows and tight lips.

Immediately, his head shakes softly to shut it down before it even starts, a look in his own eyes that tells them it’s a conversation for later. 

They might not know what the hell happened, but they know Ryan and the ways that he carries himself and the thousands of things that they mean, enough so to roll their eyes and blow kisses to him from behind your shoulder.

So, they play the part, and they act unknowing as they make haste to grab a protein bar or two before getting out of your hair, but with one last glance over their shoulders, they depart with a hollered, “later, loverbirds,” in your direction, met with a ticked jaw and middle finger beside a tight smile of playful chagrin.

But your heart flutters nonetheless, which immediately makes you feel crazy and foolish but maybe in the good kinda way, filling you with all the reassurance that might just be able to figure this shit out, for real this time.

﹌﹌﹌