bright yellow sun

Hockey: #sunnyshockeyfics

Luke Hughes live now, think later

in which Luke and his childhood best friend (who also happens to be a world famous popstar) soft launch their relationship. (smau)

sweet on you

you're sick. Luke takes care of you. thats the description.

nurse's orders

a day in the life as a college student training to be a nurse. Luke... Luke sometimes needs you though.

Will Smith (hockey LOL)

check out my wsh universe!!!!! blurbs will after a bad game

fics: kiss me, slow

it’s hard not to make out with your boyfriend when he’s just so pretty. and it’s even harder not to when he tells you how good you are for him.

shark boy and media girl

you're the media girl for the BC eagles!!!!!! AYYYY AND UR SECRETLY DATING WSH!!!!!! (smau)

Macklin Celebrini nothing here yet!

Connor Bedard nothing here yet!

Matt Rempe nothing here yet!

Ben Kindel kissing friends pt 2 pt 3

coming up on ben going away for a roadie, you just want to spend time with him. but... you have a little brother.

Youtube: #sunnysyoutuberfics

Jordan Huxhold blurbs haunted hotel w/ jordan!

Not Yet

“five minutes” turns into an entire soft, stolen morning.

Back to Autumn

pumpkin patch date with yours truly. did I mention the measleys are there? no? well, they are!

Missed Me? part 2

Payton's cousin comes to visit from Boston. There's some tension between her and Jordan... heh...

aperol spritz

Max and Payton try to wingman Jordan. They suck, but hey, he still got the girl!

we will never ever ever be apart

two best friends go to coachella!

jawbreaker

a bald man thinks you're hot but your boyfriend doesn't want to share

forever and again

you and Jordan go on vacation together and realize just how in love you are with each other

if walls could talk

you join Jordan on Paytons channel for a visit to the Queen Mary. boy oh boy.

Attention

you're sooooooo sleepy, but Jordan is editing

BENOFTHEWEEK nothing here yet!

Arthur Hill (should he be in my musicians category...) Appetite

Arthur releases appetite and all signs seem to be pointing to you as his muse (smau)

Arthur Frederick nothing here yet!

George Clarkey nothing here yet!

Chris Dixon nothing here yet!

Alfie Buttle nothing here yet!

Harry Lewis nothing here yet!

Formula One: #sunnysf1fics

Isack Hadjar nothing here yet!

Liam Lawson nothing here yet!

George Russell nothing here yet! Kimi Antonelli nothing here yet! Lando Norris nothing here yet!

Oscar Piastri nothing here yet!

Lance Stroll nothing here yet!

Daniel Riccardo nothing here yet!

Ollie Bearman nothing here yet!

Musicians: #sunnysmusicianfics

Tate Mcrae nothing here yet!

Dominic Fike nothing here yet! The Kid LAROI all my affection

being a little artsy fartsy just so happens to work out when you have a boyfriend with a multitude of tattoos to colour in!

no shame

guys its literally thigh riding laroi. no synopsis needed.

Sunny Suljic nothing here yet!

5sos

Calum Hood nothing here yet! Luke Hemmings nothing here yet! Michael Clifford nothing here yet! Ashton Irwin nothing here yet!

The Vamps

Brad Simpson nothing here yet! Connor Ball nothing here yet! Tristan Evans nothing here yet! James McVey nothing here yet!

Full Circle Boys

James Herron nothing here yet! Dossan Bell nothing here yet! Oliver Hincy nothing here yet! Sean Garrity nothing here yet! Jagger Moon nothing here yet!

Chase Atlantic

Christian (Kras) Anthony nothing here yet! Mitchel Cave nothing here yet! Clinton Cave nothing here yet!

Harry Potter: #sunnyshpfics

Matteo Riddle nothing here yet!

Tom Riddle nothing here yet!

"If you keep kicking me in your sleep, I’m gonna get up and leave," Will murmured, his voice thick with a yawn.

The radiator in the corner of the room was clicking, a rhythmic, metallic sound that usually signaled the start of a drafty winter in the dorms. It was the kind of noise that blended into the background of a thousand other college sounds—the distant slam of a heavy fire door, the muffled bass of a speaker three floors down, the smell of burnt popcorn drifting through the vents. This room was a cramped box of cinderblocks and peeling beige paint, cluttered with half-empty bags of pretzels and a stack of textbooks that neither of you had opened since the midterms. It was a space designed for temporary transit, a place where people lived just enough to get somewhere else.

You shifted, your shoulder brushing against his, and felt the rough texture of the navy blue duvet. The air in the room was cool, but the space between you was an oven. You were tangled together in a way that defied the narrow dimensions of a twin-XL mattress, limbs overlapping like a puzzle that had been solved years ago. There was no urgency to move, no reason to check the clock or the notifications buzzing on the nightstand.

"Please don't. I love you."

"My sweet girl," Will whispered, the sound vibrating against your temple. He shifted, his arm tightening around your waist to pull you flush against him, and then he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it carried the weight of twelve years of shared secrets and midnight drives. "I love you too."

comments

grace_smith literally took forever —youruser we really played the long game

willsmith i have a huzz 🔥🫶😎🆒 —yourusername tf —thomas_pierce he's so sexy

yourfriend1 fortnite duo for life —yourusername twin ✌️

ben2005 unfollowing rn

cartersorren why is this on my feed

jaxsonadams shit will looks good

4 1/2 years old ༊*·˚

after a practice...

"The blue one is faster because it has a stripe," Will announced, holding the plastic car aloft like a trophy. You were currently preoccupied with putting your blade covers on, but you still looked up at Will and nodded in agreement.

Around you, the lobby was a hum of adult noise. Your parents and Will’s parents were standing in a tight cluster near the vending machines, their voices blending into a low, rhythmic drone. They were talking about "carpools" which you thought was weird because cars could NOT go in a pool. They were too big.

"Hold still," Will commanded, though his voice was soft. He reached over and grabbed the cover you’d botched, sliding it onto your skate with ease. Before you could even say thank you, he scooped up both the skates and shoved them into your gear bag.

You frowned, looking at the crumpled heap. With a slow, deliberate focus, you reached over and fished the skates and the covers out one by one. You but everything the way it should be before tucking everything away again.

Will didn't mind the correction; he was already distracted by the dangling pompoms on your hat. He leaned in close, his breath smelling faintly of the orange slices the coach gave out at the end of the session. The two of you stayed there for a while, him with his chin on your shoulder, you leaning against the cubby wall while the sliding, the falling, the fighting to hold your stick had finally caught up to you. Your legs felt like they were made of warm lead, and the linoleum beneath you felt less like a floor and more like a giant, cold pillow.

You leaned your head against his, feeling the rough plastic of his skating jacket. Above you, the adults' voices began to fade, turning into a distant, buzzing sound like a swarm of bees. The world was becoming very small, consisting only of the smell of damp equipment and the breathing of the boy beside you.

Slowly, your eyelids grew heavy, feeling as though someone had tied tiny, invisible weights to your lashes. You didn't want to move, and Will didn't seem to want to move either. You let your head tilt sideways, resting against the cool floor, while Will’s crooked helmet finally slipped off his head and clattered softly beside him. By the time your mother reached down to wake you, the two of you were fast asleep, curled up like two small pebbles in a vast, white sea.

12 years old ༊*·˚

after you have a long, painful day with your family...

You spent the afternoon trapped in your living room with three older cousins who treat your age like a flaw. They spent four hours explaining the "realities" of the professional world, subtly reminding you that you’re still in the phase of life where you don't have "real responsibilities," and making sure you knew exactly how much more efficient their morning routines were than yours. What they forgot is that you were 12 and they were 19. By the time you managed to excuse yourself, your head felt heavy and your skin felt tight, as if you'd been wearing a costume that didn't quite fit.

You didn't knock when you got to Will's; just pushed open the door. The house was quiet, smelling faintly of the cinnamon tea his mom loved. You kicked off your shoes by the door with two thuds and walked straight into the living room.

Will was sprawled on the couch, halfway through Iron Man and wearing a faded t-shirt that had seen better days. He didn't even have time to shift his position before you hit him. You didn't say a word, just collapsed forward, flopping directly into his arms with the grace of a felled tree. Your face hit the crook of his shoulder, and you let out a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to empty your entire chest.

He froze, his hands overing awkwardly at your sides, and looked down at you with a confused, skewed expression. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice hovering between amusement and genuine bewilderment. Despite the question, he didn't push you away. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding the crossword onto the coffee table and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you firmly against him.

You didn’t answer him, mostly because any attempt at speech would have likely devolved into a muffled groan against his collarbone. Instead, you just tightened your grip on his shirt, anchoring yourself to the one person who didn't expect you to be anything but who you were.

15 years old ༊*·˚

after a roadie...

You leaned your head against the cool plastic of the seat ahead of you, counting the specks of dirt on the tips of your shoes. The interior of the coach had the scent of damp equipment bags and the lingering saltiness of cheap gas station snacks. Across the aisle, Carter and Jaxson were arguing about a missed power-play goal from the second period of the final game of your roadie, their voices blending into the steady hum of the tires on the pavement.

"You're definitely overthinking the angle," Jaxson muttered, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten bag of pretzels. "The goalie was wide open."

"The angle was fine, the pass was late," Carter shot back.

You shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but the bus seat was narrow and your legs were still cramping from the final period. You looked over at Will. He was staring out the window, his jaw tight, eyes closed as he leaned his head against the headrest. He looked as wiped as you felt, his broad shoulders filling out his oversized team hoodie.

"If the pass had been a millisecond earlier, we'd be celebrating a shutout right now," Carter groaned.

You didn't really care about the power-play anymore. Your body felt like it had been put through a centrifuge, and the steady vibration of the bus was finally starting to lull you into a haze. Without thinking, you shifted closer to Will, sliding your shoulder against his.

"If the pass had been a millisecond earlier, we'd be celebrating a shutout right now," Carter groaned, his voice reaching a pitch that usually preceded a full-blown locker room meltdown.

Will didn't even open his eyes. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding his body away from the vibrating window and squaring his shoulders to create a wider, more stable surface. He didn't say a word, but the movement was deliberate, a silent invitation that shifted the center of gravity between you. As you let your head drop, you didn't land on a shoulder; you landed squarely against the steady, rhythmic thrum of his chest. The fabric of his hoodie was soft and smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old ice, and for a moment, the chaotic noise of the bus seemed to fade into a distant hum.

Almost instinctively, Will reached up, his arm looping around the nape of your neck to pull you closer, tucking you into the crook of his side. His hand rested heavily and warmly against your collarbone, anchoring you there. You felt him exhale a long, slow breath, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a slow, hypnotic cadence.

"He’s totally playing the flank too wide!" Jaxson exclaimed, his voice cutting through the cabin like a siren. "He’s practically in the neutral zone when he should be crashing the crease!"

The argument escalated into a cacophony of overlapping shouts, the team's collective frustration over the loss fueling a (loud) debate. Carter was now standing up in the aisle, gesturing wildly toward the ceiling as if the coach were listening from some higher plane.

"Will! Back me up here!" Carter yelled, barely looking. "Tell him the pass was late! Will? Yo, Will!"

There was no response, only the slow, steady rise and fall of Will’s chest beneath your head. He had drifted off the moment you settled in, his breathing deep and rhythmic, completely oblivious to the sports-induced meltdown happening three feet away.

"Oh, for the love of— Ben's wet fucking dream is happening right now, look, Ben—"

"Jaxson stop saying I wanna fuck Y/N." Ben leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of you tucked securely into Will's side.

The bus erupted in a chorus of "Oohs" and whistles.

You felt a flush of heat creep up your neck, but before you could even think of shifting away, Will’s hand tightened slightly on your collarbone. Without opening his eyes, Will slowly raised his middle finger toward Ben.

19 years old ༊*·˚

before a game...

You shifted your weight, trying to find the cool spot on the pillow, and felt Will’s arm tighten around you. He was warm—almost too warm, actually—and smelled faintly of the hotel’s industrial soap and the gym bag sitting open on the carpet. You were in that hazy, drifting state where the line between a dream and waking up is blurred, your breathing syncing up with his. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the morning light of the city, leaving the room in a soft, amber dimness.

Will let out a soft, contented hum, his chin resting on the top of your head. He had a game today, and the pressure of it was usually a heavy weight, but right now, he seemed completely untethered. He shifted slightly, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, his movements sluggish and heavy with sleep. For a moment, the world existed only within the perimeter of the white linens and the sound of your shared heartbeats.

The silence was shattered by the sharp, electronic beep.

The door didn't just open; it recoiled against the wall with a violent thwack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. You both bolted upright, the sudden influx of hallway light slicing through the amber dimness like a blade. Standing there, beaming with an expression of absolute victory, was Macklin. He was barely out of breath, holding a fresh plastic key card aloft like a trophy, his eyes dancing with the kind of chaotic energy that usually preceded a very expensive mistake.

"Surprise! The front desk girl is a total pushover if you just look sad enough," Macklin announced, his voice booming far too loud for the hour. He stepped into the room, tossing his gym bag toward the armchair. He didn't even look at the bed as he started explaining how he’d managed to convince the staff he’d lost his card in a taxi three blocks away.

Will groaned, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he sank back into the pillows, though he didn't let go of you. He squinted at Macklin, his voice thick and gravelly. "Mack, we're busy, go away."

"Busy? With what?" Macklin scoffed, already halfway across the room to pack up Will's stuff.

Will didn’t bother opening his eyes. Instead, he reached out with a blind, instinctive sweep of his arm and snagged the plush decorative pillow from the headboard. With a sudden burst of effort that nearly knocked the wind out of him, Will launched the pillow directly at Macklin’s face. It caught him square in the jaw, the impact making a muffled whump and knocking Mack backward half a step. He lunged toward the bed, grabbed the edge of the heavy duvet and, with one violent, sweeping motion, ripped the blankets off both of you.

"I think I'm shrinking," Will muttered, tugging at the stiff fabric of his shirt. "Or the suit is growing. Either way, I can't breathe."

You laughed, stepping toward him and reaching for the silk tie around his neck. You stepped into his space, your fingers brushing against his chest as you began to loop the fabric.

"You're not shrinking, Will. Someone else just did your tie instead," you said, focusing on the precise angle of the Windsor knot. You could feel his heartbeat through his ribs, fast and erratic. He looked down at you, his expression softening, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way to a small, genuine smile.

"What would I do without you?" he asked softly.

"Probably walk out there with a shit knot," you teased, giving the tie one final, firm tug to center it.

He let out a long breath, the kind that seemed to deflate his entire frame, and leaned his forehead against yours. For a second, the chaos of the draft, the scouts, the flashing bulbs, the new weight of a professional career, felt miles away.

"I'm so proud of you," you whispered, though he was already beaming. You leaned in and pressed a quick, firm kiss to his cheek. You were acutely aware of the small camera hovering a few feet away, the production crew capturing 'candid' moments for the team's social media feed.

Will caught your hand, squeezing your fingers gently. He leaned down, his voice dropping low enough the microphone probably wouldn't catch. "I wouldn't be standing here, not in this suit, not with this confidence, if it weren't for you," he murmured. "I love you."

"Do you think we really need to?" Will asked, leaning over the railing of the dock.

He was wearing an oversized shirt that caught the salt breeze, looking exactly like someone who belonged on a Cape Cod morning. The boat, a little craft his father had spent three summers tinkering with, bobbed rhythmically against the weathered pilings. It was a quiet morning, the only sound was the chirping of the early morning birds. You had spent the last hour helping him check the fuel lines and organize the cooler, so you had had your fill of his silly questions

"What, bring life jackets?" you replied, leaning back against a sun-warmed post.

Will nodded.

"Yes, idiot. What if you fall in?"

"I wouldn't do that." He gave you a playful shove, sending you stumbling back toward the house, and you laughed, the sound echoing against the quiet of the morning. You both headed inside to change, the house feeling strangely cavernous without the usual chaos of Colleen and Grace.

"Yeah, and I'd never eat a donut. I'll be ready in 5."

------

The cotton of your sleep shorts suddenly felt scratchy as you stared at the small, dark bloom of red in your underwear.

Shit.

Shitshitshitshit.

"Will!" Your voice broke, the sound pitching high and desperate, echoing off the tiled walls of the guest bathroom. You scrambled to pull your sleep shorts back up, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but the panic had already set in. It felt like a sudden landslide in your chest, a rush of heat and helplessness that blurred your vision. You weren't prepared for this. Not today, not here, and certainly not while you were supposed to be the co-captain of a small boat.

Three cautious knocks rattled the door frame before the handle turned. Will stepped inside, his presence filling the small space. He stopped mid-stride, his eyes sweeping over you—the bright fabric of your bikini top and the rumpled sleep shorts you’d barely managed to pull back up. For a second, he just stood there, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, a flicker of something unsaid passing through his gaze before he looked up and saw the sheer panic etched into your features. "Hey," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "What happened? Are you okay?"

You tried to speak, but the words came out as a jagged whisper. "My period."

His expression shifted into one of immediate, focused concern. "Okay. Deep breaths. It's fine," he said, his voice steadying as he stepped back to give you some air. "I'll go get your pads or whatever. Suitcase?"

"Will. I'm two weeks early."

"I know."

It was silent while you stared at each other.

"So I don't have anything."

"Shit. Umm… I'll be… right back." He disappeared into the hallway, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood. You heard him rummaging through the linen closet, then a muffled clatter of plastic and cardboard.

"Okay," he said, jogging back the door. "Grace only has tampons." You looked at the sleek, clinical packaging and felt a fresh wave of panic. You shook your head, your face flushing a deep, hot crimson. The realization that you were sixteen and completely clueless about the mechanics of your own body when it came to tampons felt like a crisis of epic proportions. "Will I don't… I mean… how… I can't—"

"I know, Birdie, I know. But it's going to be okay. We'll do this together."

You huffed. "Yeah? You gonna shove some cotton up your asshole?"

Realizing what you said and how you said it, you slumped against the cool tile wall, covering your face with your palms as the first sob threatened to break through. "I'm sorry," you choked out, your voice muffled by your hands. "I'm sorry, that was mean."

Will stepped closer, the distance between you vanishing until he was kneeling on the bathmat, bringing himself down to your level. The sudden shift in height made the room feel smaller, safer, as if he were creating a protective bubble around you to shut out the panic. "Hey, look at me," he murmured, his voice soft and grounding. "You're okay. We’re just in a bit of a scramble, that's all."

You looked at him, your vision swimming, and saw the genuine calm in his eyes. He wasn't judging you or acting grossed out; he was just Will. "Just try," he suggested gently. "And if it doesn't work, or if it's too much, I'll just call an Uber. I'll go to the pharmacy and get you pads, yeah? "

A shaky breath escaped you, and you nodded, reaching out to take the box from his hand. As you did, a stray tear escaped and tracked a hot path down your cheek. Without hesitating, Will reached up, his thumb brushing the salt from your skin with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. It was a lingering touch, one that felt more than a simple gesture of friendship, before he slowly stood back up. "I'm right outside," he promised, stepping back and pulling the door shut with a soft click.

"Will?" Your voice was barely a thread, sounding smaller than it had in years. The silence of the house felt oppressive, and the sudden void of the closed door made the room feel like a cage. "Can you… can you please just come back in? I'm scared."

The door opened enough to allow him to check your expression before he fully committed. Will didn't hesitate or make a joke about the awkwardness of the request. He had seen you with a nosebleed that wouldn't stop after falling off a bike; he'd held your hair back when you caught a stomach bug at a sleepover when you were ten.

He didn't look at your waist or the state of your clothes. Instead, he stepped close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his chest, and he reached up to smooth a stray, damp lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, his touch light and electric against your skin.

"Thank you."

He nodded as he backed toward the bathtub, movements slow and deliberate as he perched on the edge of the porcelain tub. He shifted so his gaze was fixed firmly on the floral wallpaper across the room, giving you a sanctuary of privacy despite his proximity.

The seat was cold against your skin as you lowered yourself onto the toilet, the chill of the tile seeping through your heels. You paused, your fingers trembling as you slid your sleep shorts and underwear down to your ankles. You felt exposed, not just physically, but in a way that felt raw and terrifyingly new. You looked down at the small cylinder in your hand, then back at Will, and you wondered how you had survived the last sixteen years without a manual for this.

"Read them to me," you whispered, your voice sounding fragile even to your own ears.

Will didn't even blink. He just reached out blindly, his hand searching the air toward the counter without him shifting his gaze from the wallpaper. His fingertips brushed the plastic with a clumsy fumble, knocking a bottle of lotion over in the process, and you let out a sudden, wet laugh that bubbled up from your chest. "You're so bad at this," you murmured, reaching over to slide the box into his palm.

"Shut up," he said softly, his voice vibrating in the small room. He finally looked down at the packaging, his brow furrowing as he scanned the fine print. "Alright, so open it up first…"

----

The first attempt was clumsy, a frantic misalignment that left you huffing in frustration, your face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the humidity of the Cape. You felt a surge of sudden, irrational anger at your own body, a sob catching in your throat. "I'm gonna cut this fucking thing out, Will. I swear."

"No you're not, Bird. Try again."

"I can't," you huffed, the frustration peaking. Your hands were shaking so hard the plastic wrapper rattled. "It's not—it's just not working. Why is it so hard?"

Will didn't move his gaze, but his voice dropped into that low, steady frequency he used whenever you were stressed. "You're just tense. Just take a breath for me. A big one. Right now."

You closed your eyes and inhaled, the air smelling of the salt breeze drifting through the open window and the faint, clean scent of the soap Will always used. You let the air out in a long, shaky shudder, feeling the tension in your shoulders dip just an inch. When you opened your eyes, Will had shifted slightly. He was still looking away, but he had reached out, his hand resting flat on the porcelain of the tub, just inches from your knee. He wasn't touching you, but the proximity felt nice, like it was keeping you from a complete meltdown.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, focusing on the rhythm of your own breathing and the steady, silent presence of the boy beside you. With a tentative, shaky precision, you tried one more time. There was a momentary, sharp pinch, a foreign, invasive pressure that made you gasp, but then, suddenly, it slid home. The resistance vanished, replaced by a strange, muted sensation of completion.

You froze, holding your breath, waiting for some catastrophic failure, but there was only silence. You had actually done it. A surge of triumph, absurd and electric, crashed over you, momentarily eclipsing the lingering sting. "I did it!" you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush of giddy relief. You felt a sudden, manic urge to cheer, your face splitting into a wide grin as you looked up down at Will.

Will finally turned his head. He didn't look down, but his eyes met yours, and the expression there was one of pure, unfiltered pride, as if you had just successfully navigated a treacherous reef in a storm. "Told you," he murmured, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

------

Five hours later, the tampon, while a triumph of bravery and Will's patience, had turned out to be a mistake. It felt like a foreign object causing a riot in your pelvis, and the resulting cramps had eventually reduced you to a shivering heap. Will hadn't even let you argue. He had simply called an Uber and taken you both to the pharmacy.

The living room was a sanctuary of chilled air and dim light, the AC humming lowly, fighting off the oppressive Cape Cod humidity. You were curled into a tight ball on the sofa, your head resting on Will’s shoulder and your legs tucked under a heavy fleece blanket. The heating pad was a searing, welcome weight against your abdomen, radiating a steady warmth that finally silenced the drumming ache. Will had spent the last hour without a word, simply existing as a quiet, solid presence beside you, his arm draped loosely around your shoulders and his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your forearm. The world had shrunk down to the sound of your shared breathing and the occasional soft click of the ceiling fan overhead.

You had drifted in and out of a hazy sleep, feeling the steady thrum of Will's heart against your temple. He had shifted once or twice to make sure you were comfortable, his movements careful, as if you were made of something fragile.

The front door creaked open, letting in a sudden burst of bright afternoon sunlight and the distant, muffled sound of seagulls. The laughter of Colleen and Grace filled the entryway, breaking the heavy silence of the house. They paused in the doorway, their skin glowing with salt and sunscreen, bags of seashells clinking in their hands. They stopped dead in their tracks, seeing the two of you tangled together on the couch, the heating pad plugged into the wall and the AC blowing your hair into messy, wind-swept tangles.

You leaned against the doorframe of the living room, your bag sliding off your shoulder and hitting the carpet with a muffled thud. The drive back from the arena had been a blur of traffic and the lingering smell of ice shavings and locker room tape. Your head was thumping with a dull, rhythmic ache as you rubbed at your temples.

"Hey, Q. How was work?"

"Rough," you replied, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit. Though you were happy to see Mack, he just wasn't cutting it right now. You gave him a tired, affectionate pat on the top of his head, the way you would a golden retriever, and kept moving. He let out a small, offended huff, but you were already halfway to the stairs.

The ascent felt like climbing a mountain, each step amplifying the silence of the house and stripping away the noise of the arena. By the time you reached the landing, the tension in your shoulders had shifted from a sharp edge to a dull throb. You pushed open the bedroom door, the light inside dimmed to a soft, amber glow that made the rest of the world feel miles away.

Will was sprawled across the bed, his long limbs tangling with the sheets as he scrolled through his phone.

"Take off your shirt," you said. You stood there, feet planted, staring down at him.

Will paused, his thumb hovering over the screen of his phone. He blinked up at you, a small, confused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked like he was trying to calculate if you were joking or if you’d simply suffered a complete mental break during the press conference. "My shirt?" he echoed, his voice tilting upward.

You didn't smile back. You just kept your gaze locked on his, your expression flat and demanding. The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, mirroring the way the tension from the day was finally beginning to uncoil from your spine. You didn't need to explain the chaos of the media wing or the way the Sharks' front office had spent the afternoon circling like sharks. "Take it off, Will," you repeated, your voice dropping an octave, leaving no room for negotiation.

He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and sat up, the fabric of his cotton tee sliding over his head in one fluid motion. He tossed the shirt toward the laundry hamper with a casual flick of his wrist, leaving him bare-chested and blinking up at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and readiness.

You didn't say a word as you crawled onto the mattress, your movements slow and deliberate. You settled yourself on top of him, your knees framing his hips as you leaned forward. You didn't go for a kiss immediately; instead, you just rested your palm flat against the center of his chest. You could feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart beneath your hand, a grounding rhythm that began to pull the static of the workday out of your brain. The warmth of his skin acted like a magnet, drawing the stress from your fingertips.

"What's going on?" he whispered, his voice low and raspy. He started to shift, his hands coming up to settle on your waist, his thumbs grazing the hem of your blouse. "Did something happen at the rink?"

You didn't answer his question, choosing instead to let your hands wander. Your fingertips traced the strong line of his neck, feeling the slight vibration of his throat as he swallowed. You slid your hand upward, cupping his jaw and tilting his face slightly toward yours. Looking at him now, the hard edges of your day finally began to dissolve. Your eyes softened, searching his, and you slowly ran your thumb along the curve of his bottom lip, pulling it down just enough to see the slight glint of his teeth.

Will went still beneath you, his breathing hitching as he leaned into your touch. He knew this look. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, as if he could feel the desperate need for grounding that you hadn't yet put into words.

A soft, involuntary whine escaped your throat as Will shifted beneath you, adjusting his weight to better accommodate the press of your body against his. The movement was subtle, a slight tilt of his hips that sent a jolt of electricity straight through your core, reminding you that despite the exhaustion, your body was wide awake and craving him.

Will raised a brow, a knowing, playful smile tugging at his lips as he registered the sound. He didn’t say anything; he didn't have to. Instead, he slid his (large) hands upward, the warmth of his palms grazing your stomach before sliding beneath the fabric of your shirt. He gripped the small of your back and pulled you downward, bridging the final gap between you with a firm, decisive tug.

You collapsed into him, your lips meeting his in a kiss that tasted of relief and long-overdue longing. He tasted like the mint tea he’d had after practice, and the kiss deepened instantly, his tongue tracing the line of your lip as he pulled a soft moan from your chest. You tangled your fingers into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to merge into the steady, solid heat of him.

The friction of your clothes felt like a barrier you were no longer willing to tolerate. You shifted your weight, pressing your pelvis firmly against his and beginning a slow, rhythmic grind that made your breath hitch. The sensation was an immediate anchor, pulling the remaining fragments of your workday and crushing them into nothingness. You weren't a media coordinator or a point of contact anymore; you were just a body reacting to another body, craving the friction and the heat.

Will’s hands shifted from the small of your back to your hips, his fingers digging in with a firm, possessive grip that anchored you to him. He took over the movement entirely, sliding his hips in a slow, sweeping counter-motion that met your grind with a precision that made your head swim. You felt the tension leave your muscles in a sudden, rushing wave, your spine turning to liquid as you stopped trying to do the work and simply let him move you.

You let out a ragged breath against his neck, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you surrendered to the sensation. Every time he arched upward, he hit a spot that sent a shiver racing up your spine, forcing a small, shaky gasp from your lips. You closed your eyes, focusing entirely on the way his large palms guided your weight.

The pace shifted, the slow-burn friction accelerating into something frantic and desperate. Your muscles had been wound tight for ten hours, and the sudden release of that tension felt like a dam breaking. The heavy pressure of him beneath you, the rhythmic slide of fabric on fabric, and the heat radiating through your clothes converged into a single, focused point of intensity. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as the first sparks of a climax began to flicker at the base of your spine.

You tried to slow it down, to savor the friction, but the exhaustion from the day had left you with no reserves, no patience for a slow build. The pleasure hit you with a sudden, violent velocity, crashing over you like a tidal wave. A sharp, broken sound escaped your throat as your vision blurred and your muscles clamped tight around nothing. The orgasm ripped through you in jagged, electric pulses, leaving you breathless and shaking, your entire world narrowing down to the feeling of Will’s heart hammering against your chest.

As the peaks subsided into a warm, humming glow, you collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the crook of his neck. You were completely spent, your lungs burning as you tried to reclaim your breath.

Will’s hands remained on your hips, his touch softening into a slow, soothing caress. He didn't move to push you off or try to escalate the moment further; he simply held you there, letting you sink into the mattress. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to the side of your head, his lips warm against your skin. "Better?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your ribs.

You couldn't even find the words to answer, so you simply nodded, pressing your face deeper into his shoulder. The media crises, the shouting matches in the lobby, and the endless emails felt like they belonged to a different person in a different lifetime. In the dim amber light of the bedroom, wrapped in the scent of his skin and the lingering heat of the moment, you finally felt like you had come home.

"Bad day?"

"The worst," you admitted, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shoulder. You shifted slightly, settling your weight more comfortably against him as the adrenaline faded, leaving behind a heavy, pleasant languor.

Will didn't press for details. He knew the cycle of the season and the particular brand of chaos that came with the Sharks' current slump. Instead, he began to move his large hand in slow, rhythmic circles across the expanse of your back. He found the exact knot between your shoulder blades, applying a steady, intuitive pressure that made you let out a long, shuddering sigh.

You tilted your head back, looking up at him with a sleepy, half-lidded gaze. "Why can't I just be a trophy wife? You could just carry me around to galas and I could spend my days getting massages and picking out curtains."

Will let out a short, genuine laugh, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. "You'll be my wife soon enough, Bird, trust me."

"This is my dining room. It's big enough for a family of five. I don't have any kids, don't have a wife, don't have a family," Jordan says, placing his hands on the big dining table.

He shakes his head, and grins—that lopsided, disarming grin that makes his left dimple pop. "Just kidding, Y/N of course is here with me behind the camera right now. One day she’ll be my wife, don’t worry."

"Yeah, saved yourself there."

Jordan laughs, running a hand through his messy curls as he gestures behind him. "We also got this credenza. Probably as performative as it gets."

Jordan leans against it like he's posing for a magazine cover—chin up, elbow casually propped on the wood. "This is where we'll keep the fine china we don't own yet." You snort, adjusting the phone camera to catch the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he laughs at his own joke. The early morning light slants through the half-drawn blinds, striping the floor with gold, and for a second, the room feels like a Polaroid developing in real time.

------

"Now we have our kitchen. This is, as you can see, the exact same kitchen that I had before. Same design, same everything, but this time…" Jordan says, gesturing around with his arms wide like a carnival barker announcing the main attraction, "we have this." He slaps both palms down on the countertop of the kitchen island. "This has been awesome. This was like one of the best things Y/N ever made me buy. If you don't have a kitchen island, get a kitchen island."

Jordan catches the shift in focus as you angle the camera toward the gleaming espresso machine and without missing a beat, he leans into frame. "Ah yes," he declares, tapping the machine like it’s a trusty steed. "This is also where we make a ton of coffee."

"So much."

"And I eat… you know…" He drags the pause out like taffy, his fingers drumming the island countertop again, eyes flicking to the camera with that stupidly charming glint. "Well. I eat a lot of things here." You swing the phone toward yourself to display your own smirk—because yeah, he absolutely does.

------

“So,” Alicia says, twisting the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, “Payton told me Jordan cried when he signed the lease.” The corners of her mouth twitch like she’s fighting a losing battle against a grin. Behind her, the party hums—glasses clinking, laughter spilling over the bassline of some old-school R&B Jordan insisted on playing.

You snort into your drink. “A little."

Jordan materializes behind Alicia like a shadow. "First of all," he says, pointing his glass at you both like it’s a courtroom exhibit, "Payton’s a snitch. Second of all, obviously I cried. Do you know how many times I got ghosted by landlords before this?"

Jordan drapes himself over your shoulder like a human weighted blanket, his breath warm against your ear—equal parts cheap red wine and the peppermint gum he’s been chewing obsessively since the first cork popped. “Less slander, more games. Catchphrase won’t play itself.”

Jordan’s fingers lace through yours as he tugs you toward the living room, his grip just shy of desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll dissolve into the party noise if he lets go.

The living room is already chaos when you arrive—Zoe balancing precariously on the arm of the sofa like a referee, Payton clutching his chest as Max pantomimes stabbing him with a plastic cocktail sword.

after one of your worst period days ༊*·˚

You'd spent the entire day feeling awful. You had awful cramps, no way to stop your overheating, and you were crying over literally everything.

At one point you'd apologized because you thought you'd closed his locker too aggressively. Will had looked at you for a solid ten seconds before gently taking your face in both hands and given you a soft kiss.

By 3:30, you'd fallen asleep in his bed.

When you woke up hours later, he was still there, one arm around your waist and his laptop open beside him.

You blinked sleepily. "Oh. Sorry."

Will sighed. "Bird."

"That was rude. I'm being annoying."

"No."

"I am."

"No."

You looked unconvinced.

He set his laptop aside and then leaned forward until your foreheads touched. For a moment, you both just rested there. Quiet, warm, and steady. You could feel his breath and a little smile forming on his lips.

"Are you done?" he asked softly.

A tiny laugh escaped you.

And he stayed there another minute anyway.

after your first rugby championship ༊*·˚

You'd won.

Actually won.

Months of practices in the rain, in the mud. Months of painful, dark bruises and the creation of new scars.

But it was worth it.

You'd sprinted across the field the second the final whistle blew. Will's arms were open wide as you jumped into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

"Fuck, your shoulder—" Will started, his fingers brushing the torn fabric of your jersey where blood had begun to seep through. You barely felt it, still buzzing with adrenaline, still gripping his jacket with mud-streaked hands like he might disappear if you let go. "I don't care," you laughed, breathless, and kissed him again—hard, messy, tasting like sweat and victory. He kissed back just as fiercely, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something precious, the other still hovering near your injury like he couldn't decide whether to scold you or pull you closer.

Behind you, the roar of the crowd had blurred into white noise, but then a familiar voice cut through—your mom, half-laughing, half-crying your name. You turned just in time for her to crash into both of you, her arms looping around your necks like she’d done since you were kids. "Look at you," she kept saying, her thumbs wiping dirt from your cheeks, "look at my champion." Will grinned over her shoulder, his nose scrunched in that way you loved, and you caught his fingers lacing with yours behind her back, squeezing tight.

The medic found you like that—tangled together, grinning like idiots with your foreheads pressed together—and you only relented when Will gave you that look, the one that meant don’t make me carry you.

after his NHL debut ༊*·˚

Will had really on cried 3 times in his life.

The first time Will cried was when he broke his arm at nine, not from the pain but because the doctor said he’d after to take time off playing.

The second time was at twelve, when your dad didn’t wake up one morning. He cried into your shoulder and you cried into his while you stood there in the driveway, thinking about how unfair it was that the world kept spinning when it shouldn’t.

The third time Will cried was when Molly died. When the vet said it was time, he didn’t make a sound—just pressed his face into Molly’s neck and shook like a leaf in a storm.

Now, though, he was crying for a good reason.

The rental car smelled like stale air conditioning and the faintest hint of Will’s cologne, the one you’d bought him last Christmas because it reminded you of the way he’d smelled after his first junior league game—like sweat and determination and something unnameably his. Outside, the city lights blurred past, streaks of gold and neon against the dark. Will’s hands fiddled with the ring on your finger before he suddenly let out a wet, hiccuping laugh and swiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand.

You leaned across the backseat, the seatbelt biting into your ribs as you reached for him. Will's face was still damp when your thumb brushed his cheekbone, smearing the remnants of his tears like raindrops on a windshield. "Hey," you murmured, barely audible over the hum of the highway beneath the tires. His breath hitched when you kissed him—soft this time, lingering, the taste of salt and champagne still on his lips. When you pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyelashes fluttering against your skin like they had that first night in his childhood bedroom, when you'd both been sixteen and trembling for entirely different reasons. "I'm so proud of you."

His forehead was warm against yours, slightly damp with the ghost of his tears, and you could feel the way his breathing hitched—not from crying anymore, but from the sheer impossibility of the moment, the weight of it pressing down on both of you like a held breath. The car’s engine hummed beneath you, a steady undercurrent to the silence, and you wondered if he could hear your heartbeat the way you could hear his, thudding in time with yours like it always had.

Will’s fingers tightened around yours, calloused and familiar, and you remembered the first time you’d held his hand like this—back when they were smaller, smoother, when the only thing he’d ever worried about was whether his skates were laced tight enough. Now those hands had carried him here, to this moment, to the edge of something so big it made your chest ache. You could feel him smiling against your skin before you even saw it, the curve of his lips brushing yours as he whispered, "Holy shit," like he was just now realizing it was real. "I'm in the NHL."

"You're in the NHL!"

after the first really bad fight ༊*·˚

There's no yelling, just hurt feelings and the worst kind of silence. The kind where both of you are sitting in different rooms pretending you're fine.

Will caves first, but only by half a second. Because he hates being upset with you more than anything ever in his life.

He finds you curled up in bed on his side, eyes red with your face tucked into his pillow.

Immediately his heart breaks and his voice cracks, "hey."

You don't answer in fear of shoving your deepest fears down his throat.

Will climbs onto the bed and moves closer, closer, closer until finally your foreheads touch.

"I'm sorry."

You say it at the exact same time, then freeze, then laugh.

"Shit, it's hot," Carter muttered, flicking sweat off his temple as he adjusted the strap of his tank top. The backyard smelled like chlorine and sunscreen, laughter bouncing off the water as someone cannonballed into the deep end. You swiped your own damp hair off your forehead, nodding toward the cooler. "Blame Will for picking the most unshaded spot on earth for this thing."

Carter snorted, cracking open a soda. "Yeah, yeah, blame the boyfriend." His grin was all teeth, the same one he'd worn as long as you'd known him. You elbowed him lightly, but your gaze snagged halfway across the yard—Will, shirtless, laughing as he balanced a red plastic cup on his head while Jaxson threatened to push him in. Water droplets clung to his shoulders, catching sunlight like scattered coins. Your throat went tight.

"Uh-huh," Carter said, following your stare. He took a slow sip. "You're staring like he's a fucking mirage." You swallowed hard. Will had always been unfairly pretty—broad shoulders, that stupid dimple when he smiled—but today it was unbearable. His swim shorts clung damply to his thighs from an earlier cannonball contest, and when he twisted to dodge a shove from Liam, the fabric pulled taut. Your fingers twitched.

The party pulsed around you—some girl from Will’s English class shrieking as she got tossed into the deep end, a cluster of unfamiliar faces by the grill arguing about burger toppings. Normally, you'd be in the thick of it, stealing fries off plates or heckling someone’s terrible dive. But right now, the noise felt distant, muffled. Carter nudged your shoulder. "Do I need to dump ice water on you?"

You shook your head, tearing your eyes away. "I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter. Fine wasn’t the right word—not when every cell in your body was vibrating with want. Two months. Two months since Will had pressed you into his mattress and ruined you with his mouth, and every day since had been a slow-burning torture. He’d touch you everywhere else—lingering kisses, hands skating under your shirt—but the second you tried to reciprocate, he’d gently redirect you. Always the same excuse: I don’t want you to feel obligated.

"You’re a shit liar, I can tell he's killing you" Carter said, crumpling his empty can. "And you're disgusting, too. I don't approve of you two dating."

"Imagine your name being Beefer. That's disgusting."

Carter's grin faltered for half a second—just long enough to let you savour the tiny victory. His nose wrinkled like it still smelled like Zamboni fumes and teenage shame. Three years later, and the nickname still stuck like cheap gum to his hockey skates. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but you were already slipping past him, patting his shoulder before weaving through damp towels and abandoned flip-flops toward shallow end of the pool. "Gonna go give my man head, sorry."

---

The moment your fingers grazed Will's shoulder, he spun with the kind of reflexive quickness that came from years of hockey—too fast, almost, like his body was still primed for a slap shot. But his face softened instantly when he saw you, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, Bird—"

You didn't let him finish. Your fingers curled around his wrist, tugging sharply, and his confusion flickered across his face like a shadow passing over water. But he didn't resist. Never did. Not with you.

Will stumbled after you, his bare feet slipping slightly on the tile floor as you hauled him through the sliding glass door. His fingers twitched against yours but he didn’t pull away. Even when you dragged him past the kitchen where someone had left a trail of melted ice cubes, even when you shoved him into his bedroom and shut the door behind you both, he just blinked at you, chest rising and falling faster than usual. "What’s—"

You pressed a finger to his lips. The door muffled the party noise—laughter, splashing, the tinny bass of someone’s Bluetooth speaker—but it couldn’t drown out the way his breath hitched when you stepped closer. The room smelled like him: fabric softener, faint sunscreen, the lingering salt of sweat. His swim shorts were still damp from the pool, clinging to his hips in a way that made your teeth ache.

"Beefer was right," you said, voice lower than you’d intended. Will’s eyebrows shot up, confusion warring with something darker in his gaze. You didn’t elaborate. Instead, you pushed him backward until his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he sat down hard, hands braced behind him. Water droplets slid down his chest, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. You watched one trace the divot of his hip bone before forcing yourself to meet his eyes. "You are killing me."

Will swallowed audibly. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his fingers flexed against the comforter. "I—what?"

You didn’t answer him. The words would’ve tangled in your throat anyway, thick with want. Instead, you knelt between his knees, fingers working at the knot of his swim shorts with a focus that bordered on desperation. The fabric was still damp from the pool, the tie stubborn under your trembling hands.

His hips jerked slightly when the knot finally gave way, the shorts loosening around his waist. You didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Not when the heat of him was so close, not when the scent of chlorine and his stupid coconut sunscreen made your head spin. Your fingers skimmed the jut of his hipbone, and Will made a noise—quiet, punched-out—that went straight to your gut.

Will’s hands closed over yours before you could slide his shorts down further, his fingers warm and slightly calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks. “Hey,” he said softly, voice rougher than usual—like he’d been yelling over the party noise longer than he realized. His thumbs brushed your knuckles, soothing. Always soothing. Always careful. “We don’t have to—”

“Will.” His name came out sharper than you’d intended, cracking like a slap across water. "Please."

Will's grip faltered, his fingers twitching against yours like he couldn't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. "I just—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, the flush on his chest creeping higher. "You don't owe me anything."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, the familiar blue nearly swallowed by black. "My sweet, considerate boy."

Will frowned at the teasing lilt in your voice, his brows knitting together. You leaned in, brushing your lips against his bare thigh just above the loosened waistband of his shorts. His breath hitched audibly. "I've seen it, you know," you murmured, tracing idle circles on his skin with your fingertips. "Every time you've gone down on me—how hard you get. How you have to adjust yourself afterward like it hurts not to touch."

Your voice wavered, and—Christ, were your eyes watering? You blinked rapidly, mortified, but a traitorous tear escaped anyway, tracking hot down your cheek. Will made a wounded noise, reaching for you, but you caught his wrist mid-air. "No, don't—don't coddle me right now. I'm pissed."

Will’s breath stuttered out in a half-laugh, half-groan. “Shit, you're crying 'cause I haven't let you suck me off yet? Do you actually want to?” His fingers tightened around yours, thumbs pressing into your pulse points like he could read your heartbeat through your skin.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt. “No, Will, I’m on my knees in between your legs to braid your leg hair.” The sarcasm dripped thick enough to drown in, and Will’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. “I just—”

“No.” You cut him off, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” Your voice dropped, sugar-sweet and venomous. “Either you let me do this right now, or I’m gonna go next door, get my dildo, and suck like I wanted to suck you, while I make you watch.”

Will’s breath audibly caught—half shock, half something else entirely. His thighs tensed under your palms, muscle jumping beneath damp skin. You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked his shorts down in one sharp motion, and the choked noise he made was almost worth the two-month wait.

The first touch of your tongue was deliberate—slow, wet, dragging up the length of him just to feel him jerk under your hands. Will’s fingers tangled in your hair instantly, not pushing, just holding, like he needed something to anchor him. You glanced up through your lashes, mouth hovering just above his cock, watching his throat bob as he swallowed hard. His lips were parted, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“Can you look at me?” you murmured, and when his gaze snapped down to yours, you took him into your mouth without breaking eye contact.

Will’s groan punched out of him, raw and unfiltered, his grip in your hair tightening reflexively. You hummed around him, savouring the way his hips twitched upward like he couldn’t stop himself. The taste of chlorine and salt skin filled your mouth, and you hollowed your cheeks, dragging your tongue along the underside in a way you knew would make his legs shake.

Your jaw ached immediately—not the dull, practiced discomfort you’d grown used to with the toy, but a sharp, insistent stretch that made your eyes water. The realization hit you mid-stroke: this was nothing like the tutorials. The videos had made it seem effortless, slick and polished like everything in porn, but reality was messier, hotter. Will’s thighs trembled under your palms, his breath coming in ragged bursts as you struggled to take him deeper. The dildo had been a decent approximation in length, (damn Big Dick Will) but nothing could’ve prepared you for the sheer heat of him, the way his pulse jumped against your tongue when you sucked.

Will made a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper, his fingers flexing in your hair like he was fighting not to push.

"Fuck," he choked out, thighs trembling under your palms. "Fuck, you—" His voice splintered when you swallowed around him, and his hips jerked upward involuntarily, the tip hitting the back of your throat. You gagged reflexively, and Will pulled you off with a wet sound. His breath came in ragged pants, his face flushed down to his chest. "Shit, sorry, I didn’t—"

"Will, let me back on." You swiped the back of your hand across your damp chin, glaring up at him even as your voice cracked. The tears weren’t from discomfort—they were from want, from the dizzying ache of finally getting what you’d been denied for months. Will’s fingers loosened instantly at the sight of your wet lashes, his expression shifting from pleasure to concern in a heartbeat.

You didn’t let him speak. Ducking your head, you batted his hand away with a jerk of your shoulder and took him back into your mouth before he could protest. The noise he made was obscene—half groan, half sob—as your tongue dragged along the underside of him, savoring the way his hips stuttered against your grip. His thighs tensed under your palms, muscles twitching like live wires.

Will’s breath came in ragged bursts above you, his fingers hovering near your hair like he couldn’t decide whether to anchor himself or push you away. "Fuck, wait—" His voice was wrecked, rough with a kind of desperation you’d never heard from him before. You ignored him, hollowing your cheeks until he gasped, his hips jerking upward involuntarily. The head of his cock hit the back of your throat again, and this time you swallowed around it, relishing the broken noise he made in response.

The stretch burned in the best way, your jaw aching with the effort, but you couldn’t stop. Not when his breathing was coming so fast, not when every ragged inhale above you sounded like your name. You glanced up through your lashes, meeting his blown-wide pupils, and sucked harder just to watch his mouth fall open in silent shock.

Will’s grip tightened convulsively when you swirled your tongue around the tip, his abs flexing as he tried—and failed—to keep his hips still. "I’m not—" He choked on the words, his voice strangled.

Will’s fingers tightened in your hair like he was trying to warn you, his thighs tensing so suddenly under your palms that you could feel the tremors running through him. “Fuck—” His voice cracked, high and desperate, and then he was coming with a sharp gasp, his hips jerking forward in shallow, involuntary thrusts. You barely had time to register the bitter tang flooding your mouth before your throat worked reflexively, swallowing around him as he shuddered above you, his breath coming in ragged, punched-out bursts.

His grip loosened in your hair, fingers trembling as they slid down to cup your cheek instead—gentle now, reverent, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. You pulled off slowly, and Will made a wounded noise, his entire body flinching with oversensitivity. His chest was heaving, flushed pink from collarbone to forehead, and when you glanced up, his eyes were glassy, pupils blown so wide they swallowed the blue almost completely.

Will’s fingers trembled against your cheek, his palm hovering near your lips like he expected you to spit into it. You blinked up at him, confused, then tilted your head—slowly, deliberately—before parting your lips to show him. His breath hitched audibly when he saw the emptiness of your mouth, his eyes darkening with something like awe.

"You—" His voice cracked. His fingers traced your lower lip, feather-light, as if checking for residue. "You swallowed?"

You hummed, tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet at the corner of your mouth. Will’s gaze tracked the movement like a man starving, his chest rising and falling too fast. His fingers curled against your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge like he wanted to memorize the shape of your bones. "Christ," he whispered, and you watched, fascinated, as his cock twitched against his thigh—already half-hard again.

You grinned, slow and knowing, and Will groaned like the sight alone was torture. "You’re evil," he muttered, but his hips rocked forward anyway, seeking friction. His skin was still flushed, damp with sweat and pool water, and when you leaned in to press a kiss to his inner thigh, he shuddered violently.

"You wanted me to spit?" you murmured against his skin, dragging your teeth lightly along the sensitive flesh. Will made a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan.

"I didn't know what I wanted."

"Do you want another?"

"I wanna know why you have a dildo when I'm right here."

(*smut/suggestive) (!fluff) (^smau) (&angst)

2022

2023

2024

2025 kissing friends (when your dad makes you bring Nikita to a secret date with ben, your plans to properly say goodbye to your boyfriend are entirely hijacked). -> pt 2 -> pt 3*

"You really haven’t seen IT yet?" Ben asked, pausing mid-chip-crunch to stare at you like you’d just admitted you didn’t know what hockey was. His eyebrows—dark and unfairly perfect—were practically in his hairline. You shrugged, nudging his knee with yours where they were tangled together under the blanket. The couch was old, the kind that swallowed you whole if you sat wrong, but right now it felt like the only place in the world.

The TV flickered with the opening credits, casting blue shadows across Ben’s face. He’d insisted on the original 1990 version, not the remake, because apparently Tim Curry’s Pennywise was "art," and you’d rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Now, though, with the eerie carnival music swelling, you regretted not putting up more of a fight. A floorboard creaked upstairs—Nikki’s room—and you exhaled, relieved he’d listened about not joining.

Ben’s thumb traced idle circles on your shoulder, his other hand busy with the chip bag. "Scared?" he murmured, grinning when you elbowed him. "I’ll protect you," he added, like it was a joke, but his voice dropped low enough that your stomach did something stupid.

The clown’s laughter on screen was tinny through the TV speakers, but it still made your skin prickle—not enough to flinch, just enough to press back into Ben’s chest, his heartbeat steady against your spine. His hands, warm and rough from years of stick grip, slid under your hoodie, fingertips skating over the dip of your waist.

You like the way Ben's hands slip under your hoodie—not hesitant, but not greedy either, like he's savoring the warm skin beneath his palms more than he's chasing anything else. His lips press against the side of your neck, right where your pulse jumps under his mouth, and you shiver, tipping your head to give him more room. The movie’s still playing, Pennywise’s laughter sharp and distant, but all you can focus on is the warmth of Ben's tongue against your throat and the way his fingers curl into the fabric of your t-shirt.