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Just The Three of Us

Arber Xhekaj x Reader x Juraj Slafkovsky

Description: Your best friend invites you to dinner with her boyfriend and his teammate. What happens when she gets sick and leaves you alone with the two boys?

Aka - Arber and Juraj are obsessed with you and give you a night to remember 💗

This turned out much longer than I anticipated 😅

Warnings: smut (MDNI), threesome (MMF), cheating (Slaf is your best friends bf), both men are dominant, insecure reader, spanking, oral (f and m receiving), exhibitionism, and slightly dubious consent.

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Your best friend received attention wherever she went. From the boys at school, to the waiters at every restaurant you visit, to the men at crowded bars you would frequent on the weekends.

It seemed to come naturally and easily to her. A sweet smile here, a little wave there, and the boys practically fell to her feet.

So it wasn’t a shock when you learned she had landed herself a professional athlete as her new boyfriend.

“His name is Juraj, and he is beyond sexy.” She beams over her coffee at you. Pride and confidence exuding from her. You strain a smile and nod for her to continue.

You shouldn’t be jealous. You don’t even know the guy. And yet, you can feel the emotion forming heavily inside you like a small hard stone resting at the bottom of your stomach.

“He’s tall, handsome, and he has an adorable accent.” She mused, listing off his qualities like she was trying to sell him.

These kinds of coffee dates were a typical fixture of your friendship.

Ever since you met freshman year, the cycle would repeat. First with 3-4 weeks of non stop conversation revolving around her newest suitor, double dates with the guys’ ultimately uninterested or uninteresting friends, and many nights in your apartment alone with yourself while she chased the high of a new relationship.

Then without fail, she would get bored, or more often than not, the boy would end up fucking it all up massively, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces.

Knowing all of this still didn’t make the jealousy go away. It was normal to date around, and you should feel happy for your friend as well as be proud that she had the confidence to go after any guy she wanted. But that stone in your belly grew heavier at the realization you would never be in her position.

Sure, you’d been with a few people, dated a couple of not so great guys. But it was never easy. Never the fun dance of ‘will they or won’t they’ that your friend always boasts about after encountering a new man.

“You’re gonna die when you meet him.” She winks, taking a slow sip of her blueberry flavored coffee.

“Oh boy, can’t wait.” You tease, light enough to cover the ugly emotions swirling within you. Not looking forward to your eventual meeting where you know your best friend won’t be able to stop herself from dangling her new boy toy in front of you.

“Seriously y/n, you won’t believe his jawline.” She continues to push, and you roll up your straw paper, lobbing it at her chest.

“Forget his jawline, does he happen to have any hot friends?” You question, as she picks the straw paper off her shirt, her smile growing exponentially.

“A whole team of them actually.” She grins wickedly over at you and you huff.

“I’m serious y/b/f/n! If I have to third wheel again I’m going to be so miserable it will ruin everyone’s time.” You whine.

She just shakes her head at you sympathetically, reaching across to grasp your hand in hers.

“First off, you would not be the third wheel, we are literally just eating pasta in my apartment with my boyfriend.” You groan in her direction, because that sounds a lot like being the third wheel to you. “And second, if it will make you feel any better, I will ask Juraj to bring a friend.”

“A hot friend.” You punctuate with a quick squeeze to her hand and she giggles in response.

“Deal.”

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It wasn’t a far walk to your best friends apartment, and the warm sunny weather had put you in the best mood you had felt in months.

It was rarely a fun time meeting your friend’s new boyfriends, as they were usually too preoccupied with her to even consider making a decent impression with you. But that didn’t stop you from at least trying to be optimistic.

Your friend had texted you yesterday, insisting that her boyfriend was excited to meet you, and that she approved of his choice of a friend to bring to dinner, stating he was a ‘solid guy.’ Which in your opinion could literally mean anything, so you tried to not get your hopes up.

As you made your way up to her door, you could feel the nerves starting to hit you, and you tried to push the feelings down before cautiously hitting the doorbell, rocking on your heels as you wait for an answer.

It doesn’t take long before the door swings open and you are greeted with a completely unfamiliar face.

He’s tall. Intimidatingly so, and the surprise has you taking an unintentional step back away from him.

He’s dressed casually, some basic jeans and a loose fit long sleeve shirt hang off his large frame. You spot a gold chain necklace peaking out from under the collar, and your brain runs blank at the sight of his face.

He is beyond handsome, and you curse yourself for not trying harder on your own outfit and makeup this morning.

His dark facial hair is well manicured, and it suits his face nicely, a stark contrast to his fair skin. His nose is sharp, and you focus a little too long on the freckled moles that line his jaw, before flicking your attention to his dark and mischievous eyes, hidden slightly under a few loose strands of his almost black hair that had fallen out of place.

“Hey, you must be y/n!” He smiles brightly down at you. “I’m Arber! Y/b/f/n is inside with Juraj, come on in.” He welcomes you in to the place you spend the most time outside of your own apartment, yet you falter, and think about bailing. There is no way you are going to last an entire dinner with this gorgeous man at your side without combusting from nerves or saying something so stupid you will think about it for years.

“Y/nnnnnn.” You hear your best friend whine out from inside the apartment, and before you can second guess yourself again, you are pushing past the threshold to find your friend who had just called out like she was in pain.

Your panic accelerates at the sight of her in the living room.

She is lying on the couch, wrapped up in a large fluffy blanket, a box of tissues and a bottle of Gatorade at her side. Her skin is sickly pale, and there is a dry redness spread around her nose. Her eyes look like she is forcing them to stay open, and there is a grimace on her lips as she attempts to smile at you.

“I see you’ve met Arber! This is Juraj.” You cringe at the hoarseness of her voice, taking a quick moment to glance at the man kneeling before her.

He is also large, and even if you hadn’t already known he was an athlete, one look at his physique would give him away.

He had a boyish charm to him, and seemed a little younger than the man who had greeted you at the door.

He was holding a thermometer in one hand, and your friend’s hand in the other. His light brown hair was messy, as though he had been running his fingers through it, and there was a crease in his brow as he tried to read the device in front of him, his tongue peeking out from his lips as he attempted to concentrate on the numbers.

He reminded you of a fairytale prince, and you had to admit to yourself that your best friend had been right, you could have just died at the sight of him.

“What happened?! You were fine two days ago.” You approach the couch and take her in up close, noticing the way she was sniffling now.

“She went out last night and got so drunk she walked barefoot home in the rain.” The man knelt beside you spoke, and it took all of your strength not to melt on the spot at the sound of his voice.

You pointed your expression back at your friend. “Oh my god, you could have pneumonia or something!” You exasperate, flinging your hands in the air.

This is just like her, always living her life without second guessing, and now she had three people to care for her while she recovers from her one night of fun.

Before your friend could speak, you felt a warm hand land softly on your shoulder, so you turn to face the older man.

“She doesn’t have pneumonia, she is breathing fine. It’s probably just a nasty cold. I gave her some cold medicine and a Tylenol for the fever. She will be back to herself in no time.” He was looking at you intently, giving you all of his attention as he tries to reassure you. And you don’t know why, but it works. The tension and anxiety falls from your shoulders. The pressure and warmth from his hand fans over you, comforting you with solid reason.

You step away from his hold, dropping down beside her on the couch. “How are you feeling?” You ask, bringing the back of your hand up to rest on her forehead, which was warm, but not alarmingly so.

“M’sleepy.” She sighs, tucking her head into your side. You move to pet down her hair, humming to yourself.

“That would be the cold medicine kicking in.” Juraj explains, standing up and setting the thermometer aside. “Let’s get you to bed before you pass out on the couch.”

You untangle yourself from your best friend and hand her off to her boyfriend, who lifts her with ease, disappearing down the hallway and to her bedroom.

You sigh loudly, dropping your heavy head into your hands, frustration for the situation you were now in brewing within you.

Do you stay and be her nurse for the night, making sure she got her fluids in and medicine on time? Or would Juraj be offended that he couldn’t just care for his girlfriend in peace? Why didn’t she just text you this morning that she was sick and avoid this whole dilemma altogether? You groan out loud at the thought of making the wrong choice and risking her being upset with you later.

Arber clears his throat, and you startle in your seat, completely forgetting about the other man’s presence in the room.

“She’s a handful.” He remarks, busying himself around the room by collecting the electrolyte bottles and various boxes of tissues.

You snort at his comment, plucking the bottle of Gatorade from beside you.

“You have no idea.” You stand and follow him into the kitchen, chucking the Gatorade in the fridge. You move to wash your hands in the sink, cringing at the thought of all the sickly germs floating around the apartment now.

Arber appears beside you, resting his hip on the counter next to the sink.

“Well before the night is completely ruined, I have to know how I compare.” He teases, poking your arm pointedly. Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion at his playful demeanor.

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning off the tap and patting your hands dry with the dish towel.

“Y/b/f/n says you requested for Slav to bring his hottest friend tonight, and I just want to know what you think of his choice.” He explains boldly, the teasing tone still present, but his smile is genuine and the gentle tilt of his head feels flirty in nature.

Your body freezes, a hot red blush creeps up your neck and over your face. You flounder for the right words, your mind filling with nothing but static.

“I- um. She told you that?” You stutter. Eyes transfixed on the floor, feeling like you could die of embarrassment at any second.

“She was adamant.” Your eyes shoot up in surprise at the sound of Juraj’s voice. Who was now leaning lazily against the kitchen doorway, his large arms crossed in front of his chest, a playful smirk on his face as he drags his own eyes down your body, all the way to your toes, and then back up again, connecting with your wide eyes as you swallow thickly.

You were drowning in embarrassment, your body hot and buzzing with nerves at the sudden attention from both men. You silently wished you could disappear, snap your fingers and be halfway across the world with a new name and a different life.

“Oh. Well you know how she can be.” You let out pathetically. Trying to put the blame on your cold-ridden friend who wasn’t even here to defend herself.

“Hmm.” Arber hums beside you, and you could swear he was closer now than he was before, his chest almost brushing against your shoulder, his face just inches away from your own. “Do I not live up to your expectations y/n?” He asks lowly, and your mind short-circuits at his tone.

The air in the kitchen is too thick with something you can’t pinpoint, but it makes it hard to breathe regardless. Your breaths become more shallow as the tension in the air builds. You dare to meet his gaze and gulp audibly as you do. There is something unnamed swimming in his pupils, and you feel your body shudder at the sight.

“I don’t know w-what I was expecting.” You confess truthfully. Whatever you thought would happen tonight, it did not involve being called out in your friend’s kitchen while she was passed out in her bed. Your thoughts were ricocheting around your skull, moving so fast that you were unable to grasp onto one for even a second.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye, and you rip your eyes away from Arber’s hold so see Juraj has moved away from the door jamb, making his way over to you both, stoping just in front of you.

“It’s a pretty easy question y/n.” Juraj teases, reaching out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, you flinch at the directness of his action, and your mind breaks on the spot. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, and you squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you possibly can, as if you could make the entire situation disappear just by closing your eyes. “Do. You. Think. He’s. Hot?” He accentuates every word by leaning in closer, and you can feel his presence; the warmth of his body and his hand behind your ear overwhelming you, his breath tickling your skin.

You let out a shaky breath. The two men have you cornered in the too small kitchen. You feel trapped like some sort of small animal, caught with no place to go. Despite that, there is another sensation lingering beneath the surface. A raw and animalistic urge to submit. To play along with this game they had started, although the situation was completely foreign to any experiences you had had in the past.

“Yes.” You whisper so low you weren’t sure either of them would hear it.

Juraj’s hand moved to rest fully against your cheek, cradling you gently but with a firmness you appreciated.

“Look at him.” He commands sternly, and before you have even a single moment to consider, to think, your lids move as if on auto pilot. The first thing you see is Arber, already gazing down at you, that flirty smile ever present, his dark eyes drawing you in again. Your breath hitches as you grip onto the kitchen counter for support.

Arber clocks the movement swiftly, bringing his own large hand to cover yours, sending a jolt of energy up your arm.

“I’m glad you like him sweetheart, because we really like you too.” Juraj confesses, using his hand on your cheek to force your attention back on him.

Having both of their hands on your skin was making it hard to focus, your head swimming as none of this was making sense to you in the slightest.

“What do you mean? What about y/b/f/n?” You ask dumbly, scrambling to understand how you got in this situation. Wondering if this was all some mean prank they had cooked up before you got there.

Juraj flashes you a bright smile, pinching your chin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Don’t worry about her, sunshine. She’ll be out for the rest of the night.” He coos, sending you a wink that clashes with the sweet tone he is laying on his voice.

“Y/b/f/n sent me your Instagram profile when she asked me to bring a friend over for dinner.” He finally explains, glancing quickly over to Arber, directing your own head with his grip to follow his gaze. “Guess she wanted to play match-maker.”

“That picture of you in the blue sun dress is my favorite.” Arber admits, moving his hand from on top of yours, trailing higher until he closes in around your bicep, squeezing possessively. “Knew I had to have you.” He exhales, and the words hit you hard, desire heating in your belly, the dampness growing in your underwear at his confession.

“Plus she’s already texting other guys, you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” Juraj pouts, tilting his head down and sending you the cutest pair of puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. You scoff at him, shaking your head aggressively, not sure if you were answering his question, or denying his claim entirely.

That doesn’t sound like your friend. After all these years of knowing her, she had never cheated on any of the guys you had met. Sure she moved on fast and none of her relationships ever lasted long, but for the duration of time she was with a man, she was loyal.

The rational part of your mind was screaming at you to wake up. To take a moment to step away from this onslaught of advancement from the men in front of you and pull yourself together. To go wake up your sick best friend and demand the boys to leave and never look back.

But the other part… the dirty, shameful part of yourself that you kept so well hidden deep inside of you, that part was ripping its way to the surface, encouraged more and more by every seductive look the boys sent your way. Their touch on your skin egging you on until you couldn’t take it anymore. Juraj swipes his thumb across your cheek and you let out a pitiful whine, eyes fluttering closed as you mentally cross that line. You want this, just as much as they do.

“Please.”

And that’s all it takes. One word to snap the tension in two. One simple, boring word, and the dam breaks.

Juraj is the first to move, as he was already leaning into you so close, his grip on your chin tightens as his mouth crashes onto yours.

You let out a small gasp of surprise, your hand shooting up to grab onto the front of his shirt, balling it up tight in your fist. Your eyes stay closed as you taste him on your lips, his hot soft mouth working over yours feverishly.

As he continues his attack on your face, you shiver at the feeling of Arber beside you. He slots himself into your side, rubbing up your arm until he reaches the delicate skin of your neck, tapping two fingers along your pulse point before gently pushing aside your hair. The feeling of his breath on your newly exposed skin was tantalizing. And your lips part in a sigh as he begins his own assault just under your jaw.

With your mouth now open, Juraj takes no time to invade. Probing your tongue with his own strong muscle, his salvia mixing with your own.

The soft scratch of Arber’s facial hair dragging up and down your neck drives you crazy as he continues to kiss and lick the skin there, and you feel your grip on the counter tighten, turning your knuckles white.

Your knees are weak, and you are finding it increasingly harder to stand upright. You buckle under them, and before you could fall, four strong hands shoot out to support you.

“Woah there darling, let us help you.” Arber soothes, and you feel like your bones have liquified, any strength you once carried melted along with them.

The men share a quick glance of silent communication before hoisting you up effortlessly to sit on the counter, your legs dangling thoughtlessly over the edge.

You drop your forehead onto Arber’s shoulder and attempt to catch your breath. You are already spent, and they have only just kissed you.

“It’s too hot in here.” You complain, rambling now without thinking, your brain pure mush.

“I know what will help.” Juraj chides beside you, planting a quick kiss to your shoulder before walking his fingers down your back, pausing at the hemline of your soft well-loved shirt.

“Put your hands up sweetheart.” Arber speaks with a solid command, gently nudging you to pick your head back up off of him.

You obey wordlessly, lifting your arms above your head, eyes unfocused in the space between them.

Juraj works quickly, removing your clothing faster than you had expected, and suddenly your nerves catch the better of you. The feeling of the cool air of the kitchen hitting your flushed skin leaves you feeling much more naked than you really were, goosebumps littering your exposed flesh.

You don’t hesitate to bring your hands down to cover yourself, embarrassment and anxiety flooding your system as you attempt to wrap your arms fully around your torso and chest.

“Don’t get shy on us now.” Juraj tuts, reaching his hands out to touch you.

Arber shoots him a quick glare, catching Juraj’s arm in his grasp.

“Don’t mind him.” He mutters, turning his attention to you fully. Your eyes lock onto his, and the warmth within his pupils comforts you again. “Can I touch you?” He asks patiently, not letting go of his hold on his friend standing beside him, a silent warning.

You don’t know why you trust him, but you do. His voice and overall demeanor making the anxiety inside you subside.

You nod, and it’s enough for him. He lets go of the other man’s arm, and steps within the space between your knees, his chest brushing your crossed arms. He brings his large hands up to your face, cradling you securely in his hold. With his proximity, there is no where else to look beside at him. You squirm on the counter, unable to close your legs as he was now lodged between them.

“You are so beautiful.” He muses, a lazy smile appearing on his lips. Your breath hitches at the compliment, cheeks heating up once again. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and the motion has you whining for more. “Want to see how beautiful the rest of you is, baby.” He admits, carefully and cautiously moving his fingers along your cheekbones. You let out a soft sigh at the contact, breathing in every word, transfixed on the man in front of you. Your arms grow heavy around your chest, and the feeling of his body pressed up against yours makes your head go fuzzy.

You give in, letting your hands drop into your lap, and his smile grows tenfold.

“There you are.” He praises, letting go of your face to rake his eyes down to your breasts. As your eye contact breaks, you sneak a glance to the other man in the room.

Juraj is standing just behind Arber, a hungry, dangerous look in his eyes. You notice movement, and your gaze drops to see him palming himself over the fabric of his sweats.

The sight is too much to handle, and he smirks at the way you bite your lower lip, feeling yourself grow wetter as you take in the size of his growing bulge.

You continue to watch him touch himself as Arber ducks down in front of you.

Your hands find purchase in his silky hair, holding on as he presses gentle kisses along the tops of your breasts.

Your chest heaves as you continue to struggle to breathe. Arber notices how you are transfixed on watching Juraj behind him. So to beat your nerves, and get to work before your shyness returns, he skillfully reaches around your torso, unclasping your bra in one fluid motion.

You feel the air on your nipples before you can register why or how. And before you can even give it a second thought, a delicious warm and wet sensation surrounds your right bud.

Your body is arching into his mouth, grip in his hair tightening, and he lets out a low growl at the feeling of your nails digging into him. The noise vibrates through you, sending pure pleasure directly to your core.

Juraj takes a step closer, and you can tell he is just itching to touch you, to feel your soft delicate skin under his rough calloused palms.

Arber continues to use his mouth on you. Groping and kneading your breasts with his hands, swirling tight figure eights around your nipples with his tongue.

Your own mouth fills with drool as you focus in on the imprint of what Juraj is fondling in his sweats. Your unoccupied hand pathetically reaches for him, even though he is too far away for you to touch.

He notices however, and takes it as an invitation to join.

Saddling up next to Arber, he takes his hand off of himself, and reaches for yours, unabashedly staring at your breasts in his friend’s hands and mouth.

He lets out a low groan as your fingers find him. He’s solid and warm under your palm, and you can’t help the look of awe on your face at the size of his bulge up close, the way your hand can’t cover it completely over the fabric of his pants.

He presses his larger hand over yours, rubbing your palm up and down his length.

You hiss as Arber’s teeth graze your now puffy nipple, the constant stimulation catching up to them fast.

“Look how fucking perfect her tits are.” Arber pulls his mouth away just enough to mumble against your skin, his eyes flicking up to Juraj’s.

He squeezes you roughly as if to show Juraj how soft you were. You squeak at the action, prickles of dull pain fanning throughout your breast.

Juraj nods, hypnotized at the way your boobs jiggle in the older man’s grip.

Arber straightens, returning to his full height, both of them towering over you once again. Your hand falls from his hair, and your eyes automatically drop to the space between your lap and his.

His jeans make it harder to get a clear picture of what he has going on down there, but the tactful way he has his hips leaned forward, pressed firmly into the counter has you assuming he is just as hard as Juraj is.

You feel a sudden rush of boldness hit you, and before you can doubt yourself, you take the hand that was previously in his hair, and cup him over his jeans.

Juraj stills his movements beside you, and chuckles.

“I think she wants a taste.” He jokes, but Arber doesn’t laugh. You had initiated something by reaching for him, and he wasn’t going to let that drop easily.

He hooks his hands under your thighs, and lifts you easily off the counter, like your weight was nothing to him. You scramble to wrap your arms around his neck, burying your head in his chest as he carries your half naked body out of the kitchen.

He brings you into the living room and gently lays you down on the plush cushion of the couch.

The same couch your friend had been sitting on moments earlier, so sick she could barely keep her eyes open. The realization makes your stomach flip, and you open your mouth to protest, but your pleas are silenced as Arber’s mouth finds yours.

You aren’t strong enough to push him away, the taste of him so tantalizing, drawing you in and breaking you apart at the same time.

It isn’t long before he is pulling away, leaving you lying alone on the couch, staring up through your lashes at them as you wait for their next move.

“Get on your knees.” Arber commands, a stern darkness in his voice that sends your underwear flooding.

Your brain is on autopilot, he could ask you anything right now, and you would do it without questioning it once.

You scramble to your knees in the middle of the couch, facing them both, your ass resting on your heels.

The men turn to face each other, and Juraj nods. This silent communication of theirs would weird you out in any normal situation, but this was far from that, so you waited patiently for your next instruction.

Simultaneously, the boys remove their shirts, and you can’t help the drool that pools in your mouth at the sight of them. Strong thick muscles ripple across their arms and chests. You gulp involuntarily. Wishing you had all the time in the world to worship their torsos, spend days tracing every inch of their skin with your hands and your lips. Your mind continues to wonder as their hands travel downwards. Arber to his belt, and Juraj to his waistband.

You flex your fingers that were resting on the tops of your thighs. Pure excitement surging through you as you consider the logistics of how you were possibly meant to handle the both of them at the same time.

Juraj drags the soft material of his sweatpants down swiftly, his boxers caught up inside the fabric, leaving him completely bare before you. Your lips part subconsciously, and you aren’t surprised at his size as you had gotten a good feel for him in the kitchen, but the way it sits thick and hard against his abdomen in combination with the rest of his body was enough for you to shudder in anticipation. Wanting him inside you now.

Not to mention the fact that there was another, equally as attractive man situated in front of you.

Arber rid himself of his jeans, kicking them away somewhere behind him without a care to where they would land.

His boxers were next, and you felt as though the air was punched out of your chest.

He was big, bigger than you expected. His pubic hair was neatly trimmed, a dark patch you found attractive and incredibly masculine.

Your eyes darted back and forth, hungrily taking them both in, straining to commit the sight of them to memory.

You tap your fingertips to the tops of your thighs, growing impatient.

“Are you going to be good for us?” Arber asks, wrapping his hand around his hard length, pumping slowly and deliberately.

You nod frantically, eager to be touched, kissed, any sort of contact that would help alleviate this burning need coursing through your body.

“We want to hear you say it.” Juraj barks, sending a warning glance your way. You clench your thighs together and take a grounding breath.

“I’m going to be good for you.” You respond, taking a moment to glance deeply into each of their eyes. “For both of you.”

Arber’s eyes are twinkling with pride, and he can’t stay away from you any longer. He advances, and you bring both of your hands up, placing them flatly against his hips. His dick is level with your lips, one hand snug around his base, the other now tangled in your hair.

“Open up sunshine.”

And you do. Your mouth opens wide, hoping you can take at least some of him with ease.

He wastes no time teasing, skillfully invading your mouth with his warm, leaking tip.

You breathe shakily through your nose, and sneak a glance up at him through your lashes. His smile is gone, a look of determination and pleasure there instead as he paces himself, pushing into you inch by inch.

His grip in your hair keeps you grounded as you adjust the tightness of your jaw, loosening yourself up for him.

You gag as his tip bumps the back of your throat, tears beginning to form in the edges of your eyes.

“Shit.” He mutters, trying to compose himself. “She feels so good.” He directs at Slaf who isn’t missing a moment of this, eyes trained on the way your mouth curls around his best friend’s dick.

“Looks so fucking hot.” He comments, picking up the pace with his hand around his own member. You moan around the flesh in your mouth, and Arber takes that as an open invitation to move.

You brace yourself as he slowly pulls himself out of your mouth, hips bucking away from you until only the tip remained, before plunging himself back inside, hitting the back of your throat again, this time more harshly.

You gag around him again, forcing your mouth to stay open, to endure.

He sticks to this slow dragging rhythm, hips jerking his dick in and out of your slack mouth. All you have to do is sit pretty and take it.

Your spit started trickling out of the corners of your mouth, making a filthy mess of both yourself and Arber. The lewd, wet noises fill the room, turning you on even more than you had been before.

A particularly large ribbon of saliva fell from your lips and onto your bare breast.

Before you could register what was happening, Juraj was there, his calloused hands rubbing harshly against the top of your breast, collecting the wetness there. He scooped up the spit that was flowing from your lips, and you were transfixed on him as he brought the liquid to his own length, spreading it from his swollen tip, to the very base, leaving it glistening.

You moan again, sending a ripple of vibration through Arber.

“Fuck.” He hisses, stilling inside you. Taking a moment to collect himself, before vacating your mouth altogether.

You wipe your chin, attempting to clean yourself up, but ultimately just end up spreading the mess around your naked top half.

“Hands on the arm of the couch, knees on the cushions.” Arber commands, pointing at the end of the couch. You move to adjust yourself accordingly, resting your hands and knees on the furniture. The cushions dip behind you and you feel heavy palms rest themselves atop your ass. The thin fabric of your shorts and underwear doing little to obstruct the heat radiating from his grasp.

Juraj appears before you, standing at the edge of the couch. You grin up at him, eager to taste him and feel him fully.

You open your mouth to speak, but before any words can come out, you shout in surprise at the feeling of cool air on your aching cunt. Arber had hooked his fingers under the waistband of your shorts, pulling them and your panties off at the same time in one swift motion.

“Shh shh shh.” Juraj tuts in front of you. “Don’t want to wake y/b/f/n now.” He chides, cocking his head to the side as he looks down at you in fake worry.

Arber chuckles from behind you, helping you lift your knees individually to fully remove the last bit of your clothing from your body.

“Can’t have that now, can we?” He boasts, a thick sarcastic drawl evident in his tone. “Poor sick y/b/f/n. Catching her best friend fucking her boyfriend in her own apartment? With her just in the other room? That would just break her wouldn’t it?” He asks, smoothing his hands up and down the back of your thighs, over the expanse of your ass, and onto your lower back.

You send a glare over your shoulder at him. “I didn’t start this.” You quip, and the second Arber’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, you knew you had fucked up.

“Oh yeah?” He asks. “You’re telling me you don’t want this?” He presses, kneading the flesh of your ass in his hand, waiting for an answer

“Well I-.” You start, attempting to form a coherent and competent thought to explain yourself, before gasping out loud sharply in surprise.

Arber had plunged his fingers inside of your aching heat with no warning, sending a white hot shock of pleasure through your entire body.

“Go on.” Juraj urges, taking your chin in his hand, directing your attention back to him.

“Shit.” You hiss as Arber’s long, thick fingers begin rhythmically moving in and out of your needy hole, working you open. You can hear just how wet are, and you know there is no point in arguing your case, but you’ve started, and you aren’t ready to give up so easily. “I’m j-just saying I didn’t ask for this. I-it’s not my fault you want to cheat on your girlfriend.” You stammer out. Attempting to avoid the gaze of the man in front of you. They both let out sharp laughs, and Arber curls his fingers inside you, eliciting another gasp from your lips.

“You can deny it all you want cupcake, but from where I am sitting, there is no way in hell you weren’t silently begging for us both the moment you walked through that door.” He collects as much of your wetness as he can in his hand, fingers glistening erotically. “Look how fucking wet she is.” He raises his hand up for Juraj to see.

“Jesus. I think that proves it sunshine.” He grins wickedly down at you, pointing his member at your lips. “You want to taste your best friend’s boyfriend’s dick?” He teases, and you reach up to grip him in your own hand.

“So bad.” You hum, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on his tip.

“Fuck.” He curses, gathering your hair in his hands, creating a makeshift ponytail at the back of your head.

You make quick work of him, already warmed up from when Arber had his way with your throat.

You settle into a steady rhythm, bobbing your head and jerking your hand up and down him in tandem.

Juraj is vocal, little moans and sharp breaths leave his lips as you work your lips around him, the noises only motivating you to work harder.

Your head is so clouded with the smell and taste of him, that the feeling of a warm kiss on the back of your thigh distracts you for a moment and you pause.

“Don’t stop.” Juraj pleads, tightening his grip in your hair. You follow his command, increasing the speed in which you moved around him.

The next kiss is closer to your core, and you don’t falter, but instead let out a moan of pleasure at the sensation.

Arber is teasing you, slowly working his mouth to where you need him the most. Trailing hot, open mouth kisses from the back of your thigh to your wet hot heat. The combination of his soft lips and the gentle scratch of his facial hair was driving you crazy.

When he finally reaches your most sensitive spot, you let out a deep moan around Juraj’s dick. Your eyes rolling back in pleasure.

His tongue works you open easily, lapping at your dripping hole, pushing inside to run along your walls.

You whine around Juraj, flicking your glassy eyes up to his, his own face contorted in pleasure at the way you were taking him in your mouth.

Arber sucks harshly on your clit, and you feel that familiar sting creep up your abdomen. You pull away from Juraj and choke out a strangled breath.

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.” You warn, glancing over your shoulder. Arber sits up, his chin shining with your wetness.

A lazy, but proud grin spreads across his face. “Can’t have that now can we.” He taunts, rising to his knees behind you. “The only place you’ll be coming is on my dick.” He declares, and you clench around nothing at the sound of the condom wrapper unraveling.

Juraj bucks in your hand, and you turn your attention back to him. Pouting your lips, and attempting to look cute for him.

“Kiss me?” You beg, and he doesn’t need to be asked twice, he leans down, and just as Arber lines himself up with your opening, he kisses you hard. You moan into the kiss as he swipes the head of his member through your slit, and Juraj takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring you once again. You push back, your own tongue fighting against his for dominance, and just when you think you are winning, Arber slams into you.

You are not prepared for the sheer size of him. The stretch nearly splitting you in two. You choke out a moan and Juraj pulls away.

“How does she feel?” He asks, glancing behind you, still panting from your kiss, but needing to know what it was like to penetrate you.

“Her pussy is so fucking tight.” Arber answers, pushing until there was nothing left, bottoming out inside you. You grab onto Juraj’s shoulder, nails digging in deep as you hiss out, attempting to adjust around the too large member inside you.

“Knew you would be.” Juraj taunts. Eyes locked on your own. “When’s the last time a guy fucked you till you came?” He asks, and you huff out in embarrassment.

“A while.” You mutter. Truthfully, you could count on one hand the amount of successful/fulfilling sexual encounters you experienced, and the last one was well over 6 months ago.

“Good thing we’re here.” He boasts, before planting a chaste kiss to your forehead. Resuming his previous position in front of you.

You spit into your hand, and grab ahold of him again, wrapping your fingers around his base. You give him a slow pump of your fist, and before you can bring your lips to him, Arber begins to move.

A strangled moan escapes your lips as he sets his pace, hips snapping to meet yours in an unrelenting rhythm.

The coil inside you winds tight, that familiar tension building inside your lower abdomen, and you know if he continues piling into you this way, you won’t last long.

You attempt to distract yourself from the growing feeling inside of you by directing your attention to the man in front of you.

You once again open your mouth wide for him, and take him fully in one aggressive bob of your head.

You don’t have to worry about pace or rhythm as the way Arber is fucking you has your entire body jostling back and forth. Your mouth moves without you having to think.

You relish in the feeling of having both men inside you. Your mouth and cunt full of flesh, stretching you open wider than you had ever been.

Your eyes fall closed as you savor it, committing the feeling to memory, not wanting to ever forget this level of pleasure.

A loud slap rings out throughout the room, and you feel the stinging pain on your ass cheek immediately as Arber winds up to spank you again. Tears prick your eyes, and you glance back up at the man in front of you.

His chest is heaving and his eyes are hazy with pleasure, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow as his free hand is clenched in a tight fist at his side, and if you had to guess, he wasn’t going to last much longer inside of your mouth.

You can’t deny the burning inside your body. It was building to dangerous levels, white hot pleasure wrecking through you from your head all the way down to your very toes. And you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold yourself up like this with just one hand and your knees.

The back of your throat was becoming numb from the constant stimulation, your jaw screaming at you to close. Your pussy was throbbing painfully, stretched tightly around Arber, snug around him as he drilled relentlessly inside you, hitting your sweet spot easily, the angle just right without you having to give him any direction.

Juraj’s hips buck forward, and you are caught of guard from the sudden movement, choking faintly around him.

“Feels so good.” He expels, hips jittering forward again. “I’m gonna cum in your mouth.” He confesses, eyes locking onto yours once again. You give him a quick squeeze, sticking out your tongue for him, attempting to pump your fist around him with any sort of pleasurable rhythm.

His grip on your hair tightens, and his other hand shoots out to cover your fist. He closes around your hand tightly and pumps himself in quick, sloppy motions.

He lets out a louder moan this time, and you taste his hot release on your tongue instantly. You feel Arber’s pace quicken behind you as your mouth fills with Juraj’s seed.

His fist lazily drags up and down his length until he’s empty, hand dropping heavily away from yours.

Yours eyes are still locked on his as you proudly show him your tongue, now covered in his white sticky release.

His Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows thickly, eyes transfixed on you as you present yourself to him.

“Fuck.” He mutters, something akin to pride swelling in his chest. You nod up at him before retracting your wet muscle back inside your mouth, swallowing loudly and dramatically so neither of the men would miss it.

Exhaustion hits you, and your elbow buckles under your weight with the constant jerking motion of your body. You tremble, and it doesn’t go un noticed by Juraj.

Swiftly, he brings his arms out to steady you, grasping onto your shoulders. He maneuvers himself around the couch and Arber stills inside you.

“Sit up on your knees. It will help.” He commands, pushing you off your position resting on the arm of the furniture beneath you.

You nod, rising to your knees until your back is flush with Arber’s chest, the new angle of him inside you twists deliciously. His hands snake up your sides and his grip returns to your breasts.

Juraj slips into the space in front of you, sandwiching you between them both.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod excessively, not trusting yourself to speak.

Your arms shoot out at the feeling of Arber beginning to move again inside you. This new position making each thrust go deeper and harder than before. Your nails dig into the solid muscle of Juraj’s shoulder as you feel the coil inside you tighten once again. The heat is unbearable as absolute pleasure wracks through your body, flooding you in stimulating bliss.

Arber leans down behind you, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, planting sloppy wet kisses against your tingling skin. Before you can appreciate the loving gesture, another more aggressively stimulating sensation floods your body.

Juraj’s fingers are on you now, the pads of his digits rub carefully over your clit and you feel as though you are going to explode.

The feeling of their skin on yours sent undeniable fire through you, and you were not sure how much longer you could hold on. The stimulation was becoming too much, and hot fat tears began rolling down your face.

“C-can’t take much more.” You cry, your entire body shaking between them. Juraj grabs a hold of your chin, forcing your glassy, tear ridden eyes to look at him.

“Let go.” Arber whispers in your ear, voice deep and gravelly, as though he is trying to hold on just as hard as you were.

With your eyes locked with Juraj’s, you let out a loud, pained cry mixed with a high pitched moan that was ripped from deep within you.

Your vision went white around the edges, your brain complete and utter mush as your nails threatened to puncture the skin of his shoulders.

Your entire body was vibrating as your orgasm wracked through you, leaving every single one of your cells on fire.

You clenched hard around Arber, eliciting a strangled moan from him as his own hips appeared to stutter.

Juraj’s fingers continued to circle around you, helping you through your high, applying just enough pressure to make you convulse.

You pant hard as you attempt to collect your breath, but with Arber still drilling inside of you, you found it impossible to catch up.

With your high slowly making its way down, you used all the energy you had left to buck yourself against him, arching into his touch, taking one of your hands from Juraj’s shoulder and placing it on top of Arber’s that was gripping onto your breast with a possessive force.

Before long, his thrusts became exceptionally sloppy and rough. His teeth sink into the skin of your neck, and he lets out a deep, primal growl into your flesh.

His hips still behind you, his dick buried so deep inside you, you can feel the twitch of him as his orgasm hits.

His mouth is opening and closing around your neck, strangled breaths hitting your skin as he milks himself inside you, rocking his hips gently against your ass.

Your heart is beating erratically in your chest, and as you attempt to regulate your breathing, you are faced with the reality of what just happened. Guilt and shame fill you like a poison, and you shiver at the thought of what happens next. Who will pull away first, and what does it mean when they do.

“You did so good for us.” Juraj hums, placing his hand softly against the side of your face, gazing happily down at you.

Arber lets out an amused laugh behind you, detaching himself from the crook of your neck, placing a gentle kiss there before pulling away completely, dropping his hands from your breasts, and slowly removing his already softening member from inside you.

You feel empty, the low sinking feeling of regret tugs at your heart as you gaze painfully over to the hallway.

“She doesn’t need to know.” Juraj notices where your mind must be at and he pulls you back in, rubbing soft circles over the apple of your cheek.

You nod pathetically at him, an empty, dark feeling rising in your chest.

He gives you a bright, reassuring smile before standing up to collect his clothes. You slump against the back of the couch and watch silently as the two men work around the room, Arber removes and discards the used condom before they both redress themselves with a nonchalantness that unnerves you.

You continue to stare into space, replaying the events in your head on a loop. Stuck in a cloud of shame and guilt.

Arber disappears for a moment, returning with your bra and shirt. You lift your hands to take them from him, but he just bats you away, taking a seat beside you on the couch.

You cock your head at him in confusion, as Juraj appears at your feet, kneeling with the rest of your clothes in his hands.

Wordlessly they dress you, and the feeling of adoration pulls at the edges of your heart, but it’s not enough to crack the hopeless void growing inside of you.

Once you are dressed, they pull you up off the couch and into their arms, squishing you between their hard bodies.

“Thank you.” Arber murmurs in your ear.

“We should do it again sometime.” Juraj quips, sending you a quick wink before pulling away and making his way to the front door.

Arber lingers, and for a moment you allow yourself to think that he sees the way you are struggling to breathe. That he recognizes the conflict within you, eating you up inside. The shame embarrassment threatening to spill out in a nasty, hurtful way. You consider him staying to help you through it, to talk to you softly and tell you everything is going to be okay.

But those thoughts do not last long, as all he offers you is a shy smile, before turning and following his friend out the door and away from you, finalizing whatever transaction you may have had.

You feel hollow inside, a shell of the person you were before you had stepped foot inside this apartment.

You ghost around the room, feet padding across the carpet. Your hand rises automatically to your neck, and your fingertips dance along the reddening flesh where you had been bitten and kissed.

A wave of pride swirls with the conflicting guilt in your chest. Seeking comfort, and with nowhere else to go, you gravitate down the hallway, and slip yourself into your best friend’s room, settling in beside her in bed. Letting the blankets swaddle you in warmth.

“Y/n?” She stirs beside you. Your breath hitches and your body freezes.

“Yeah?” You ask shakily, wide eyes staring straight up at the ceiling.

“Thanks for staying. You’re the best friend in the whole world.” Her scratchy voice rings through you like a bolt of lightning, and her hand finds yours under the covers, giving you a gentle squeeze before silence covers you once again.

︶⊹︶���୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

[raeslibrary]

worst kept secret - w.smith

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w.smith x thornton daughter! oc | 8.5k

summary: When San Jose Sharks rookie Will Smith secretly starts dating Riley Thornton—daughter of Sharks legend Joe Thornton and housemate of teammate Macklin Celebrini—he thinks they’ve pulled off the ultimate stealth romance. With whispered rendezvous, late-night escapes, and a suspiciously dented bush, Will and Riley manage to keep their relationship under wraps from everyone… except, well, everyone.

masterlist

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The restaurant was dimly lit and tucked away off a quiet street in downtown San Jose, the kind of place where the lighting was low, the tables were close together, and the world outside felt like it didn't exist. Will reached across the small table, his fingers brushing against Riley's. "You know," he said with a crooked grin, "I still can't believe you picked this place. You're like, weirdly good at Yelp."

Riley smiled, her eyes glowing in the candlelight. "It's not that hard, Will. I just read reviews and don’t get distracted by places with giant burgers in the photos."

"But those are the best photos," he said, laughing softly. His fingers laced with hers under the table. "Six months of this and you still keep surprising me."

She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Best thing," he said, his voice low. "By far."

They’d slipped into this bubble so effortlessly—soft smiles, shared bites of pasta, occasional brushes of knees beneath the table. No one in the restaurant knew who they were. No one cared. They didn’t have to watch their backs, or check if anyone was filming. It was rare.

Riley reached into her purse and pulled out a small, crumpled Polaroid. She passed it to him with a grin. "Remember this?"

Will looked down and chuckled. It was a blurry shot of the two of them from their first official date—him mid-blink, her laughing too hard to keep her eyes open. "You said this was too ugly to keep."

"It grew on me. Like you."

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, absolutely enamored. "You're gonna kill me one day."

They were halfway through dessert—splitting tiramisu, his fork always trying to steal from her side—when Riley suddenly froze. Her hand brushed against his wrist in warning. "Don’t look now, but... is that Eky and Fabes at the bar?"

Will’s smile dropped. "What? No way."

He tilted his head slightly, casual-like, and there they were—William Eklund and Fabian Zetterlund, both in jeans and button downs, standing at the bar like they owned the place.

"What do we do?" Riley hissed, pulling her hand back like it had been caught on fire.

"Shit, shit, okay... act normal. No—wait, don’t act normal. They know what normal looks like." Will scrubbed a hand down his face. "Do we have a back door?"

Riley peeked around, heart hammering in her chest. "Kitchen entrance. There—see the hallway by the washrooms?"

He nodded quickly. "Let’s pay and move. Fast."

They did their best to settle the bill without drawing attention, Riley ducking her head, Will sliding the cash across like he was in a spy movie. Then they stood, trying to move naturally, not too fast, not too slow, weaving toward the washrooms like they were just going for a stroll.

The kitchen door swung open. A server stepped out. Will grabbed Riley’s hand and pulled her with him, slipping through just as it started to close. They burst into the steamy, bright chaos of the kitchen.

"Sorry! Just—emergency," Will muttered to a startled line cook, who blinked but said nothing.

Out the back door. Into the alley. Cool air hit their faces like a splash of water. Riley laughed as they ran, hand in hand, past the dumpsters and out to the parking lot.

They didn’t stop until they reached Will’s car, slightly out of breath, grinning like idiots.

"Okay," Riley said, hands on her hips. "That might have been the most stressful dessert I’ve ever had."

"That was so close," Will gasped, laughing. "You think they saw us?"

"No. I think we got lucky."

They stood there, caught in that in-between moment—adrenaline still buzzing, the quiet hum of the night settling around them. Will looked at her, really looked at her, and something in his chest cracked wide open.

"I love you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out with a kind of reckless honesty, like they'd been pacing behind his teeth for hours, maybe days. He hadn't planned to say it, not tonight, not like this, but in the hush of the parking lot, with her cheeks flushed from laughter and her eyes still wide from their shared escape, it felt impossible not to. It was as if the adrenaline cracked him open and the truth came spilling out, raw and real and totally unfiltered.

Riley blinked. Her lips parted. The world went still.

Then a soft smile crept across her face, eyes glimmering with warmth and surprise. "You do?"

He nodded, heart thudding in his chest. "Yeah. I—I didn’t mean to say it like that, I just… I do. I love you."

Riley stepped closer, her boots crunching softly against the pavement, and lifted her hand to his cheek. Her thumb brushed lightly over his skin, and her eyes didn’t leave his for even a second.

"I love you too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but brimming with certainty. She watched his face as she said it, the way his eyes flickered with a mix of disbelief and relief, and it made her heart squeeze.

"I’ve been wanting to say it for a while," she added, her lips curling into a shy smile. "But I didn’t want to freak you out."

He laughed softly, leaning into her touch. "You could never freak me out."

Riley’s fingers slid back into his hair as she pressed her forehead to his. "You’re stuck with me now, Smith."

"Good," he whispered. "I wouldn’t want it any other way."

He kissed her then, gentle and full, like the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world blur into soft lights and distant sounds. It was the kind of kiss that spoke every word he hadn’t said yet, that carried the weight of six months of stolen moments, whispered jokes, and every time he’d had to pretend she wasn’t his in public. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, anchoring herself to him as if afraid this moment might vanish. His hands slid up from her waist to her back, pulling her closer, until there wasn’t a breath of space left between them. The kiss deepened—still tender, but charged with all the emotion they usually had to hide. It was slow, reverent, like they were both trying to memorize the way this felt, just in case they never got a moment like this again.

Behind them, a car door slammed. They broke apart instantly, heads whipping toward the noise. A couple exited the restaurant, laughing, not even looking their way.

"Close call number two," Riley whispered.

Will grinned, forehead pressed to hers. "Worth every second."

They kissed again, softer this time, and in that small pocket of the parking lot, hidden from everyone, it felt like the world had stopped just for them.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will pulled up a few blocks from the Thornton house, headlights off, engine humming low, the street bathed in the warm amber glow of old-fashioned streetlights. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and for a few extra seconds, neither of them moved. The night was too perfect, too quiet, too suspended in the afterglow of everything that had just happened.

Riley reached for her bag in the back seat, fingers brushing over the strap, but paused when Will gently touched her wrist. His hand lingered there, warm and familiar.

"Text me when you're in," he said, voice low and sincere, like he wanted to memorize every second of these last moments with her.

Riley smiled, leaning across the console so their foreheads touched. "I will. And if I get caught—"

He smirked. "You won’t. You’re too good."

"But if I do, at least it was after the best night ever," she whispered.

Will’s thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. "Still worth it."

She kissed him again—slow and lingering, a quiet promise—and then opened the door. The slam of it was too loud in the sleepy neighborhood. She ducked her head instinctively, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and waved as he eased away from the curb.

Before she could even tuck her phone into her pocket, it buzzed—FaceTime. Will.

She answered with a smirk. "You’re obsessed."

His face appeared on screen, grinning. "Just making sure you get to the door safe. Go on, I wanna watch."

"You are so dramatic," she muttered, but angled the camera to show her feet as she walked. "This is such boyfriend behavior."

"Good thing I’m your boyfriend, then."

She bit back a smile. The closer she got to the house, the more the butterflies stirred in her stomach. She turned the camera to her face when she reached the steps. "Happy now?"

Will grinned. "Very. Sleep tight, Ry."

"You too, Will."

She hung up but didn’t put the phone away. Not yet. The night felt like magic, and she wanted to hold onto every spark of it for as long as she could.

The second she stepped inside, the living room lights were on. Her dad was parked on the couch, headset on, controller in hand. Macklin was beside him, just as focused. Fortnite flashed across the big screen.

Joe paused the game the second he noticed her, his eyes narrowing with a sharpness that made Riley instinctively straighten up. His controller dropped onto the couch cushion beside him with a soft thud, and he pulled the headset down around his neck like a man about to conduct an interrogation.

"Hey," he said, but it wasn’t casual. It was the kind of 'hey' that carried weight, like a loaded question. "Where’ve you been?"

His posture shifted—arms resting heavily on his knees, shoulders squared, the full dad stare in effect. Riley knew that look. It was the same one he used when Macklin snuck into the pantry at midnight or when the boys forgot to rinse their gear after practice. Protective. Sharp. Borderline terrifying.

He glanced at the clock, then back at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "It’s almost midnight. You didn’t answer my last text."

"I was out with Grace," she said quickly, voice light, trying not to sound too defensive.

He arched a brow, not letting up. "Where exactly?"

"Mini golf. That new glow-in-the-dark place near the boardwalk. We’ve been planning it all week."

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at her. Searched her face. Not angry—just locked in full dad-mode. The kind where he didn’t need to raise his voice to make her squirm.

"You drive yourselves? Who else was there?"

Riley swallowed. "Just us. Grace drove."

He tilted his head slightly. "You usually let me know when you’re going out that far. What if something had happened?"

"Nothing happened," she said gently. "I’m fine."

"I know. I’m your dad, Riley. That’s kinda the point."

Macklin, still oblivious, chimed in with perfect timing. "Oh! I think Will went there tonight too. Said he had a date. Did you see him there?"

Joe’s head snapped toward Macklin, then back to Riley.

"No," she said quickly, clutching her bag tighter. "We must’ve just missed him."

Joe’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a line. Something about the way he looked at her made her wonder if she’d slipped up somehow.

Macklin groaned. "Dang. I was hoping you’d get a look at the mystery girl. He’s been so secretive about it."

Joe chuckled, shaking his head, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment before. "Yeah, that kid’s hiding something," he said, voice laced with amusement, but edged with something else—interest, suspicion maybe. He leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, like he was mentally running through the possible girls Will might be seeing. "Secretive little bastard. You’d think after all the hours he spends at the house, I’d get some intel." He smirked, then glanced sideways at Riley. "You ever notice him acting weird lately? I mean, weirder than usual?"

"Nope!" Riley forced a yawn. "Well, I’m exhausted. Night, boys."

"Night," they both mumbled, already back in the game.

She bolted up the stairs, praying her poker face had held up. But the second she opened her bedroom door, she jumped.

Her mom was sitting on her bed.

"Mom—"

"Hi, sweetie." Her mom’s voice was soft, but there was a sharpness in her eyes Riley knew all too well—the quiet kind of knowing that only mothers seemed to have. She patted the spot beside her on the bed, her posture calm, composed, almost too casual. "Sit," she said, but it wasn’t really a request. It was the same tone she used when Riley was five and tried to hide a broken vase behind the couch. That tone that said: I already know the truth, but I’m giving you one last shot to come clean.

Riley obeyed. Her heart raced.

"You were with Grace?"

"Yep. Mini golf. Then ice cream. Home now."

Her mom studied her. "Uh-huh."

Riley gave her best innocent smile. "She already texted you, didn’t she?"

"She did."

Riley exhaled. Nailed it.

But her mom kept looking at her, a knowing expression softening her features. The kind that said, 'You think you're being subtle, but I've been watching you since the day you were born.' Her eyes flicked down to Riley’s fingers still curled around her phone, then back up to her face, lingering just long enough to make Riley feel like a lie was scrawled across her forehead. She didn’t press, though—didn’t need to. Her silence was its own kind of interrogation, gentle but suffocating, wrapped in love and quiet judgment.

"You’re a little too good at that story," she said gently.

Riley opened her mouth to protest, but her mom just kissed her forehead.

"I won’t ask again. But be careful, okay?"

Riley nodded slowly. "Okay."

Her mom gave her a small smile. "Goodnight, baby."

"Night, Mom."

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Riley exhaled fully for the first time all night.

She grabbed her phone and texted Will one word: "Safe."

A second later: "Also, we’re SO bad at this."

He replied instantly: "Speak for yourself. I’m flawless."

She laughed into her pillow, heart full.

And somehow, even with the close calls, the hiding, the lies—it all still felt worth it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Saturday morning hit like a slap to the face.

The rink was humming with the usual buzz—music low, sticks tapping on the rubber flooring, the hiss of skate sharpeners and the occasional burst of laughter from the showers. But Will felt like he was walking a tightrope the moment he stepped into the locker room. He had barely made it to his stall and started unlacing his shoes when Macklin’s voice rang out.

"Yo, Smitty," Mack said from across the room, spinning a puck on his palm. "How was that glow-in-the-dark mini golf place? You said you were taking that girl last night."

Will froze for half a second. His fingers stuttered over his shoelaces before he forced a lazy grin and leaned back. "Oh—uh, yeah. It was... fine."

"Just fine?" Macklin raised an eyebrow. "That place is sick."

"Yeah, well, the date kind of sucked," Will said, trying to keep his tone casual. "She wasn’t really who I thought she was. We didn’t vibe. So I bailed early."

That answer seemed to satisfy Mack, who shrugged and went back to flipping his puck. But before Will could let out a breath of relief, Eklund and Zetterlund came strolling in, mid-conversation.

"I swear I saw his car last night," Eky was saying. "At that restaurant on Third—what’s it called, the Italian one? Real dark lighting, kind of bougie."

"Oh yeah," Fabes added. "That’s where I saw it too. You weren’t at mini golf, man."

Will blinked, caught like a deer in headlights. "No, yeah—I mean, I was. I just... went to get food after. Alone. That restaurant’s got good takeout."

"You got takeout?" Eky asked, suspicious. "You parked?"

Will nodded too quickly. "Yeah. It was late. I didn’t want to eat at home."

Fabian squinted. "You were there for like an hour."

Will’s palms started to sweat. "I was hungry."

The chirping started almost immediately—good-natured, but relentless. Macklin howled with laughter while Eklund clapped his hands like a game show buzzer had just gone off.

"So let me get this straight—you had a bad date, left early, then took yourself to a romantic candlelit restaurant for some alone time?" Eky asked.

"Inspiring," Fabes added. "Real commitment to the solo vibes."

Will rubbed his face. "You guys suck."

Just as the chaos was starting to calm, his phone buzzed in his open duffel bag. He reached for it instinctively and unlocked the screen.

At the top of the screen, glowing in bold letters, was a message from Lover 💫💛.

Will nearly fumbled the phone straight onto the floor.

"OHHHHHH," Macklin sang, his head whipping around. "Who��s Lover💫💛?"

Will scrambled to lock his screen. "Nobody. Just a friend."

"A friend who texts you at nine a.m. with heart emojis?" Eky grinned, voice sing-songy.

Macklin leaned forward like a bloodhound. "Wait—if your date was that bad, how come Lover💫💛 is texting you right now? You sure you bailed early?"

Will opened his mouth and closed it again.

And just then—like fate really had it out for him—Patrick Marleau walked into the room with a coffee in one hand and a towel slung over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah," he said offhandedly, clearly having caught the tail end of the conversation. "Smitty came in late last night. I think it was past one."

Silence fell over the room like a dropped puck.

Will stared at Marleau, who didn’t even blink as he walked past to grab some tape.

Eklund turned slowly toward him. "Late, huh? I thought the date was a bust?"

"I thought you went home," Zetterlund added.

Macklin was staring like he was trying to read Will’s mind. "Wait. Did you—did you go out again? With someone else?"

Will was desperate. He felt like he was being cornered by a pack of wolves.

"Yeah," he blurted. "Yeah, okay. After the first one flopped, I hit up someone else."

The boys erupted.

"PLAYER!" Fabian shouted, laughing.

"Damn, Smitty! The San Jose ladies aren’t safe!" Eklund whooped.

Macklin leaned back, his eyes wide. "Okay, now you have to tell us who it is. What’s her deal? Is she cute? Are you seeing her again?"

Will could feel his soul leaving his body. He gave a weak laugh. "Nah, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Just... spur of the moment."

"Cold," Fabian said. "Ice cold."

They were still teasing him when the coach called them out onto the ice, but Will barely heard it. His brain was a mess. All he could think about was how badly this entire situation was spiraling.

And he still had to find a way to tell Riley.

Three days later, he did. Or rather—Riley found out before he could confess.

He was sitting in his car after practice, sipping a smoothie and scrolling through his phone when a text popped up.

Lover💫💛: should i be worried about my competition? 👀😏

Will stared at the message, groaned out loud, and dropped his head against the steering wheel.

Another text came through.

Lover💫💛: i hear there’s a mystery second girl 😱

Lover💫💛: should i be flattered or insulted that i didn’t make the story? 😂

Will quickly tapped out a reply.

Will: okay in my defense i panicked

Will: they cornered me and marleau BROKE THE CODE

Lover💫💛: lol i thought you were flawless?

Will: 😒 betrayal from within

Lover💫💛: don’t worry. you’re safe... for now. but if you EVER try to “spur of the moment” another girl, i will personally tell my dad everything

Will winced. He knew she would, too.

Will: you’re evil

Lover💫💛: and you love it 😇

He leaned back in his seat, a grin tugging at his lips despite the embarrassment still bubbling under his skin. Somehow, even in chaos, she made everything better.

But seriously—he had to work on his lying game. Or better yet, find a way to make it so they didn’t have to lie at all.

Someday.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

To say the plan was airtight would be a stretch, but Will and Riley had been playing this game long enough to know the drill.

Step one: lie convincingly. Riley told her family she was spending the night at Grace’s. It wasn’t even a big stretch; she’d stayed there before, and Grace had already been prepped to cover.

Step two: clear the house. Her parents and siblings—Alya and River—were off at the new movie everyone had been hyping for weeks, complete with dinner reservations after. Macklin, who was usually the wildcard, had texted earlier to say he had a date and wouldn’t be back until late. That was a win.

Step three: park Will’s car three blocks over, behind a long hedge on a side street where no one would look twice.

And step four: finally, finally relax.

They were curled up on Riley’s bed in her room—second floor, blinds drawn, lights low, the TV casting soft glows across the walls. Riley’s head rested on Will’s chest, his arm around her shoulders, thumb gently brushing her upper arm. They were on season three of New Girl, and while Riley adored the show, she could hardly believe that Will had been the one to suggest it.

“You’re seriously obsessed,” she teased, glancing up at him during a commercial break.

Will gave her a look that was part sheepish, part proud. “It’s elite television. Schmidt is a cultural icon. I don’t make the rules.”

Riley snorted. “You said you’d never seen it before we started.”

“I lied. I watched, like, four seasons in secret freshman year. Don’t tell anyone.”

She laughed, burying her face in his sweatshirt. “Your secret’s safe with me, Smitty.”

But before Will could come back with a sarcastic quip, the sound of the front door clicking shut echoed faintly from downstairs.

They both froze.

Will’s hand paused mid-circle on her arm. Riley sat up slowly.

“Did you—?”

“I definitely—”

“Someone’s home.”

Will was already moving, bolting upright and scrambling off the bed like a man in a spy movie. Riley followed, peeking out the window just in time to hear footsteps in the hallway.

Then: “Hey Ry!”

Macklin’s voice.

Crap.

“Wanna watch a movie or something? I’m bored and my date didn’t go well. Just another clout chaser. Oh—by the way, did you see that car down the street? Looks exactly like Will’s. Kinda sus, right? Oh and speaking of Will, did you know he loves to watch New Girl? Have you seen it? Should we try it tonight??”

Will, in the corner, was flailing silently. His mouth was open in horror, arms gesturing wildly in a panicked charade that screamed make him go away.

Riley’s eyes were wild as she pointed at the door. Macklin’s footsteps were getting closer.

Will mouthed, “DO SOMETHING!”

Riley threw her hands up and made a split-second decision.

As the doorknob began to turn, she shrieked: “MACK NO! I’M CHANGING—NAKED! I’M, UHH, CHANGING SO I’M NAKED. GIMME A SEC!”

The footsteps stopped. A beat of silence.

“Okay, sheesh,” Macklin said, unbothered. “I’ll be in the guest house. Gonna set up the show.”

They heard him shuffle away.

Will collapsed onto the floor, face buried in the carpet. “I’m gonna die. This is how I die. Heart attack at nineteen. Cause of death: panic.”

“We need to get you out,” Riley whispered, already scanning the room.

“I parked three blocks away, Riley. We’re upstairs. This house has like thirty windows. It’s a fortress of doom.”

They started whisper-arguing, huddled by her bedroom door, trying to figure out the logistics of sneaking Will out without Macklin noticing. Every creaky floorboard felt like a landmine.

Step by painful step, they crept down the staircase, Riley leading the way, Will behind her trying not to breathe too loudly. The house was mostly dark, save for the soft glow of a hallway lamp near the front. The stairs creaked ominously with every shift of weight, and both of them paused more than once, holding their breath at the slightest sound.

Halfway down, Riley whispered over her shoulder, “You’re walking like you weigh five hundred pounds.”

“I’m literally trying not to die,” Will hissed back.

They made it to the bottom without detection, dodging into the hallway beside the front door. Will wiped his palms on his jeans, adrenaline rushing like he was sneaking out of some high-security vault instead of a suburban house. He reached for the door—

Then the flash of headlights spilled across the foyer.

Riley’s breath caught. “Oh no. My dad.”

“What?!”

“I thought they were going to dinner after the movie!”

Panic overtook reason. Riley shoved Will toward the front door with surprising force.

“What are you—” he started.

“Just GO!” she hissed.

The door flung open and she practically launched him out onto the front steps. The sound of a car door slammed from outside.

Riley shoved him out the front door and directly into the massive hedge beside the porch.

There was a rustle, a yelp, and a very clear, “Son of a—Riley!”

“Shh!” she hissed. “Hide better!”

The front doorknob turned again and she slammed it shut behind her, bolting to the back of the house like a cartoon character. She sprinted across the yard and slipped into the guest house just in time to hear the front door open.

Inside the bush, Will sat hunched, tangled in twigs and half-covered in leaves. His hoodie had a stick poking out of the hood. A spider crawled up his sleeve. His entire body was buzzing with nerves, but all he could do was sit still.

He watched the Thornton family walk past the front foyer, chatting casually. Joe, Alya, and River. The coast was almost clear—

Until he looked up.

In the second-story foyer window, two faces were pressed against the glass.

River.

And Tabea.

Riley’s mom. Very observant. Very amused.

Tabea smiled, wide and smug, then gave a small wave. Her hand rotated into a ‘shoo, shoo’ motion. River, bless his soul, looked confused but entertained.

Will mouthed please no and Tabea just winked.

Humiliated, Will gave a tight, sheepish wave, rubbed the back of his neck, and started jogging toward his car.

When he finally reached it, he dove in like a man escaping war. His phone buzzed in the console.

From Lover💫💛: sorry for the bush shove 😂

From Lover💫💛:: also u screamed. not very stealthy of u

From Lover💫💛: but also you’re welcome. i saved your life

From Tabea: caught! lol. don’t worry i won’t tell 🤭

From Macklin: bro i’m watching new girl rn with Ry

From Macklin: SCHMIDT IS ELITE

Will leaned his head back against the headrest and groaned.

This was getting out of hand.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Riley had known this moment was coming.

The morning after the bush incident, she tiptoed into the kitchen like someone sneaking into a crime scene. The house was quiet save for the hum of the coffee machine and the low murmur of the morning news on the TV. She’d barely made it three steps inside before she saw her mom—Tabea—at the kitchen island, coffee in hand, reading glasses perched on her nose, the picture of calm but with that trademark glint of knowing in her eyes.

"Morning," Tabea said, without looking up.

Riley hesitated. "...Morning."

She tried to sneak past her like she was still twelve and hiding bad report cards in her backpack, but the moment she reached for the fridge, her mom spoke again.

"So," Tabea began, voice too casual, eyes still on her tablet. "How’s Will?"

Riley froze mid-step, one hand on the fridge handle, a flush of heat rushing up her neck.

"W-What?"

Her mom looked up then, eyes warm and full of mischief. "You know, Will. Will Smith. Hockey star. Hidden in my hydrangeas last night like a raccoon. That Will."

Riley groaned, slumping against the fridge door. "Oh my god. You saw that?"

"I saw the top of his head rustling like a cartoon. And so did River, by the way. You’re lucky your dad’s terrible with peripheral vision."

Riley buried her face in her hands. "This is so bad. I was gonna tell you, I swear. I just didn’t know how."

Tabea chuckled and got up to pour another cup of coffee. She handed one to Riley, nudging her gently toward the bar stools. "Relax, kiddo. I’m not mad. Honestly, I’m mostly impressed."

Riley blinked. "You are?"

Her mom nodded, sitting across from her. "Will’s a good guy. Polite, driven, respectful. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way you smile when you look at him. So... I approve."

Riley let out a long, relieved breath, slumping forward onto the counter. "I really thought you were going to ground me or something."

"Oh no, I’m saving the punishment for the part where you shoved him into a bush."

Riley winced. "Desperate times."

Tabea smirked. "You could’ve at least warned him first. I had to keep River from reenacting the whole thing with his ROBLOX this morning."

They both laughed. The tension that had been building in Riley’s chest for days melted a little, replaced by something warmer. The kind of warmth that came from knowing you weren’t alone in something complicated.

But then her mom leaned in, dropping her voice like she was revealing state secrets.

"Now, about your brother."

Riley groaned. "River saw too, didn’t he?"

"Saw and enjoyed the show. And you know that boy can’t keep a secret to save his life, especially around Macklin. He worships that kid. One casual conversation and we’re all doomed."

Riley covered her face again. "I’m so doomed."

"Not necessarily," Tabea said, sipping her coffee with all the calm of a woman who had already played this game and won. "You just need to bribe him."

"Bribe an eleven-year-old?"

"Bribe him well."

Riley stared at her mom for a beat. Then she sighed. "I’ll figure something out."

—

Cornering River took strategy. He was slippery and fast, always bouncing from one obsession to another—video games, hockey, Macklin Celebrini. She caught him one afternoon post-practice, lounging on the couch in his Sharks hoodie and eating cereal while watching old Macklin highlights on YouTube.

"Hey Riv," she said, sliding in next to him with a smile she hoped looked friendly and not desperate.

"Hi," he said through a mouthful of Cheerios, eyes never leaving the screen.

She eyed him. "So. About the other night."

He paused mid-spoon.

"What about it?"

"You saw something."

River blinked innocently. "I saw lots of things."

Riley narrowed her eyes. "Bush. Boy. You know what I’m talking about."

He grinned slowly, the picture of smugness. "You mean when you shoved Will Smith into Mom’s hydrangeas?"

She slapped a hand over his mouth and looked around wildly. "Lower your voice!"

He pulled her hand off with a look of offense. "Relax. It’s just me."

"Exactly. And you’re the liability. So I need you not to tell anyone. Especially Dad. Or Macklin. Especially Macklin."

River gave a dramatic sigh and leaned back like a mob boss considering a deal. "Fine. I won’t say anything."

Riley’s shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank—"

"Under one condition."

She froze. "What?"

"You have to drive me to hockey. And whenever I want to go out."

She gaped at him. "Go out? You’re eleven. Where would you even go?"

"Not my problem," he said cheerfully. "Also—I want snacks on the way. Real ones. Not apple slices."

"I don’t drive!"

River shrugged. "You have a boyfriend who does. Figure it out."

Which is how, two days later, Will found himself in the driver’s seat of his brand new Ford Bronco with Riley in the passenger seat and River in the back, smug as ever, acting like he was royalty with state secrets locked behind his mischievous grin.

“Thanks for this,” Riley mumbled as Will pulled out of the driveway.

Will gave her a long-suffering look. “I am being blackmailed by a middle schooler.”

“Technically, we are.”

River leaned forward. “Can we get slushies after?”

“No,” they both said in unison.

And from that day forward, anytime Riley tried to skip out on a River-dropoff, he’d just send her a knowing look—the kind of look that said I know things. And every time, she’d shut up and climb into the car without protest. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Why does Riley always get so quiet around River?” Alya asked once.

“She’s probably scared of his Fortnite kill count,” Macklin joked.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It was a random Tuesday when it all started to unravel again.

Riley had stopped by the Sharks facility to drop something off for her dad—just a spare charger and a sweatshirt. She was walking through the hall when Mario Ferraro caught sight of her.

“Hey, Riley,” he said. “Your dad’s not in his office, but he’s around. Oh—hey, isn’t that Smitty’s sweater?”

Riley froze. She looked down.

It was a black hoodie. Very oversized. Subtle logo near the wrist. The number 2 printed faintly on the sleeve.

Crap.

“Oh,” she stammered. “No. It’s Macklin’s.”

Mario raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Thought he was wearing his black one today.”

“I mean—he has multiple. I think. Anyway—I gotta go!”

She speed-walked out of the hallway like it was on fire. Mario watched her go, eyebrows furrowed.

“...But there’s a number 2 on the hood,” he said to himself.

From that moment, the veterans on the team started watching more closely.

First it was the way Will smiled every time his phone buzzed. Like, grinned—soft and sweet in a way most of them had never seen. Then it was how he always had a smoothie on game days—one that conveniently matched the one Riley had in her hand when she stopped by. Not from the café near the rink either. From a place across the city. That took coordination.

There were bracelets—subtle, barely visible, but clearly matching. Hers had a tiny silver "W." His had a tiny letter “R.”

Then there were the glances. Not subtle ones. Full-on longing, heart-eyes, across-the-room movie magic nonsense. Like they forgot other people had eyes.

By the time the Sharks’ annual charity gala rolled around, most of the older guys already had their suspicions.

Will arrived in a deep maroon suit that looked like it belonged on the red carpet. Sleek, sharp, clearly not chosen last minute. Five minutes later, Riley walked in wearing a maroon dress—long, form-fitting, elegant as hell, the kind of dress that made people stop talking mid-sentence.

They didn’t arrive together. Didn’t touch once all night. They mingled like professionals, always in separate circles, but never out of each other’s line of sight.

But the veterans didn’t miss the matching colors. Or the way Will’s eyes followed her every time she walked past. Or the way she accidentally let a hand brush his arm when she slipped behind him to greet someone. Or how his smile lingered just a beat too long.

No one said anything. Not yet.

But the vets shared a knowing look. The kind that said: we see you. And now, it was just a matter of time.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

For a guy with killer instincts on the ice, Macklin Celebrini was alarmingly oblivious off it.

Will and Riley’s relationship had been going on for months now—hidden in plain sight, wrapped up in a string of inside jokes, soft glances, and near-catastrophic slip-ups. And while the veterans were beginning to connect the dots and River had them under playful blackmail, Macklin remained… blissfully unaware.

And that wasn’t for lack of opportunity.

It started on a quiet Thursday. The team had a rare off day, and Macklin, ever the extrovert, found himself bored and wandering. He decided to swing by the Marleau house, figuring Will would be around to kill time with him. Patrick opened the front door with a warm smile, still in his Sharks hoodie and holding a cup of coffee.

“Hey, kid. You looking for Will?”

Macklin nodded. “Yeah, just bored. Thought I’d come hang out. He around?”

Patrick shook his head, casual as ever. “Nah, he didn’t tell you? He’s out. Said he was going to see that new Marvel movie—something about Captain America or whatever. Seemed pumped.”

“Oh,” Macklin said, brows lifting. “Nice. I asked Riley if she wanted to do something earlier too, but she said she already had plans to go see that same movie.”

Patrick blinked, then shrugged. “Must be popular.”

“Guess so,” Macklin said, scratching the back of his neck. “Weird coincidence.”

And that was it. That was all he thought of it. Not that Will and Riley were together. Not that they were probably sitting side-by-side in the back row sharing popcorn and whispering their favorite lines. No, to Macklin, it was just a fluke in timing and taste.

Then there was the ring incident.

A week later, the two of them had carpooled to the arena for morning skate. Will was driving, music playing low, windows cracked to let in the cool air. Macklin had tossed his gear in the back and hopped in without a second thought.

They were halfway through traffic when Macklin reached down to adjust his seat and noticed something glinting in the cup holder.

“What’s this?” he asked, holding up a small gold ring with a delicate pearl in the center.

Will swerved slightly.

“Whoa,” Macklin laughed. “Dude, relax. Is this Riley’s?”

Will’s mouth opened and shut. Then opened again. “Uh—yeah. Kind of. She, uh, she dropped it at a team thing. I think. I told her I’d get it back to her, but I keep forgetting.”

Macklin frowned, rolling the ring between his fingers. “We haven’t had a team thing in, like, two weeks.”

Will nodded far too quickly. “Yeah, no—I mean, it was more of a small one. Not everyone was invited. Kinda like a mini-meeting. Media stuff. You know how it is.”

Macklin looked confused but shrugged. “Weird. She wears this thing everywhere.”

Will let out a nervous laugh. “She’ll get it back. Promise.”

Macklin didn’t question it again. Just handed the ring back and cranked up the volume on the music like the whole conversation never happened. Will spent the rest of the drive silently cursing every decision that led to this moment.

But the worst—the absolute worst—slip-up happened two weeks after that.

It was a chill Friday night, and Eklund, Zetterlund, and Macklin were out grabbing food at a little bar-restaurant combo downtown. Will had been invited, obviously, but he’d sent a last-minute text: Rain check. Something came up.

Typical.

They were just settling into their booth when they caught sight of a figure bolting past the restaurant’s wide glass windows—a blur of motion, tall and fast and laughing under his breath.

“Was that—” Eklund leaned forward.

“Will?” Zetterlund finished.

The figure paused just long enough at the edge of the frame, hoodie half-zipped, signature gait unmistakable. And beside him, a girl with long, bright blonde hair, wrapped in a long coat and moving just as quickly.

Macklin squinted. “Looks like him. Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

Zetterlund and Eklund shared a look.

“Could’ve sworn that was his hoodie,” Eky said.

Fabes nodded. “And isn’t that Riley’s hair color?”

“She said she was busy tonight with Grace,” Macklin added helpfully, sipping his Sprite. “Probably wasn’t her.”

The other two just looked at each other.

“Yeah,” Zetterlund said slowly. “Probably not.”

The next morning, Riley showed up at the practice facility. Hair in a loose braid, sweatshirt tied around her waist, sipping from the exact smoothie shop she and Will had made their thing. She stopped by her dad’s office like usual, waved at the media crew, and paused to say hi to the players.

Eklund and Zetterlund were in the locker room when she passed.

Zetterlund turned to Eklund. “That was her.”

“Definitely.”

“She was with Will.”

“Yup.”

“Think Macklin’s figured it out yet?”

Eklund looked over at Macklin, who was humming a random tune while trying to juggle two tape rolls and a stick.

“Not even close.”

They shared a long, amused silence.

“Should we tell him?” Fabes asked.

Eky shook his head. “Nah. Let him figure it out.”

And so the chaos continued. Riley and Will, dancing the thin line between secrecy and exposure. Macklin, somehow always inches away from the truth, but never quite stepping over the line.

If anything, it had become a game.

A very stressful, heart-palpitating, constantly-about-to-get-caught game.

But it was kind of fun. Kind of thrilling. And at the very least—it gave Will and Riley stories they’d laugh about later. Assuming Macklin never figured it out first.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Will really thought he was slick.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when he pulled up to the Thornton house. He double-checked the text Macklin had sent earlier—something about being with family out of town for the weekend. Perfect. No risk of Macklin chaos. The plan? Play it casual. Say he dropped by to hang out. Kill time in the basement with Riley like they always did when Mack was around. Same story, different day.

He parked across the street like he usually did, tucked a little too close to the neighbor’s curb. It had become a routine by now: park out of view, sneak in, spend the afternoon curled up with Riley watching some Netflix series they’d sworn they wouldn’t binge without the other.

He knocked once before letting himself in, greeted only by the faint sounds of a hockey game playing in the living room. Joe was there, lounging on the couch in sweats, phone in one hand, remote in the other.

Will stepped inside, trying to keep his voice even. “Hey, Joe. Just came to see if Mack was around. Thought we’d hang out.”

Joe didn’t even look up. “Mack’s out of town. With his mom for the weekend.”

“Oh. Right. Uh—yeah, sh-shoot. Maybe I’ll just hang out with Riley for a bit. Maybe go watch that new movie in the basement.”

Joe nodded once, barely reacting. “Sure.��

Will turned toward the stairs, internally patting himself on the back for a smooth entry—when Joe’s voice rang out again.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, still staring at his phone, “I got a text from the neighbor. Said if you’re gonna park across from his house every night to drop Riley off, maybe don’t keep driving over his curb.”

Will froze mid-step.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I—uh—”

“I mean,” Joe continued casually, “I don’t know why you keep parking there, kiddo. We have a driveway. Pretty sure it would save you the trouble of Ry having to walk down the street late at night.”

Will blinked. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. It was like his brain had short-circuited and all he could do was stand there, staring at Joe with full-on deer-in-headlights panic.

Still, Joe didn’t look up.

“Oh, and,” he added, almost offhandedly, “Tabea says you’re helping her fix the dent you left in the front bush.”

Will’s heart fell into his stomach, ice flooding his veins like he’d just missed an empty-net shot in overtime. He stared at Joe, frozen, every nerve in his body screaming. “You… you know?”

Joe finally glanced up. His smirk was infuriatingly calm. “Will. You and Riley are the worst liars I’ve ever met.”

Will gaped. “But—we’ve been so careful.”

Joe snorted. “Careful? You sneak in like it’s Mission Impossible, leave hoodies in our daughter's room, park in the same exact spot every night, and whisper to each other like the walls aren’t made of drywall.”

Will sank onto the nearest armchair, rubbing his face. “Oh my god.”

Joe chuckled, setting his phone down. “Look, I’m not mad. You’re a good kid. I’ve seen the way you treat her. You two think you’re fooling the world, but you’ve been fooling exactly one person. And that’s Macklin. Which, I mean—God love the kid, but let’s be honest…”

Will groaned. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re just young,” Joe said, leaning back. “But not an idiot. You’ve been respectful, you’ve been kind, and as far as I can tell, you make her happy. That’s what matters.”

Will looked up, still shell-shocked. “So… you’re okay with it?”

Joe shrugged. “You’re not sneaking around anymore. That’s the only thing I care about. If you’re gonna be around this house, we do it the right way. None of this back-door, bush-diving, parking-sneaky nonsense.”

Just then, Riley came down the stairs with a bounce in her step, clearly unaware of the conversation she was walking into.

“Hey, Dad. Hey, Will. Ready to—” She stopped when she saw the expression on Will’s face. “What happened?”

Joe stood up, stretching his arms. “Ry, why don’t you help your mom set the table? Your boyfriend will be joining us for a proper dinner where we talk about the new rules in the house with you two.”

Riley’s face drained of color. “You what?”

Joe was already heading toward the kitchen. “Come on, Ry. Chop chop.”

She turned to Will, wide-eyed. “What did you do?”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t do anything. He knew. He knew all along.”

They stared at each other in stunned silence, the weight of Joe’s words still settling like bricks on their shoulders. Will looked like he’d been hit by a puck to the chest, and Riley’s jaw was practically on the floor. Then, from the kitchen, Joe’s voice floated back in—bright, amused, and far too cheerful for the emotional damage he’d just caused.

“And Will, no more parking like a lunatic, alright? The neighbor’s this close to leaving a note.”

From the kitchen came the clatter of plates and a soft burst of laughter. Tabea’s voice rang out: “You owe me a new hydrangea bush, Smith!”

Will slumped deeper into the couch. “They’re enjoying this way too much.”

Riley nodded slowly. “So much for thinking we were subtle.”

And as they shuffled toward the kitchen for what was now officially the most awkward dinner of their lives, they were met with two smug parents and the smell of garlic bread.

“You know,” Tabea said as she handed Riley a stack of plates, “we were going to let it slide a little longer. But you two just made it too entertaining.”

Joe raised his glass with a smirk. "To the world’s worst secret relationship. Honestly, we didn’t even need to see you look at each other anytime Will was around." He chuckled, setting his drink down. "Patty actually tipped us off a while ago. Said he kept noticing Will coming in late—like really late—and every time, it lined up with when Riley was gone with "Grace". Then there was Ry moping around the house during road trips, then suddenly perking up the second you were home again. Tabea and I figured it out way back and decided to just sit back and enjoy the show. Honestly? It’s been hilarious."

Will groaned into his hands.

Riley looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.

And yet—somewhere between the teasing, the garlic bread, and the new house rules (which included, notably, no more hiding in bushes), it didn’t feel all that terrible.

It felt… kind of nice.

Because now, they weren’t sneaking. They weren’t hiding.

They were just Will and Riley.

And finally, everyone knew. Well—except for Macklin. But that was a problem for another day.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It was a sunny, chill kind of afternoon—exactly the type that screamed off-day energy. The Marleaus were hosting one of their classic post-road-trip lunches. Nothing fancy. Just family, a grill on the deck, a few dogs sprinting through the backyard, and a healthy dose of hockey players lounging on patio chairs like exhausted golden retrievers.

The Thorntons were there too, all four of them. Joe had brought wine, Tabea brought a massive pasta salad, and Riley… well, Riley brought Will. Though technically, Will had come from upstairs—he was still living with the Marleaus as part of his billet arrangement, which made this whole inter-family hangout even more chaotic in retrospect. Because after Joe’s legendary reveal, the sneaking had officially ended. Everyone knew they were together. And since then, the couple had settled into a casual comfort that radiated through every room they walked into.

Everyone knew.

Well.

Almost everyone.

Because somehow—somehow—Macklin Celebrini still hadn’t figured it out.

They weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. Riley and Will were curled up together on the Marleaus’ living room couch, his arm slung over her shoulder, her feet tucked beneath her. They were talking to Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner, who had dropped by while the Leafs were in town to visit the veterans and their families.

Auston greeted the Thorntons warmly, hugging Riley like she was a younger cousin. Mitch followed suit, ruffling River’s hair and grinning.

“So, Jumbo,” Mitch said as he plopped down across from Joe, already grinning, “I gotta know. How were you so chill when you found out Smitty was dating Riley behind your back?”

There was a pause.

A brief, flickering silence.

And then Macklin, who had been mid-bite of his sandwich, laughed.

“What?” he snorted. “What do you mean? Will and Ri—”

He stopped.

The laughter died in his throat.

He looked around the room.

At Will, who had the decency to freeze mid-sip of his drink.

At Riley, who looked down at her lap, trying to suppress a smile.

At the rest of the room, which was suspiciously quiet.

Macklin’s eyes darted from face to face.

Joe.

Tabea.

Patrick.

Auston.

Mitch.

Everyone was looking at him with the exact same expression: mild amusement and a you just now figured this out? glint in their eyes.

He turned slowly, finally letting his gaze fall on Riley and Will.

Riley had leaned into Will’s side, her hand resting on his knee. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.

“What…” Macklin started slowly. “WHAT?!”

His voice cracked with genuine disbelief. “No. No. You’re kidding. This is a bit, right? This is one of those inside joke things I’m just not in on. Will and Riley?”

Will gave him a small wave.

“Hi.”

Riley smiled apologetically. “Hey, Mack.”

“No. No way. I live with you, Riley. And Will, you’re my best friend. There’s no way you could’ve been together this whole time without me noticing. I would have known! I’ve walked into the kitchen and seen you two sitting on the same side of the table—I just thought you were bad at spacing! You guys always claimed you were just watching TV and, like, sharing smoothies. But we all share smoothies! Or at least—I thought we did! Was I the third wheel in my own house?!”

Auston choked on his drink.

Mitch doubled over laughing.

“Dude,” Patty wheezed from the other side of the room. “Come on.”

“You mean to tell me,” Macklin said, pointing between them, “that this has been happening under my nose for MONTHS?! And all those girls Will was supposedly going on dates with? The ones he said never worked out because they were ‘too loud’ or ‘didn’t vibe’? THAT WASN’T REAL? And the contact in your phone labeled ‘Lover’ that we all joked about??”

Will coughed. “Yeah… that’s always been Riley.”

Macklin looked like he was short-circuiting. “I made fun of you for weeks about that contact name and you didn’t say anything??”

Will shrugged helplessly. “I thought you were kidding. And technically, you weren’t wrong.”

Joe leaned over, clapping Macklin on the back. “It’s okay, kiddo. I told Will I approved as long as he promised to stop hiding in our bush.”

Macklin’s jaw dropped. “The bush?? You mean—that bush?”

Tabea nodded sagely. “It was a tragic loss. Hydrangeas never recovered.”

“I—HOW DID I MISS THIS?” Macklin yelled, standing now, arms flailing as he began pacing the room. “You were literally in our house all the time. I thought you just liked dinner a lot! I thought you liked hanging out with me a lot!”

Riley was giggling now, hiding behind Will’s shoulder.

Will was bright red.

Joe was openly enjoying this far too much.

“And the smoothies! The matching bracelets! The way Will would blow us off during off days!”

“Honestly, I thought you had figured it out like, ten different times,” Fabes said from the armchair.

“Same,” Eky added. “But then you just… didn’t.”

“I’m so dumb.” Macklin groaned, dropping back onto the couch and putting his head in his hands. “I can’t believe this. You were RIGHT THERE. ALL THE TIME.”

Tabea passed him a lemonade. “You’re not dumb, Mack. Just… sweetly oblivious.”

Will leaned forward. “You okay, buddy?”

Macklin peeked through his fingers. “No. I need a second to grieve the trust I thought we had.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Riley said, still laughing.

“I’m allowed! I feel betrayed! You guys made me sit through so many awkward movie nights and I thought it was just the vibes being weird. You were probably playing footsie under the blanket!”

They absolutely were.

Joe raised his drink. “To Macklin. The last to know. But still very much loved.”

Everyone clinked their glasses, grinning.

And Macklin, despite himself, smiled too.

“Okay,” he said finally. “But like… just tell me next time, okay? I can keep a secret. I swear.”

Will and Riley exchanged a look.

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Okay,” Macklin muttered. “Fair.”

[raeslibrary]

like a man - fraser minten

hi!

i haven’t really written anything like this in years, but this entire thing was single-handedly inspired by this specific picture of fraser. if it flops i’ll just pretend it never existed lmao

(also should admit i did write it with a specific oc in mind but eventually decided to make it a 2nd person’s pov)

last thing, feedback is very appreciated, even if it’s about correcting some mistakes that might be in here (hate pulling this card, but i will: english is not my first language)

enjoy this lil think piece about my boy 🥹

warnings: none really, it gets a little suggestive towards the end but nothing nsfw happens

it all started with a silly conversation.

topics were changing quickly during the hangout session with your friends, as per usual, when his name came up. “how’s fraser doing, down in providence?” one of them asked, after they teased you for smiling down at your phone. you didn’t even try to fight it, you knew it was obvious to them that you were talking to him.

“pretty well, he told me. he seems to be getting along with the boys. he’s got a couple days off at the beginning of april.”

“you gonna fly out, eh?” the knowing smirk of another member of the group made you shrug and simply mutter a quiet ‘i wish’, that was welcomed by some jokingly disappointed boos and questions.

“guys, i got work to do, essays, other stuff.”

“do it in providence, then.”

that sounded way too easy and dismissive of the problem. and yet, with every passing second, it became a more and more plausible scenario. you knew it was irrational and unmotivated, hell, he’d barely been gone for a couple of weeks, but you missed fraser like crazy. your friends joked that you avoided talking about him like the plague, but that was just your way of avoiding thinking about the fact that he was in a different country without you by his side.

then the ultimatum: ‘you either book that flight yourself or we’ll do it for you.’

and what else was a poor thing who just wanted to spend some time with the boyfriend-who-got-suddenly-traded to do? “…fine.”

you were almost embarrassed by how little convincing it took to make you agree to that. sure, even when you were both in toronto, you hardly ever saw each other everyday, but it was different. it was comforting, knowing that he was around the corner like that. an omnipresent feeling of closeness that was ripped away all of a sudden.

it’s good for him, you kept saying. it’s the right thing. he’s doing great. you were already spiralling.

packing was fairly easy: you weren’t scared of forgetting something, the thought of just being able to steal his clothes instead spread warmth into your chest.

the hard part was acting normal on face time, pretending like you weren’t just doing something travel-related or, even worse, making excuses on the day of the flight as to why you couldn’t answer his calls.

‘oh okay, i’ll talk to you later then :)’

god, how did he manage to be so damn sweet even through a stupid text?

once landed in boston, after going through customs and security, you got on the bus that’d take you to providence. you’d never even really acknowledged the existence of the city, and now it seemed like holy ground.

after an excruciating extra hour of travel, you finally got to the city centre, and decided to walk to fraser’s place. he’d shown you around on call before, and you’d spent an hour on google maps trying to figure out the exact address of the apartment complex, all to avoid asking him the odd and unprompted question.

your stomach twisted slightly. you almost couldn’t believe you were finally a couple walls away from your boyfriend’s pretty face and smitten smile. with anxious, trembling fingers, you pressed the call button, bouncing on your own feet while you waited.

“hey, baby. everything alright?” and man, did he look good. soft and relaxed, with his head propped against a couple of pillows and with those clear-framed glasses decorating that pretty face that left you unironically out of breath from time to time.

“yeah, uhm…” you flipped the camera, making sure to show as much of the street as you could. “you live here, right?”

you were welcomed by a bewildered expression, mouth agape in disbelief. a couple of seconds of silence passed, before he finally managed to mumble a quiet '…what the hell?'

you scratched the back of your neck with your free hand, placing it back on the handle of your suitcase right after. “what, you’re not gonna come get me?”

the screen of your phone showed fraser literally jumping up from his bed, running down the stairs of the building like he was a sprinter at the olympics, all with a doopey smile and slightly damp eyes.

you heard the entrance door opening, and glanced away from the call and towards your boyfriend, as handsome as ever, if not more. he had the slightest bit of stubble you hadn't really noticed before, probably a result of not shaving for a couple of days. your eyes watered, but you quickly shook it off. you were never really one to cry in public spaces, especially not joyful tears.

he closed the gap between you two in a microsecond, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you up and spinning you around. you probably looked like one of those ridiculously romantic couples reuiniting at the train station after a war in old black and white movies.

“you have no idea how much i missed you.” he whispered so close to your ear, like he was scared someone could hear it and intrude into your shared moment.

“i think you might be underrating me a little.”

he laughed, and so did you. he sighed and finally allowed himself to press his lips to yours. it was soft, sweet, filled with unspoken feelings that you knew would find their way out of him later on, in a more private setting.

“god, i can’t believe you’re actually here.” he mumbled, while shaking his head repetedly. his hands were everywhere on you: your back, your face, your neck, like he couldn't decide which part of you would make you feel closest to him as possible.

you went to grab your suitcase again, but its handle got practically ripped out of your hand by fraser, who carried it like it weighed nothing for the several flights of stairs.

the second you both got through the door, he barely had time to close it before you were on him, holding him in the tightest hug you’d ever shared, like you weren’t standing in the middle of his apartment and instead he could just walk out on you any minute.

“you want something to eat? drink?” to which you just shook your head, murmuring back a barely audible “i just want you.”

he somehow managed to further tighten his hold on you, leaving a trail of kisses all over your face. between shared giggles, twisted limbs trying to get to the bedroom and low and secretive whispers shared between the two of you, you found yourselves laying on the bed, bodies and souls entangled alike.

“you look…different.” you murmured, almost shyly, while your fingertips grazed the high points of his face. he always leaned in your touch in moments like that, and you knew he loved every bit of physical contact he could get, he’d always had.

“different good or different bad?”

“good, obviously.” you laughed, shaking your head to fake disappointment. he had an inquisitive look to him that told you he didn’t quite understand what you meant, but honestly? neither did you.

“you just… i don’t know, you look like a man. hell, you even got a beard.” you said after a couple of seconds of quietness, your face lighting up as soon as fraser bursted into a laugh.

“baby, i’d hardly call this a beard.”

“fine, call it however you want.” a playful roll of eyes accompanied the sentence, followed shortly by a sweet, honey-dripping smile. “it just caught me off guard. it wasn’t here when you left.” you continued, your hands still holding the underside of his jaw, thumbs brushing the sparse and bristly hair on the surface.

a few minutes went by where you two just stood in silence, finally able to enjoy each other's physical presence, touch and feel each other's warmth, before he left a feather-light kiss on your forehead. “i miss you.” he simply said, like he didn't just make your heart beat out of your chest with those three words.

“'m right here, angel.” you replied, voice low to try and not let him fully aknowledge the effect his mere existence had on you. he knew, though, you could tell by that small and smug grin smeared across his face.

your touch on his face got firmer, not quite grabbing, but close to it. you pushed your lips against his, trying to express in that kiss everything you wouldn’t know how to say out loud, with real words that made sense.

nothing made sense to you, that was possibly the biggest concern. it didn’t make sense that his team traded him, it didn’t make sense that he had to move so far away on such short notice, and it didn’t make sense that, now that you two were back together, it felt as if he’d never really left.

the kiss escalated quicker than either of you would’ve liked to admit, but you knew you needed it. needed the closure, the intimacy, needed to feel each other in that reserved, sacred way no one else could. you both sat up on the bed, hands exploring under each other’s shirts like it was something new, touching every inch of skin on their trail.

fraser pulled you in his lap, brought his kisses from your lips all the way down the column of your throat, while his arms were steady, wrapped around you. his touch was so tender and delicate it almost reminded you of your first time together, the fondness of that memory made you smile against his lips.

“what’s up?” he asked, not before matching your content grin.

you shrugged and let out a chuckle. “nothing, i just missed this.”

he just laughed with you, holding you impossibly tighter before laying you back down the bed, his body slotting perfecly between your open legs like he belonged there. and, truly, he did.

"it's a good thing we can just stay in bed like this for days, then." he smirked, his hands traveling lower until they grabbed your hips, and that's how you knew he really meant what he said. and you were definitely in for it.

[raeslibrary]

mine | f minten

hello, 18+ material!

It doesn’t even take five seconds after you shut the door.

Fraser grabs your wrist, spins you, and slams you up against it—hard enough to rattle the frame, your gasp punched from your lungs.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, hungry, mean—his hand already pushing up under your skirt, ripping your panties to the side like they’re in the way.

“Thought I didn’t notice?” he growls, lips at your jaw. “You letting that fucker touch you?”

Your head falls back. “Fraser—”

“Don’t.” His voice drops—low, wrecked, dangerous. “You smiled at him.”

“He said something funny—”

“You never laugh like that for me.”

He’s already got your leg hooked around his hip, his cock out—hard, heavy, leaking against your thigh as he lines up.

And then—without warning—he slams into you.

No teasing. No mercy.

Just one long, brutal thrust that splits you open, stretches you wide, fills you so deep you sob into his shoulder.

“Oh my—fuck—Fraser—”

He fucks you hard. Unrelenting.

One hand braced against the door above your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s trying to leave bruises.

Your pussy clenches, wet and soaked, already dripping around his cock—and he groans, filthy and loud in your ear.

“This mine?” he hisses, slamming into you again. “This tight little pussy? All fucking mine?”

You whimper. “Yes—yes—fuck, all yours—”

He grins—wild and unhinged—and pulls out just enough to slap the tip of his cock against your clit.

“You feel that?” he pants. “You feel how wet you are? You didn’t get like this for him.”

He thrusts back in—fast, deep, punishing—and you scream.

“Who fucks you like this?” he growls, fucking into you so deep you swear you can feel it in your stomach. “Who makes you come this hard? Who fills you, baby?”

“You,” you sob. “Only you.”

He snaps his hips harder.

“You’re fucking right it’s me.”

Your orgasm hits violent and loud—your pussy clamping down around him so tight he chokes, cock twitching inside you as you gush around him, soaking his thighs, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

He wraps a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, presses his forehead to yours, and fucks you through it—deep, filthy thrusts that make your toes curl and your mind go blank.

“You think I’m pulling out?” he groans. “You think I’m not gonna come inside this pussy and make sure it remembers me?”

You try to answer—but you can’t.

You’re too far gone. Too cockdrunk.

All you can do is nod, eyes glassy, mouth open.

Fraser slams into you one last time—grinding deep, buried to the hilt—and groans as he empties inside you, warm and thick and so fucking full it leaks out around his cock before he’s even pulled out.

He stays there.

Keeps you pinned to the door. Keeps his cock deep inside, twitching in your overstimulated cunt while your thighs shake and your body slumps.

You whimper.

He kisses your shoulder.

Then—soft. Gentle. Loving in a way that almost hurts—he whispers

“Mine. And next time some asshole tries to touch you, you show him the bruises I left behind.”

[raeslibrary]

Could I request a size kink blurb with Cole? Like, he loves seeing his dick bulging in your tummy while he fucks you 😵‍💫

Love all ur writing sooooo much

nsfw blurb below

you don’t remember how you ended up facedown over his thighs—just that one second he was kissing you like he had all the time in the world, all slow and steady, hand cradling your jaw like you were some goddamn delicate thing… and the next you were stripped and squirming, ass up and legs twitching as he pushed your face into the pillow.

“jesus, baby,” cole breathes it more than says it, palm dragging down your spine, slow, deliberate. “look at you. fuckin’ perfect like this.”

he’s not huge in the way guys love to lie about. he doesn’t need to be. five-eight and built like he was made to fuck through people, legs solid from years of grinding on the ice, arms that lift you like you weigh nothing. not bulky, no. dense. all that compact power bearing down on you now as he grips your hips and spreads you open.

you gasp when he spits and rubs it in with two fingers, slicking you up like he knows exactly how to drive you crazy. and he does. he’d made you come on his tongue first, just once, to get you soft for this—lazy licks, teasing pressure, fingers curling until your thighs trembled and your voice cracked.

now he’s lining himself up, and your breath catches because you can feel him. blunt, wide, low. he’s not talking shit. he doesn’t have to. he just drags the head up between your folds, slow enough to make you whine. then a slap to your ass—sharp, more to get your attention than anything.

“breathe.”

you do, but it comes out ragged, just in time for him to start pressing in.

you feel it—every fucking inch. no rush. no jackhammer pounding. just cole’s cock pushing deeper, stretching you until your arms give out and your face is in the sheets. one of his hands slides under you, hooks around your chest, pulls you up like you weigh less than the gear he throws off between periods. he wraps his arm tight and growls into your neck, “that’s it. you’re takin’ it so damn good.”

he bottoms out. your knees nearly give. your mouth opens but no words come out, just a wrecked little sound, all throat, like the noise got kicked out of you when his hips hit yours.

and then—oh fuck—he starts to move.

not fast. just deep. deep enough you feel him against that soft spot inside, slow enough you feel him dragging through you. the pressure’s unreal. you swear you can feel his cock through your whole pelvis, like he’s punching his shape into you one stroke at a time.

then he pulls you upright, not letting you fall, not missing a beat. keeps you speared on him, hand sliding down to your belly, fingers splaying just under your ribs.

and that’s when he moans. low, real, surprised like he can’t fucking believe it either.

“holy shit,” he mutters, rubbing your stomach like he’s checking the depth on something mechanical. “look at that. baby—look.”

you glance down. fuck.

there’s a bulge right there. not massive, but it’s there. pushing up under your skin every time he rolls his hips forward, vanishing when he pulls back, appearing again—throbbing up when he shoves in hard.

you choke on it, whole body locking up. you’re shaking in his lap, legs kicking weakly, but he holds you still, chest to your back, mouth at your ear.

“you’re takin’ all of it,” he says again, almost like he’s stunned. “fuckin’ perfect little hole. made for me.”

your toes curl. the pressure, the fullness, the fucking sight of him making your body bulge around his cock—there’s nothing left in your brain but noise and static and cole’s voice.

“you see that?” he presses down gently on the bump. your pussy flutters hard, clenching so tight he groans into your skin. “look at you, baby. takin’ it so deep i can see myself.”

you nod, or try to, but you’re barely hanging on. your muscles are going all jittery, legs tensing like you’re gonna bolt and melt all at once. his free hand’s on your throat now, just resting there, not squeezing—holding you in place. like you’re something his.

he starts to move faster, still grinding, still deep, but now he’s chasing it. every thrust drives that bump higher, then lower, then up again—cole breathing ragged, saying you’re unreal, baby, and keep squeezin’ me like that, and fuck, you’re gonna come, aren’t you?

he feels it before you do. those little spasms starting up deep inside, your hips jerking like you’re trying to pull off him, or onto him, or just away from the intensity. but there’s nowhere to go. he’s got you pinned from every angle—his arm tight across your chest, palm over your stomach, cock so far inside it feels like he’s not just fucking your cunt but your whole body.

and then you break.

it rips through you—sharp, blinding, a punch of heat that starts in your belly and blows your brain clean out. your thighs spasm. your mouth opens in a scream but nothing comes out. cole’s still fucking you through it, softer now, letting you ride it out.

“there it is,” he says, kissing behind your ear. “that’s it, sweetheart. that’s what i wanted. you did so good.”

you’re still twitching when he finally lets you fall forward again, lowering you to the bed like you’re breakable. you hear him spit in his hand again behind you. you hear him stroke once. twice.

and then he’s back in.

[raeslibrary]

PUCK, MARRY, KILL: WEEK 2

Twelve became ten, and the villa feels a little quieter—but only just. Someone’s always shirtless, and the group chats are getting weird. With the first cuts behind you and one immunity locked in, the stakes are getting real... but so is the fun. This week, the dates get weirder, the questions get deeper, and the contestants start realizing this isn’t just a vacation with hot people (well—it is, but still).

Romance is in the air. So is sunscreen. Poll is out immediately. Let’s go. 🏒💘

The morning sun slices across the long outdoor breakfast table like it doesn’t know what’s coming.

The twelve of them are spread out around it—barefoot, sunkissed, bleary-eyed or wide awake depending on their relationship with coffee and consequences. There’s a loud blender going somewhere in the villa, someone’s speaker playing 2000s throwbacks low in the background, and an unspoken tension that doesn’t quite interrupt the easy chaos but cuts close under the surface.

You sit at the head of the table, hands wrapped around a mug you haven’t touched. It’s not nerves exactly, but your pulse has been louder than the music since you woke up. In about an hour, two of them won’t be here anymore. And right now, they have no idea.

At the far end, Will Smith is hunched over a stack of waffles like they personally wronged him. He’s talking fast, practically narrating his breakfast to Wyatt Johnston, who sits across from him and looks like he’s still half-asleep. Wyatt’s got a piece of toast hanging from his mouth and his phone open, watching something quietly—probably golf highlights, judging by the way he occasionally mutters under his breath. Will’s still shirtless, clearly didn’t bother showering yet, his hair sticking up at angles from sleep.

Cole Caufield is perched between Joseph Woll and Nico Hischier, aggressively pouring syrup onto his pancakes like he’s trying to drown them. Joseph looks half-focused, nodding along but scrolling his phone with one hand, while Nico stirs his coffee slowly and seems very aware of the weight of this morning. Every few minutes, Cole elbows Joseph in the ribs to say something completely unrelated to anything—"Did you know jellyfish are immortal?"—and Joseph, still wearing his wireframe glasses and a quiet hangover, just blinks at him like he’s buffering.

Clayton Keller is sitting with William Nylander and Brock Boeser, and it’s strangely calm for three guys who could absolutely start shit if they wanted to. Clayton’s picked apart a banana, the peel still curled around the plate like a sad little sculpture, and he’s saying something dry under his breath that has Brock actually laughing. William just sips his espresso and watches you when he thinks you’re not looking. You don’t look back. Yet.

Cale Makar and Trent Frederic are on smoothie duty for reasons you don’t entirely understand. Cale looks like he’s reading the protein powder label like it’s a textbook, while Trent has both blenders going and is wildly confident in whatever he’s about to serve everyone. He’s shirtless, already sunburnt again, tossing fruit in like a mad scientist, yelling across the table, “Hope no one’s allergic to coconut, ‘cause I didn’t check.”

Leo Carlsson is sitting with Sidney Crosby, which should feel weird, but somehow doesn’t. Leo’s got sunglasses on despite the fact they’re in the shade, slowly peeling a boiled egg with all the urgency of a man in zero rush. Sid’s reading the news on his phone, brows drawn in mild concentration, pausing only to sip black coffee or mutter, “This is brutal,” under his breath. You’re not sure if he means the article or the smoothie Trent just slid in front of him.

And then there’s you—at the head of the table, trying to look neutral, relaxed, like you’re just another person at breakfast instead of the one holding a guillotine behind your chair.

Two of them are going home.

You have no idea how to say it yet.

You clear your throat.

It’s not loud, not dramatic, but it slices through the layered noise of breakfast like a dropped fork on tile. Will pauses mid-sentence, mouth full of waffle. Trent kills one of the blenders. Someone’s speaker dies a merciful death.

Twelve sets of eyes shift toward you, some more reluctantly than others. Cale’s still holding a scoop of protein powder in midair. Leo lowers his sunglasses slightly. Wyatt finally swipes out of his golf clip.

You set your mug down—untouched, still warm—and stand.

Before you can deliver the harder news, you clear your throat again, this time softer. Not slicing through the noise so much as easing into the edge of it. A few heads turn. A few more follow. Cale, still clutching a smoothie like a chalice, lowers it slowly.

“Before we get to the eliminations,” you say, fingers tightening around the card that isn’t the one with names, “I want to talk about something good.”

That gets their attention. Barely. But enough.

“This week was wild. Fun. Intense. Kind of weird.” You pause. “But also—really, really good. And one of the dates stood out more than the rest. Not because it was flashy, or dramatic, or even the most exciting. But because it felt like something real. Something grounded.”

You don’t look at him yet. But you feel the shift.

“So,” you continue, “I’ve decided to give immunity to the person who had the best date this week. Which means next week, no matter how the dates go, this person is staying.”

Now you look.

“Sidney.”

The name hangs there for a second before anyone reacts. Someone—probably Cole—lets out a low whistle. Will does a slow-motion double take toward Sid like he just found out his dad’s on TikTok. Trent mutters something under his breath that might be “rigged” but follows it with a grin and a bite of mango.

Sidney doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. He just sets his mug down with careful precision and gives you a look that says thank you in a dozen ways he won’t say out loud.

You offer a small nod back.

And the mood shifts again.

"Alright," you start, voice even. It’s strange how calm you sound when your heart is knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a fire exit. "This week has also been... a lot."

A few of them smile. A few look at their plates. Sid’s unreadable, of course. William tilts his head like he’s reading between the lines before you’ve even drawn them.

"Getting to know each of you one-on-one was the best part of this whole experience so far," you say. "And I mean that. But today, I have to say goodbye to two of you."

Someone exhales. Quietly. You don’t look to see who.

You pick up the folded card you stashed beside your plate earlier. It’s more for show than necessity—your brain’s replayed the names all morning like a punishment. You already know exactly who’s leaving.

You look straight ahead, not at anyone in particular. “The first person leaving today... is Brock.”

A quiet beat, a ripple of sound that’s not quite shock but definitely not nothing.

Brock’s reaction is small. A blink. A faint nod. He leans back in his chair a little, setting his juice down with care. He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he lets out a short breath and runs a hand through his sun-bleached curls.

“Damn,” he mutters, not bitter, not angry—just real. “Alright.”

Clayton claps a hand on his shoulder without saying anything. William slides his espresso closer to him, like it might help. Brock takes one last look around the table, then finally meets your gaze.

There’s nothing performative about it. No “what did I do wrong,” no parting speech. Just a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"It was a good boat ride, though?" he says.

You nod. Because it was.

You inhale. There's one more name.

"And the second person leaving today... is Leo."

It lands softer than Brock’s, but not by much. You hear the scrape of a chair leg. A shift in the rhythm of breathing around the table. Leo doesn’t react right away. He peels off his sunglasses, folds them with care, and sets them beside his half-finished egg.

There’s no smile. No attempt to pretend it doesn’t sting. But he stands smoothly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the table as he slides his chair back.

"Alright," he says, voice quiet. The consonants catch slightly in his throat. "Okay."

Sidney looks up from his coffee, brows pinching. Will’s waffle is forgotten. You hear Cole mumble something under his breath that sounds like, “No way.”

Leo doesn’t wait for a speech. He glances toward the end of the table where Will and Wyatt sit slack-jawed in near-identical expressions of surprise, then turns to the cluster where Clayton, Joseph, and Trent have gone still.

"Guess I’ll see you guys," he says, with a shrug that looks practiced. Trent starts to say something and stops. Joseph leans forward like he wants to follow.

Brock pushes back from the table then, standing to meet Leo halfway.

"Guess we’re sharing a boat," he says.

Leo’s mouth twitches. "Better than a plane."

They clasp hands like teammates, like guys who’ve both been cut before. No dramatics, no back-pats, just a beat of real, mutual respect.

Clayton finally stands and crosses the deck to Brock, pulling him into a rough, silent hug, chin over his shoulder like it’s the last day of camp. Trent's already behind Leo, ruffling his hair with a muttered, "You’re still the best looking one here, even if she’s got bad taste."

Joseph doesn’t say anything, just presses his knuckles lightly against Leo’s in a quiet gesture as he passes. Leo bumps them back.

"Tell Cale to stop measuring protein," Leo mutters to him.

"I'll try," Joseph says, dry as ever.

You stay seated.

Leo turns to you last, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t say anything right away, just holds your gaze for a long, unreadable second.

Then, with a half-smile that doesn’t last long: "Thanks for the game night."

You nod, the inside of your mouth dry. "You made it fun."

He doesn’t push for more.

Neither does Brock.

They walk toward the dock side by side, the others watching in silence now, no more jokes or noise or blender whirs. The boat is already waiting. The same one that brought them here. Now it takes them away.

Will doesn’t speak until they’re gone.

Then, "That sucks."

No one argues.

Your hands are cold around the mug you never touched. The coffee inside has gone lukewarm.

You look up at the remaining ten.

And you smile.

Like your pulse isn’t still pounding.

The casino is louder than expected—a cocktail of slot machine chimes, bad decisions in the making, and the occasional roar of victory or loss. Neon signs pulse over the poker tables like they’re judging everyone under them. You’re not sure what you expected when Clayton told you to dress nice and meet him "somewhere fun," but this wasn’t it. You thought maybe a beachside bar. Maybe something with, like, chairs that don't smell like cigarette ghosts. Not this.

Clayton, of course, looks like he belongs here. Slim-fit black button-up, sleeves rolled, that damn smirk playing around his mouth every time someone looks at him too long. His hair is messier tonight, but purposeful—like he ran a hand through it in the car and decided it was good enough. He meets you just inside the main floor, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking over you once before he nods in approval.

"Perfect," he says. "We’re gonna cheat."

You blink. "Cheat what?"

"Poker," he says like it’s obvious. "I scoped out the table. Real casual setup. Locals. I already bought us in."

You glance past him to the tables. Some guy in a Tommy Bahama shirt just dropped his cards dramatically and shouted something in Spanish. Another guy is eating peanuts directly off the felt.

"You want to cheat them?"

Clayton leans in slightly. "C’mon. It'll be fun. I even brought props."

Props, apparently, means a pair of designer sunglasses he hands you with all the subtlety of a street magician. You put them on. He nods solemnly. "Now you look like someone who lies for a living."

The two of you slide into open seats at the table like it’s not the most suspicious thing in the world. Clayton immediately starts small talk with the dealer, tossing in a comment about the local soccer team, while you try not to laugh every time he kicks you under the table. You settle on small signals—one finger on the edge of your glass means a good hand, a tap on your thigh means fold. It takes about five rounds before it starts to work.

Clayton plays the role too well. He’s relaxed, cocky without being obnoxious, casual in a way that makes everyone else want to beat him just to knock him down a peg. Meanwhile, you throw in a well-timed bluff that wipes out the guy to your left, who mutters something about the "damn sunglasses" before storming off.

"That guy was mad you had real Oakleys instead of knockoff ones," Clayton says under his breath.

You hide a laugh behind your drink. "Think we should stop while we’re ahead?"

He leans closer, chin tilted toward you. "Or we double it."

The next few rounds are a blur. Every time you think you’re pushing it too far, someone else makes a worse decision. Clayton starts talking with his hands more, brushing his fingers along the back of your chair like it's nothing. You accidentally win a hand you meant to fold on, and he covers it with a fake cough and a shoulder nudge that says act like you meant to.

By the time you cash out, you're both giddy with it. Not rich, not even close, but ahead enough that it feels like a shared secret. You walk out side by side, past the bouncers and slot zombies and a woman furiously trying to explain to security that she "had four aces, dammit."

Outside, the night hits you in the best way—cooler than inside, salt in the breeze, noise muffled to something manageable. Clayton exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and glances over at you.

"Okay," he says. "Maybe you should be the poker player."

You raise an eyebrow. "Because I kept winning?"

"Because you lied to an entire table of strangers with zero hesitation."

You bump shoulders with him as you walk. "Team effort."

"Team cheat," he corrects, grinning. "We should get matching jackets."

You snort. "'Keller & Co. Casino Disgraces.'"

Clayton glances sideways, like he’s picturing it. Then, casually, "You ever been kicked out of a casino before?"

"Not yet."

He smiles. "There’s always next week."

There’s a small golf cart parked at the edge of the villa’s gravel path, lime green and obnoxiously lifted like someone souped it up just to make the island tour more chaotic. Will is already behind the wheel, sunglasses on, hair wild from the wind, honking the tiny horn with rapid fire enthusiasm like it’s a racecar.

“Get in, loser, we’re doing tourism,” he calls.

You slide into the seat beside him, dubious at best. "Please tell me you’ve driven one of these before."

He throws it into gear before you even finish your sentence. "Nope."

The golf cart jerks forward, tires spitting gravel, and your first ten minutes are a blur of Will pointing at things he very obviously knows nothing about—"That’s probably a mango tree. Or a pineapple tree. Do pineapples grow on trees?"—while the cart makes cartoonish whirring sounds and locals give you both deeply unimpressed side-eyes.

You stop at a small beach shack where the only thing on the menu is coconut water served in actual coconuts. Will tries to open his with a tiny plastic straw, fails, then hands it to you like you’ll magically fix it. When you crack it open properly on the wooden railing, he blinks.

“Okay, kinda hot.”

You keep walking, the beach curving ahead in a perfect stretch of pale sand. Will’s got the coconut under one arm like a football, using the straw now just out of stubborn pride. Every so often he breaks into a short jog just to kick at the surf, then acts like he didn’t get completely soaked by a rogue wave.

You end up finding a tide pool tucked between some rocks, clear and shallow, full of tiny darting fish. Will immediately crouches down and starts narrating a soap opera involving a particularly dramatic-looking crab.

"Okay, so this little guy? He just found out his girlfriend was cheating with the starfish."

You nudge him with your foot. "You good?"

"No," he says, serious as ever. "But I am committed."

Eventually, you settle on a flat rock that juts just enough over the water to dip your feet in. Will’s still talking, half to you, half to the ocean, legs swinging lazily.

"You ever think about how weird the ocean is? Like, it’s just out here. Being weird. Existing. And we’re all like, yeah, okay, sure."

You glance over. "You high right now?"

He looks genuinely offended. "This is sober genius, thank you."

And then he leans over and kisses you—sudden, not calculated, not set up by a question or a perfectly timed silence. Just sun, and salt, and the curve of his shoulder brushing yours before his mouth finds yours like it's always meant to.

He pulls back just slightly, nose still brushing against yours. "I like hanging out with you. Like, a lot."

You bump your forehead against his. "I gathered."

He exhales a laugh, then leans back to look at the crab soap opera again. "They’re working through it, by the way. The starfish apologized."

You sit there with him until the tide starts creeping higher, the sun softening into late afternoon. He keeps holding your hand even as he gets distracted again, talking about turtles, sandwiches, and whether or not you could beat him in beach volleyball. (You can. You say so. He looks genuinely betrayed.)

Later, on the ride back, he lets you drive the golf cart. He gives directions like he has any idea where you're going. You make a wrong turn, end up at a dead end with a goat, and he decides it's a sign from the universe.

"Best. Day. Ever."

And you can’t really argue with that.

It starts with Cole carrying way too much firewood.

Like, truly, an uncalled-for amount.

You offer to help. He says, "Nah, I’ve got it," in the tone of someone who absolutely does not have it. One of the logs rolls out of his arms and bounces down the beach like it’s trying to escape. He watches it go, then looks at you. "That one was cursed anyway."

You're already laughing before you can stop yourself. "You say that about everything you drop."

"Because I only drop the cursed stuff," he replies easily, adjusting his grip and trudging toward the pit he's already dug out of the sand. "Don’t want that energy near our hot dogs."

The sky’s streaked orange and violet, the last edge of sunlight dragging itself behind the palm trees, and the breeze is warm enough to keep you from noticing how long you’ve both been barefoot. There’s a little cooler sitting nearby, filled with sodas, waters, a six-pack, and whatever Cole decided qualified as "bonfire essentials" at the corner store earlier. (You caught him buying sour straws and just nodded. He added a second pack.)

It doesn’t take long to get the fire going—mostly because Cole is very determined not to ask for help, then very proud when it works. He sits back on his heels, watching the flames crackle with the kind of expression usually reserved for people who just built a cabin from scratch.

"We could survive out here for, like, at least three days," he says, brushing sand off his legs. "Four if I don't eat all the snacks on the first night."

You raise an eyebrow. "So... one."

"Okay, yeah. One."

The hot dogs go on first, skewered with sticks that definitely aren’t regulation roasting length, and Cole insists his technique is superior despite the fact that his keeps falling into the fire. By the third attempt, he’s just eating chips while you rotate his.

"See? That’s teamwork," he says through a mouthful. "I catch the fish, you cook the fish."

"These are hot dogs."

"Same ecosystem."

The conversation drifts easily after that—about nothing and everything. At one point, he starts ranking different types of chips with deadly sincerity. You learn that he once cried during a Pixar movie but refuses to say which one. He guesses your favorite color wrong twice before getting it right and acting like he knew the whole time.

By the time the s’mores come out, he’s lying back on the sand, propped up on his elbows, watching the fire like it might show a movie. You sit cross-legged beside him, trying not to eat all the chocolate before the marshmallows are done.

"Okay," he says suddenly, lifting his head. "Important question. You can only have one—perfectly toasted marshmallow or the best melted chocolate."

"That’s cruel."

"I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to ask the hard-hitting questions."

You consider. "Toasted marshmallow."

He nods, solemn. "Respect. You’re wrong, but I respect it."

Eventually, the fire burns lower, and the energy shifts—less jokes, more comfortable quiet. Cole reaches for the blanket he brought and spreads it out beside the fire without comment. Just pats the spot next to him.

You settle in beside him, the sand still warm beneath the fabric, and he shifts just enough to bump your shoulder with his.

"Thanks for not sending me home today," he says, voice softer now.

You glance at him. "Thanks for not jumping off anything tonight."

He huffs a short laugh. "Growth."

The fire pops once, sending a small trail of sparks into the darkening sky.

He stretches one arm behind your shoulders—not sudden, not dramatic, just a casual reach—and leaves it there. You lean into it without thinking.

For a while, you both just sit there, watching the flames burn down, listening to the ocean brush up against the shore.

Cole shifts again, rests his cheek lightly against your temple.

"Next time," he murmurs, "we’re stealing a boat."

You don’t even bother pretending to be surprised.

"You’re unhinged."

He smiles against your skin.

"Yeah, but I made you s’mores."

It starts with a note.

Handwritten, tucked under your plate at breakfast, folded twice and sealed with a piece of plain tape. The handwriting is neat, controlled, like he took his time with it. You open it with half a banana in your mouth and toast crumbs on your shirt.

"Wear something comfortable. Not athletic gear. Meet me at the back gate at 3."

No signature. Just that.

Which is so very him.

At 2:59, you’re walking the stone path to the back gate behind the villa, sun at your back, sandals flapping like the world’s least intimidating gladiator. You’re in a breezy button-up and soft linen shorts, trying not to overthink anything.

Sid is already there, leaning against a rented golf cart like it’s a vehicle of war. He’s wearing a navy short-sleeve button-down that’s somehow not wrinkled at all, and khaki shorts that confirm, once again, that the man has thighs sculpted by some god of stability drills. He’s also holding what appears to be a plastic grocery bag.

“You’re on time,” he says, pushing off the cart.

“You wrote the note like it was a hostage situation,” you reply.

He gives a small shrug. “Didn’t want you to psych yourself out.”

You point at the cart. “This is the plan?”

“This is the vehicle,” he says, walking around to the driver’s seat. “The plan’s weirder.”

Great.

You hop in beside him, and the cart jerks forward with a lurch that suggests Sid hasn’t driven one of these in a while. You don’t ask. You don’t need to.

The drive is short, winding through a quiet path behind the property, past palm trees and half-built structures that may or may not be part of the resort expansion. He doesn’t say much, just drives with one hand and rests the other over the bag like it might escape if he’s not careful.

Eventually, the trees open up into a clearing with a long, slightly slanted field. A faded wooden sign leans sideways in the grass: BOTANICAL GARDEN MINI GOLF.

You stare.

Sid kills the engine and looks at you. "You said you liked doing stupid stuff that isn’t actually stupid."

"Mini golf counts?"

"Only if we keep score."

The place is… quaint. Maybe even janky. Most of the holes are overgrown, the statues sun-bleached and leaning. The flamingo at hole four is missing a leg. You kind of love it.

He pays in cash—who pays in cash?—and carries the bag with him like it’s part of the course. The employee hands you clubs with the kind of detached resignation that suggests you’re the first customers in hours.

Hole one is a fake volcano with a chipped top and a soundtrack of rumbling that loops every twenty seconds. Sid sets down the bag. Pulls out two cold canned drinks—iced tea for him, something fruity for you. Then, inexplicably, he pulls out two plastic visors.

You blink. "No."

He lifts one. "Yes."

"Sid."

"Team uniforms."

You stare at him. “I didn’t realize we were on the same team.”

“We are now.”

You lose hole one. You hit the stupid volcano lip four separate times and Sid only makes fun of you twice, which somehow feels worse. You do win hole two, though, which involves a plastic shark and a very questionable pirate animatronic. Sid frowns at the rigged drawbridge mechanism like it’s personally offended him.

“You’re not going to analyze the turf?” you ask, lining up your shot at hole three.

He shakes his head, serious. “Turf’s garbage. I already made peace with it.”

Hole six has a windmill that’s been jammed open permanently. Hole eight is under construction. Hole ten has real lizards basking on the green, and you have to gently shoo them off with your putter while Sid watches, drinking iced tea like it’s a nature documentary.

At hole twelve, you finally ask. "Why mini golf?"

He leans on his club. "I never went."

You glance at him. “Like, ever?”

He shakes his head. “Not once.”

It hits you, weird and soft. All those summers other kids were screwing around at goofy tourist traps, Sid was probably on a treadmill in a cold arena, doing puck control drills while some coach yelled about angles.

“You’re weirdly good at it,” you say.

He glances up. “That’s because it doesn’t matter. And when things don’t matter, I’m not inside my head about it.”

You hum, not sure what to do with that.

Hole fifteen is a castle with a drawbridge that actually works. You get a hole-in-one and Sid demands a redo. You refuse. He takes one anyway and immediately hits it into the moat. He doesn’t even look surprised.

You’re both sun-warmed and flushed by the time you finish all eighteen. You don’t even check the scorecard. It’s not about that.

Back in the cart, Sid finally tosses the visors into the back seat like they personally betrayed him. “That was dumber than I thought.”

“And yet?”

He glances at you. “You’re right. It was fun.”

You drive back slower. He lets you take the wheel.

“You trust me with this?” you ask.

“I’ve seen you golf. Can’t be worse.”

You make a turn too sharp on purpose just to see him brace against the dashboard. He mutters something that sounds like “I take it back.”

By the time you’re back at the villa, you’ve got dirt on your calves, a visor tan line, and a crush that’s settling in like a splinter: small, sharp, impossible to ignore.

You are going to kill Wyatt Johnston.

You’re not sure how yet—poison, push him into the sea, make him drink Trent Frederic’s smoothies until he begs for mercy—but you’re going to do it. Because the second you stepped onto this uneven patch of grass behind the villa and saw five goats in tiny t-shirts waiting for you next to two yoga mats, you knew exactly who was responsible.

"Surprise!" Wyatt calls, arms spread like this is a gift and not an elaborate prank. He's wearing a black tank top and a backward hat that reads NAMASTE, Y'ALL. You want to say something biting but a baby goat launches itself onto his foot and bleats at you, and now you're too distracted to properly plan your verbal retaliation.

"Are we really doing this?" you ask, cautiously eyeing the nearest goat, who is currently trying to chew the strap off your sandal.

"Hell yeah, we are," Wyatt says, already flopping down onto his mat. "It’s, like, spiritual or whatever."

You glance around for a camera, convinced this has to be a hidden episode of a prank show. There are goats in sweaters. One of them is named Pancake, according to its harness. Another is currently pooping in what you can only assume is the designated zen corner. You haven’t even done one stretch and your life has already changed.

Wyatt lies back on his mat, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Come on, I looked this up last night. Goats help with balance and, like, emotional clarity.”

“Did the website also say they would eat my toes?” you ask, shaking your foot gently until the sandal-chewer loses interest.

Wyatt shrugs. “Pain is temporary. Enlightenment is forever.”

You drop onto the mat beside him, mostly because standing makes you feel too exposed, too available to the hooved chaos around you. The instructor, a woman with braided hair and an aura of pure peace, introduces herself and invites everyone to begin in child’s pose. You manage to get halfway into position before a goat named Waffles climbs directly onto your back.

“This seems illegal,” you mumble into your mat.

Wyatt snorts from his own mat, where a goat is currently attempting to balance on his thigh. “You’re doing great, sweetie.”

You glance over and he’s not even pretending to do yoga. He’s flat on his back, letting two goats climb over him like a jungle gym. One of them has claimed his cowboy hat. He looks like he’s found his true calling.

“Do you even know what child’s pose is?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow. "Do you?"

You break. You try not to, but the laugh escapes before you can catch it, and Wyatt’s face lights up like he’s just won the lottery. Or, more likely, a goat-themed punch card.

The rest of the session is chaos. You attempt downward dog with a goat wedged beneath you. You do warrior two while trying to dodge a goat that thinks your yoga mat is a salad bar. Wyatt spends half the time flat on his back and the other half laughing at your expense, which you kind of hate, but not enough to stop laughing yourself.

Eventually the instructor calls for the final resting pose, and both of you collapse onto your mats. The goats, tired from their reign of low-stakes terror, curl up beside you. One falls asleep with its chin resting on Wyatt’s chest. He doesn’t move, just tilts his head toward you and says, “Not to brag, but I think Pancake likes me better.”

“You named the goat Pancake?”

“No, the goat named me Pancake,” he says solemnly.

You cover your face with your hand.

The sun is high now, bright but not unbearable, and you feel the kind of tired that comes from laughing too much and moving just enough. Wyatt turns his head on the mat to look at you, and there’s something quieter in his expression now, something that lingers beneath the chaos.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says. “I know it was ridiculous. But it was fun.”

You nod, letting your hand fall back to your side. “Yeah. It was.”

The goat on his chest snores. Loudly. And you both start laughing again.

Somehow, it feels like progress.

You don’t expect horseback riding. When the date card said "meet me at the stables," you half-thought Cale was messing with you. But then again, he doesn’t really seem like the elaborate prank type. So you show up in sneakers and sunscreen, wondering if this is his idea of a joke or if he actually knows what he’s doing around animals that are taller than SUVs.

Turns out, he does.

He’s already there when you arrive, wearing jeans that definitely weren’t part of the wardrobe rack back at the villa, and a faded T-shirt that’s seen better days but hugs him unfairly well. His short blond hair is tousled like he didn’t bother taming it after his helmet earlier that morning, and there’s a smear of something that might be dirt on his forearm. He looks like he belongs here, which is annoying, because you were hoping you’d have the upper hand for once.

“Hey,” he says, nodding toward the stable. "You get the nice one. I took the psychopath."

You blink. "Sorry, what?"

He nods again, this time toward a massive black horse at the far end of the row. It’s already glaring at him like it knows what he did. "Her name’s Daisy. Don’t let it fool you. She tried to bite me when I walked past. Twice."

“And you picked her?”

He shrugs like that’s obvious. "You should get the chill one. Apparently, she likes papaya and slow walks on the beach.”

Your horse—Maple, because of course—lets out a soft snort and blinks at you like she’s just glad she didn’t get stuck with the guy who smells like protein powder and competition. You tentatively pat her neck. She doesn’t flinch. Good sign.

Cale’s already swinging himself into the saddle with the kind of practiced ease that makes your stomach twist, but not in the rom-com way. More in the "God, please let me not fall off and break something important" way.

“You ridden before?” he asks as he watches you with the patient expression of someone who is absolutely bracing for you to say no.

“Not really,” you admit. "Like, once on a school trip. I think the horse’s name was Tater Tot."

He chuckles and clicks his reins gently, guiding Daisy in a slow circle. "Tater Tot’s got nothing on Daisy. She’s got opinions."

Somehow, you make it into the saddle without humiliation. Maple stands perfectly still like she knows you’re new at this and doesn’t want to scare you off. She’s soft under your palms, warm and steady. You kind of want to hug her.

The trail they lead you on winds through open fields and stretches of palm-studded coastline, the kind of thing that looks fake in postcards but somehow real with the right amount of sunscreen in your eyes. You follow Cale’s lead, occasionally muttering encouragement to Maple, who doesn’t need it, and side-eyeing Daisy, who definitely does.

At one point, Daisy tries to sidestep into a bush. Cale mutters something under his breath that sounds like an apology to the horse and an insult to himself all at once. He reins her in with practiced movements, calm and precise, but there’s a moment where you see him glance back at you like he’s double-checking that you’re still upright.

"Still alive back there?" he calls.

"Barely. Maple’s carrying this relationship."

He laughs, a full sound this time, and slows down until you’re riding beside him. The ocean’s just ahead, glittering beyond the stretch of grass and low trees, and for a moment, it’s weirdly quiet. Peaceful in the way that happens when no one’s trying to impress anyone.

You ride side by side for a while, not really talking, just watching the scenery shift and letting the rhythm of the horses do most of the work. Cale reaches over once to steady your reins when Maple seems tempted by a particularly suspicious patch of grass, and his hand brushes yours for a second—warm, firm, unhurried.

"You’re doing great," he says, genuine.

"I’ve survived worse dates."

He smirks. "High praise."

Eventually, the trail loops around and you find yourselves back near the stables. Dismounting is a whole other struggle, and you land with more force than grace. Cale doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look that very clearly says you okay? while Daisy flicks her tail like she’s won something.

You brush your hands down your thighs, trying to look composed. "So... you always do this on second dates?"

Cale’s already handing the reins off to the stable hand. "Only when I’m trying to weed out the ones who scare easy."

"Oh, so this was a test."

He steps closer, close enough that you can see a bit of sweat at his temple, the sun catching the gold in his lashes. "You passed."

Your face warms—not from the sun—and you roll your eyes just enough to keep him from getting too smug. He doesn’t push it. Just starts walking back toward the road, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"I owe Maple a thank-you card," you mutter as you follow his lead.

From up ahead, Cale says, "She’ll accept apples. And maybe a date recap with fewer death threats."

You laugh, and this time, it feels easy. Like maybe chaos with a horse named Daisy was exactly what you needed.

The market is alive in that way only night can bring—lights strung overhead between rows of food stalls flicker like they're reacting to the buzz of the crowd, the scent of grilled meat and fried dough cutting through the humidity. Someone's blasting music from a Bluetooth speaker wedged in the corner of a cart, and a group of kids dart past with sticky hands and plastic bags of neon-colored candy. You're barely five steps in and already questioning your pace.

"Okay," Nico says beside you, eyes scanning everything at once. "Ground rules. I pick the first thing. You pick the second. After that, all chaos."

He's got that look—the one he gets when he's focused, but trying not to look too focused. He’s in a plain black t-shirt that clings just a little at the collarbone and loose shorts with too many pockets, the kind you only wear when you're preparing for snacks. His hair's still damp from a quick rinse back at the villa, and he smells like soap and heat and maybe a little danger, if danger meant insisting you try something unidentifiable on a skewer.

He leads you to a stall run by an older man who clearly doesn’t need to yell like the others—his food does the talking. Nico points at something behind the glass that looks like fried dumplings but probably isn't.

"Just trust me," he says, handing over cash before you can ask questions.

You take the bite with a little hesitation, already regretting giving him first pick, but it’s… unreal. Crispy, savory, somehow juicy without making you need a napkin. Nico watches your face the entire time, a smug tilt to his head.

"Told you."

"Alright, chef. My turn."

Your pick ends up being an aggressively red noodle dish from a stall lit entirely with purple LEDs. Nico raises an eyebrow when he sees it. "You sure?"

You hand him a pair of chopsticks. "Chaos, remember?"

He takes a bite. Chews. Blinks.

"Okay that’s… hot. That is actually hot."

You start laughing as he fans his mouth with his hand, reaching for the mystery drink he bought earlier that he refused to identify. He chugs half of it in one go and immediately winces.

"Oh my god. That made it worse. What is this?"

You peek at the label. "Tamarind soda."

"It tastes like tree bark."

You’re still laughing when he waves off your offer for water, grabbing another bite of the noodles anyway. There’s a stubborn glint in his eyes now.

He gestures toward another vendor. "Alright. Reset. We need something sweet."

The next thing he hands you is a fried plantain doused in caramel sauce and crushed peanuts. You have a full mouth when you say, "If I get sick tonight, I’m blaming you."

He shrugs. "Worth it."

You wander further into the market, occasionally stopping to point out something that smells incredible or vaguely terrifying. Nico insists you try a weird, gelatinous cube that turns out to be some kind of herbal dessert. He watches you chew it with a deeply entertained expression.

"You hate it."

"Nooo," you say, still chewing. "I hate you."

"Same thing."

Eventually, the crowd starts to thin as the hour gets later. The lights feel a little warmer, the buzz of the market softening into something quieter. You find yourselves sitting on a low wall near the edge of the street, each holding your fifth—or maybe sixth—snack of the night.

Nico nudges your shoulder lightly. "Okay. Last question. You're planning a food tour. Five stops, anywhere in the world. Where are we going?"

You list them off, one by one, watching the corners of his mouth twitch at each answer.

He finishes chewing and says, "We’re doing that."

You laugh. "You’re already planning future dates?"

He shrugs, licking sugar from his thumb. "I mean. If I don’t, someone else will."

You don’t have a good comeback for that, so you just keep eating.

When it’s time to head back, he doesn’t say anything cheesy, doesn’t try to make it into a Moment. But he walks a little closer on the way out. His arm brushes yours more than once, and he doesn’t pull away.

You don’t expect a spa day.

He shows up at your door in a robe and sunglasses like he’s auditioning for a wellness cult, not a second date. His hair is damp, pushed back like he just stepped out of a shampoo commercial, and when you give him a look, he just says, "Trust me. You’re gonna thank me in like an hour."

The spa is tucked into a corner of the villa you hadn’t noticed before—low-lit, silent, with that faint eucalyptus scent that makes you feel like whispering even though no one’s told you to. A woman hands you a menu of treatments, but William waves his off like he’s a regular here. "We’re doing the full thing," he tells you. "I’ve already booked it. No backing out."

Before you can protest, you’re being handed a robe and ushered into separate changing rooms. Ten minutes later, you meet again in the sauna.

You’re still trying to get used to the fact that you’re sweating profusely in front of someone this attractive when William lets out a long sigh and says, “This is my happy place.”

“You’re literally cooking,” you say.

“And thriving.”

He’s leaned back on the bench, long legs stretched out, a towel draped over his shoulders like he’s just finished an Olympic event. You try not to stare. You fail.

After the sauna, you’re guided to a room with two massage tables. William is already face-down on his, mumbling something about knots in his shoulders, and you’re just grateful you don’t have to make eye contact while someone digs into your back.

Halfway through the massage, he mutters, “What if I fall asleep and start snoring?”

“You’ll be kicked off the show.”

He snorts into the face cradle. “Worth it.”

It’s strange, the quiet. Not awkward—more like a shared silence that doesn’t need filling. Occasionally he mutters something under his breath, half-thoughts and dumb jokes that make your mouth twitch into a smile against the headrest. You don’t respond to most of them, but he keeps doing it anyway.

After the massage, there’s a mud bath. Which sounds romantic in theory until you’re both covered in something the texture of wet cement and trying not to look stupid.

William gives up first. “Okay, this feels insane.”

“You signed us up for this.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t know it would feel like bathing in pudding.”

You laugh, loud enough to echo slightly off the tiled walls. He doesn’t even try to hide his smile.

By the time you make it to the final stage—those ridiculous reclining chairs with cucumbers on your eyes and music that sounds like someone gently playing water glasses—you’re loose-limbed and barely functioning.

William sighs dramatically beside you. “We should live here.”

You lift a corner of your cucumber. “In the spa?”

“Yeah. Never leave. Get matching robes. Change our names. Live off coconut water and hot stones.”

You let the cucumber fall back into place. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then—“Hey.”

“Mhm?”

“I like seeing you like this.”

You don’t answer right away. Mostly because you don’t trust yourself to say something that won’t make this moment weird. So instead, you reach out and bump his pinky with yours on the armrest between you.

His pinky curls around yours.

Neither of you moves.

You find him waiting under a crooked wooden sign that reads: Cooking Class – Local Flavors with Carmen. It’s painted in coral pink and slightly chipping at the corners, hanging crookedly above the entrance to what looks like someone’s very charming backyard patio. There’s a long table set with mismatched cutting boards, an array of colorful ingredients in ceramic bowls, and a woman in a bright floral apron already swatting at a fly with a wooden spoon.

Joseph is in a loose black t-shirt and cargo shorts, his hair a little messy like he let it air-dry and forgot to fix it. He’s talking to Carmen with that gentle politeness he seems to carry everywhere, one hand resting on the back of his neck like he’s still not sure if this is going to be a disaster or not.

"Hey," you say, approaching.

He turns, his face lighting up just slightly. “Hey. Hope you’re hungry. Or at least open to the idea of completely embarrassing ourselves.”

"I thought you were gonna make me climb a mountain or something. This is—"

“Unexpected?”

You nod, taking in the scene. “Unexpected. Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, then leans in slightly like it’s a secret. “I figured after last week, we could use a no-pressure win. Worst case, we eat bad food and laugh about it. Best case, you marry me for my empanadas.”

Carmen claps her hands then, loudly enough to make Joseph flinch. “Chop chop, lovebirds! Peppers don’t dice themselves!”

You take the spot next to him at the table. The cutting board is slightly warped, the knife probably older than both of you combined, and the bowl of ingredients in front of you is a rainbow of unknowns. “So, Chef Woll,” you say, sliding him a bell pepper. “What’s your kitchen strategy?”

He picks up the pepper and turns it in his hands like it might explode. “Uh. Trial and error?”

Carmen hears that and laughs so loud a parrot in a nearby tree squawks in protest. She points at you both with the knife like a coach psyching up a team. “Confidence! Passion! Control! This is not a time for trial!”

Joseph lowers his voice. “Okay, well. I’m officially terrified of her.”

You laugh, slicing into a red pepper and narrowly missing your thumb. Joseph notices and nudges your elbow gently. “Maybe less sass, more focus?”

“Oh, so now you’re serious?”

“I am when your knife skills look like a horror movie.”

It spirals quickly into chaos—coconut rice flying across the table when Joseph tries to stir too hard, Carmen muttering in Spanish and stealing his spoon, you attempting to flip something in a pan that absolutely was not ready to be flipped. Your sauce ends up too salty, his too bland. You swap them. Still bad. You both agree that they cancel each other out, which is somehow worse.

Eventually, you’re standing side by side at the stove, and Joseph nudges your hip gently with his. “Hey,” he says, quietly. “Thanks for not roasting me too hard when I almost set that towel on fire.”

“You did set it on fire.”

“Yeah, but like—barely.”

You shake your head, laughing, the smell of cumin and burnt something lingering in the air. He doesn’t look away when you meet his eyes, something soft and real under the mess of it all.

Later, the two of you sit cross-legged on the patio floor, paper plates balanced in your laps, the sun melting down behind the fence. You eat your food in silence for a minute. It’s not good. But it’s yours.

Joseph picks up a spoonful and tastes it solemnly. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but I think we just insulted an entire country.”

You laugh so hard you nearly drop your plate. He watches you, pleased, then holds his fork up like a toast.

“To chaos cuisine,” he says.

“To not dying from it,” you say.

You clink your forks together.

His knee presses lightly against yours, and he doesn’t move it away.

Neither do you.

You find Trent Frederic waiting by the villa’s front gate in board shorts, a backwards cap, and a tank top that says "Ask Me About My Fantasy Team." He’s also holding a laminated map that looks like it was printed from a school computer lab in 2007.

“Today,” he announces, “We're geocaching.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” he says, already turning to walk. "Got us a cooler backpack, printed out the coordinates, brought snacks. We’re gonna hike, we’re gonna decode weird little clues, we’re gonna find treasure."

"Treasure like... a used McDonald’s toy in a Tupperware container buried under a tree?"

"Exactly that," he says proudly. "But it’s about the journey."

He hands you a neon slap bracelet. "Team uniform."

The first hour is chaos in every direction. Trent’s navigating like he’s got Google Earth uploaded directly into his brain, which would be more comforting if he didn’t keep referring to north as “probably that way.” The trail winds through lush greenery and volcanic rock, lizards darting across your path, and at one point, Trent insists he sees a goat and you insist it’s a dog and somehow you’re both wrong—it’s a local kid’s soccer ball.

Every time you stop to check a clue, he squints at the map like it personally insulted him. “Alright, this says twenty paces from the broken palm tree. Which one looks broken? Like emotionally.”

You point. "That one looks like it pays for blue checkmarks."

"Say less."

When you finally find your first cache—a small waterproof box tucked inside a crevice behind a boulder—he lets out a yell like you just uncovered ancient ruins. Inside: a soggy postcard, a broken pencil, and a very off-brand action figure missing one leg.

He holds it up triumphantly. “Our son."

You: "He’s horrifying."

Trent: "He’s a miracle."

By the third cache, you’ve both gotten sunburnt in weird places (you: the tops of your knees, Trent: the edges of his ears) and gone through most of the trail mix. He stops in the shade of a low-hanging tree and pulls out two juice boxes like he’s your camp counselor. "You want apple or mystery?"

You take mystery.

It tastes like maybe banana. He’s watching your face like it’s a game show. "So... thumbs up or hospitalization?"

You wipe your mouth. "I’ve had worse on a plane."

Eventually, you end up on a rocky overlook with a view that makes you both pause. The ocean sprawls out below, turquoise and endless, waves threading the coastline like embroidery. Trent drops onto the nearest rock with a grunt, stretching his legs out, sweat slicking his neck beneath his cap.

"Alright," he says, softer now. "Real talk. I like this dumb treasure hunt stuff because it makes me feel like a kid again. Like, before everything got so serious. You know?"

You nod. It’s the most honest he’s been since that bar date. No tequila required.

"Also," he adds, pulling the one-legged action figure from his bag, "I think our son deserves to see the view."

You burst out laughing, tipping your head back until it echoes. He looks over at you—not staring, not analyzing—just sharing the moment like it’s nothing complicated.

No roses. No pressure.

Just two idiots and their horrifying plastic child, standing at the edge of the world.

[raeslibrary]

Casual | Fraser Minten

"Knee deep in the passenger seat, And you're eating me out, Is it casual now?"

Request: "imagine minty w highschool sweetheart / childhood best friend gf and he’s just so downbad🥹🥹" (deviated slightly cuz i wanted it to be more angsty)

Summary: Love grows over the years for you two... but how does it end up?

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: Fraser Minten x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of sex, virginity loss, one (1) nsfw scene of oral sex.

Notes:

this is very similiar to my "those eyes" fic and i love that one so much soooo

mourning minty so fucking bad. why BOSTON.

anyways. this request is pretty new i just HAD to write it.

You're six years old the first time you think Fraser is the cutest boy in the world.

It happens in the middle of summer, when the two of you are running around his backyard, barefoot in the grass, chasing each other with sticky, half-melted popsicles clutched in your hands. His mom made them—real fruit, she’d said, not like the store ones—and the one in your hand is raspberry, staining your fingers pink as you eat it in quick, messy bites. Fraser's is mango, bright orange against the flush of his cheeks. He’s been outside all day, and the sun has kissed his skin a shade darker, turned his nose pink, made the freckles across his cheeks pop. He looks like the picture of summer, all golden-brown limbs and wild hair, his bangs sticking to his forehead where the sweat hasn't dried.

He grins at you, the gap where his front tooth used to be on full display, and your chest does a funny little squeeze.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, like it’s a secret just for you, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

He says it all the time, every single day, but today—today, for some reason, it feels special. You swallow down a bite of your popsicle and nod, very serious. “You’re my best friend, too.”

He nods back, like that settles it, and then takes a giant, dramatic chomp of his popsicle. His eyes go big and round immediately.

“Brain freeze,” he gasps, hands flying up to his temples. “Brain freeze, brain freeze, brain freeze—”

His distress is so intense, so theatrical, that you can't help but laugh. It bubbles up from your chest, a bright, high-pitched giggle that makes Fraser scowl at you before promptly bursting into laughter himself. You both laugh so hard you have to sit down right there in the grass, popsicles melting against your fingers, pooling in little pink and orange streaks on your knees.

“Here,” you say after a minute, offering him the last little bit of your raspberry popsicle in what you think is a very grand and generous gesture. “You can have the rest of mine. To make up for the brain freeze.”

Fraser’s eyes go wide again, but this time in delight. “Really?”

“Really.”

He takes it carefully, holding it between his already-sticky fingers, and takes a slow, deliberate bite. He hums, nodding like he’s assessing the flavor. “Pretty good,” he says finally. “Not as good as mango, though.”

He sticks out his hand, offering you the rest of his in return, and you hesitate only for a second before leaning in and taking a tiny bite. It’s still cold, still sweet, but it tastes a little better because it’s from him. You think that’s funny, but you don’t say it out loud. Instead, you wipe your hands on your shorts and watch as Fraser licks his fingers clean, messy and careless. He has mango juice on his chin, a bit of melted raspberry staining the corner of his mouth, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

He is, quite possibly, the cutest boy in the world.

“What?” he asks, catching you staring.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, looking away. Your face feels warm, and it’s definitely not from the sun.

Fraser shrugs, unconcerned, and flops down on his back in the grass. “I hope we’re best friends forever,” he says, stretching his arms up over his head. He blinks up at the sky, a contented little smile playing on his lips. “Even when we’re old.”

His words settle into your chest, warm and snug like your favorite blanket, and you smile as you lay down beside him. “Me too.”

“Even when we’re, like, a hundred?”

“Even then.”

Fraser sighs, satisfied, and lets his eyes slip shut. “Good.”

And for the rest of the summer, you let yourself believe that forever is a promise neither of you will ever break.

At thirteen years old, things start to change in ways neither of you can quite name yet. Fraser is still your best friend. That part is the same. But suddenly, he’s taller than you, which makes no sense because just last year, you were the same height. He teases you about it mercilessly, standing up extra straight just to make the difference more obvious. And his voice—it hasn’t changed yet, not really, but sometimes it catches, warbles unexpectedly between high and low, and when it happens, he gets embarrassed in a way you’ve never seen before.

There are other things, too. Like how he started playing hockey on a real team a year ago, and now it takes up almost all of his time. Or how he never used to care about what he wore, but lately, he’s been showing up to school in T-shirts that don’t have holes in them, with his hair brushed (most of the time). Or how his mom had to explain deodorant to him at the start of summer, and he’d grumbled about it the whole time but had listened anyway. He even made you smell his arm a week later to prove that it was working. You’d shoved him away, gagging, but not before admitting that, yeah, okay, it wasn’t bad. It was kind of nice, actually.

Not that you’d ever tell him that.

The weirdest part is that you’re changing, too. It doesn’t feel like it most of the time, but then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and think, Huh. That’s new. Your face looks different, a little sharper. Your legs feel longer. Your chest is—well, something’s happening there, and you don’t want to think about it too hard. Neither does Fraser, apparently, because when he accidentally elbowed you in the front a few weeks ago and you yelped, he’d turned bright red and practically fallen over himself apologizing. It was the first time he’d ever looked flustered about touching you.

The realization had made your stomach feel weird, like you were teetering at the top of a slide.

You don’t talk about any of it. Not the changes, not the weird moments, not the way you catch Fraser looking at you sometimes like he’s noticed them too. Instead, you spend your time the way you always have—racing down the block on your bikes, playing video games in his basement, making fun of his little brother behind his back. Some things don’t have to change.

But then, one afternoon, you’re sprawled out on the floor of Fraser’s room, flipping through your math notes, and he asks, "Do you think I’m cute?"

It comes out of nowhere. So much so that at first, you think you misheard him.

"What?"

He clears his throat, shifting so he’s sitting up against his bed. "Like, I don’t know. Just wondering. Am I cute?"

Your face gets warm. You keep your eyes on the page in front of you, even though you haven’t actually read a single word in the last five minutes.

"Why?"

"No reason." He pauses. Then, in a quieter voice, "Some of the girls in my class said I was."

Something strange bubbles up in your chest at that. You can’t quite place what it is, but it makes you press your lips together and flip the page a little too aggressively.

"Oh. Well. That’s nice."

Fraser makes a noise, somewhere between a huff and a laugh. "You didn’t answer."

"I don’t know!" You roll onto your side so you don’t have to look at him. "I guess so."

"You guess so?" He sounds so offended that you actually snort, despite the weird feeling still twisting inside you.

"I don’t know, Fraser! You’ve got, like, a face and stuff. It’s fine."

He groans dramatically and flops back against the carpet. "That’s the worst answer I’ve ever heard."

"Okay, well, what about me? Am I cute?" You throw it back at him without thinking, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you kind of want to shove them back in.

Fraser goes quiet. Too quiet.

Your heart thumps in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you glance over at him.

He’s staring at the ceiling, face unreadable. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah, you are."

It knocks the breath out of you a little bit. You don’t know why. You knew the answer before you even asked. But hearing it out loud—having it confirmed—it feels different. Realer.

You swallow, then scramble to push yourself upright. "Okay, well, I think we’re both cute, then. Mystery solved. Can we go get pizza now?"

Fraser hesitates, then grins, and just like that, the moment passes. "Yeah, okay. Race you there?"

You don’t say anything else as you both bolt for the door, but for the rest of the day, the feeling lingers—something small, something quiet, settling just beneath your ribs.

You don’t know it yet, but it’s the beginning of something.

***

At sixteen, it starts slow. Subtle. So much so that, for a while, neither of you really acknowledge that it’s happening. It’s just little things at first. The way Fraser lingers too long when he hugs you goodbye. The way your hands brush under the lunch table, and neither of you move away. The way your eyes flick to each other’s mouths when you’re sitting too close, knees bumping, whispering secrets back and forth like you did when you were kids.

And then, one day, he kisses you.

It’s nothing, really. That’s what you both tell yourselves, anyway. Just a quick peck on the lips, a practice run. You’re sitting on his bed, facing each other, legs crossed, talking about how weird it is that people your age are already having full-blown relationships, and before you really know how it happens, Fraser is saying, "Do you think we should know what we’re doing?" And you’re laughing, saying, "Probably," and then there’s a moment of silence where you both just look at each other, and suddenly, he’s leaning in, and so are you, and it’s a kiss—brief, barely anything, but warm, soft.

When you pull away, you’re both quiet for a long second. Then Fraser clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. "Huh. That wasn’t bad."

You don’t know why you’re breathless, but you nod. "Yeah. Not bad."

It should be the kind of thing you joke about once and never repeat, but it isn’t. Instead, it becomes… a thing. Not a big thing. Just something you do sometimes, when no one else is around. It’s never serious. Never deep. But when he kisses you again the next week—this time, lingering just a little longer—you don’t stop him. And when you kiss him back, he doesn’t stop you, either.

At first, it’s still just practice. Fraser kisses you like he’s testing a theory, and you let him, because you’re curious, too. But then practice turns into habit, and habit turns into something else, something that neither of you have a name for. One night, after a particularly drawn-out kiss, Fraser presses his forehead against yours and whispers, "I like this," and your stomach flips because, yeah. You do, too.

You know it isn’t normal. Friends don’t do this. But neither of you stop, and it never gets addressed, so you let yourself pretend that means it’s okay.

It escalates from there. The touches get braver. His hands start settling on your waist, your hips, his thumbs rubbing absent circles against your skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, and he groans into your mouth, and that sound—low, desperate—makes your entire body go hot. The kisses get deeper, messier, like you’re both trying to figure out just how far you can take it before it stops being just kissing.

And then, one evening, Fraser’s mom walks in.

The door was closed—your first mistake. You’re in his lap—your second mistake. His hands are under your shirt—your third mistake. You both freeze, deer-in-the-headlights style, but it’s already too late. His mom takes one look, gasps, and immediately backs out, slamming the door shut behind her.

For a long second, neither of you move. Then Fraser swears, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "We’re so dead."

You’re inclined to agree.

The conversation happens at dinner. His mom tries to keep her voice even, but her expression is tense. "We know you’re both at the age where… exploration is natural," she says, clearly fighting not to cringe, "but there need to be boundaries."

Fraser’s dad is looking anywhere but at the two of you, his jaw clenched like he’s physically forcing himself not to intervene. His little brother is watching with a massive grin, eating it up.

His mom exhales. "New rule. Open door policy. Always."

Fraser groans. "Mom."

"No exceptions."

You’re still mortified, but you manage to nod. "Okay. We get it."

After that, things change a little. The open-door rule makes everything riskier, more careful. Kissing is limited to quick, stolen moments when no one is looking. Hands never stray too far. But the tension is still there, stronger than ever, a constant hum in the air between you. And sometimes, when you catch Fraser staring at you like he’s already thinking about the next time you’ll get to be alone, it’s enough to make you wonder how long you’ll actually be able to keep your hands to yourselves.

Montreal hums around you when you’re eighteen, neon and alive, but the only thing you can hear is the sound of Fraser breathing between your thighs.

The car is parked in the lot behind the hotel, secluded enough that the only light spilling in is from the flickering streetlamp by the entrance. It doesn’t matter. You’re barely aware of anything outside of him���the press of his shoulders wedged between your knees, the grip of his hands keeping you spread open, the slow, wet drag of his tongue against your cunt.

Your head tips back against the seat, fingers twisting into his hair, thighs trembling around his face. He’s been at it for so long, lapping at you with patient, focused attention, like this is the only thing he wanted out of tonight. Not the draft, not the cameras, not the celebration. Just you.

Your chest feels tight. You push the thought down, grind yourself against his mouth, and bite your lip to muffle the sound that wants to spill free. Fraser groans low, hands tightening on your hips, dragging you closer so he can lick deeper. His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, circling your clit before dipping back inside, and you jerk at the sensation, your entire body pulling tight like a bowstring.

You whisper his name, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s everything. The years of this, the years of him. The firsts, the almosts, the things left unsaid. The way he’d kissed you for the first time like it didn’t mean anything, then kissed you a second time like it meant everything. The way you’d fumbled together in the dark, seventeen and shaking, losing it to each other in a bed too small, bodies pressed together, limbs tangled, hands searching. The way he’d held you after, silent, his forehead pressed to yours like he didn’t know what to say.

Like he knew what you felt but couldn’t say it back.

You gasp as he sucks on your clit, just enough pressure to make your spine arch, your hand tightening in his hair. He moans, the sound vibrating against you, and you feel the heat coil tighter, burning deep, spreading through your limbs, making it impossible to think of anything except the way he’s making you feel.

He pulls back just enough to catch his breath, lips glossy, pupils blown wide in the dim light. His fingers press against your thigh, sliding up, grazing along the slick mess he’s already made. "You’re shaking," he murmurs, almost like he’s in awe.

"Shut up." Your voice is breathless, wrecked. You sound like you’re on the edge of something, and you are.

Fraser smiles, just a little, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before diving back in, tongue pushing deep, curling, stroking. You whimper, hips jerking, and he holds you down, keeps you still so he can take you apart the way he wants to.

It’s always been like this. Always him giving, always him taking.

Even now—after the biggest night of his life, after his entire world has just changed—he’s still here, kneeling between your legs in the front seat of a rental car, like this is what matters most. Like you matter most.

Your throat feels tight.

You could love him forever.

You’re not sure you can handle knowing he won’t love you back.

The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through your body, but this time, it isn’t the good kind. It’s desperation, tangled up with everything else, clawing at your chest, at your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You grab at his shoulders, pulling him up, dragging his mouth to yours. You taste yourself on his tongue as you kiss him, deep and hungry, and he groans into it, his hands gripping your waist like he can feel the shift in you, the urgency beneath it.

You roll your hips against him, grinding against the bulge in his slacks, feeling the way he shudders, the way he fists his hands in the fabric of your dress. He wants you, just like you want him. That’s never been the problem.

But what happens when wanting isn’t enough anymore?

"Fraser," you whisper, against his lips, and he makes a soft, desperate noise, like he knows what you’re going to say, like he doesn’t want to hear it.

You say it anyway.

"I love you."

His breath catches. His fingers tense against your hips.

And then—nothing.

No reply. No whispered confession. Just silence.

You feel it like a gut punch.

He presses his forehead against yours, breathing hard, like he’s trying to find the right words, but you already know they aren’t coming.

Tears burn at the edges of your eyes, and you blink up at the ceiling, trying to swallow it all down, trying not to let it show. Because this is what you signed up for, right? Just your best friend who fucks you on his couch sometimes. This is what it’s always been.

Casual.

So why does it feel like your heart is breaking?

At twenty, the call comes late. Too late. The kind of late where your first instinct is that something is wrong. Your phone vibrates against your nightstand, the screen lighting up with a name you haven’t seen in months. Your stomach clenches. It always does when it comes to him.

For a long second, you debate letting it ring out. Letting it go to voicemail. You’ve spent the last two years trying to untangle yourself from him, to pry your heart free of the place he wedged himself into when you were too young to know any better. But your hands move before your mind catches up, and suddenly, you’re pressing the phone to your ear, voice thick with sleep when you mumble, "Hello?"

There’s silence. Just for a beat. And then, a sigh. "Hey."

You swallow. "What’s going on, Fras?”

He breathes out a quiet laugh, the kind that isn’t really a laugh at all. "You sound surprised."

"I am," you admit, because what else is there to say?

His voice is the same as you remember, a little lower now, a little rougher, like the last few years have worn him down in ways you weren’t around to witness. You picture him, sprawled out on some unfamiliar bed, the glow of a hotel lamp casting shadows over his face. You wonder if he looks different now. If you would recognize him the way you used to.

"I, uh—" He hesitates, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric, the shift of his weight as he adjusts. "I got traded."

The words take a second to sink in. When they do, your brows furrow, a frown tugging at your lips. "What?"

"Yeah." He exhales sharply, like he still doesn’t believe it himself. "Boston. Well, Providence, for now. But, yeah. Bruins."

You don’t know what to say. There was a time when this news would have meant everything to you. When you would have been the first person he told, sitting next to him in his car, legs tucked up against the dashboard, laughing and teasing and dreaming about the future like it was something you were both going to live together. Now, all you can do is nod, even though he can’t see you. "Wow. That’s… that’s huge."

"Yeah."

Silence stretches between you, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. You press your lips together, shifting in bed, and finally, when it starts to feel unbearable, you clear your throat. "Why are you telling me this, Fraser?"

He’s quiet again. Then: "I don’t know. I just—" He stops, swears under his breath. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. "I wanted to talk to you."

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be able to do this—to just show up in your life whenever he feels like it, to drop his voice into your ear like a match on gasoline, igniting everything you’ve spent so long trying to put out. But, at the same time, isn’t this what you always wanted? For him to care? To miss you?

You let out a slow breath. "Well. You got me."

Another pause. Then he laughs, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another late-night call from when you were kids, whispering to each other about nothing until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence. "Yeah. I guess I did."

For a little while, it’s easy. Comfortable. You talk about meaningless things—the weather, a show you both used to love, a story about a mutual friend’s recent engagement. It’s familiar, effortless, the way it always was. Like no time has passed at all.

But then, after a lull, his voice drops a little. "I think about that night a lot."

Your stomach turns. You know exactly which night he means. You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. "Fraser—"

"I fucked up."

It’s so simple. So matter-of-fact. Like he’s been holding onto it for so long that there’s nothing left but the truth.

You swallow. "It was a long time ago."

"Doesn’t mean I didn’t fuck up."

You want to brush him off. To tell him it’s fine, that it didn’t matter, that you moved on. But the words taste like lies before you even think about saying them, so you stay quiet instead.

Fraser exhales. "I didn’t know what to say back then."

"Yeah," you murmur. "I got that."

He groans, frustrated. "No, I mean—I did. I did know what to say. I was just too fucking scared to say it."

Your breath catches. The room feels too quiet, too still. "Fraser."

"Come see me."

The words land like a punch. You blink, shaking your head, as if he can see you. "What?"

"Come see me. Not for—" He stops himself, shifts gears. "Not like before. Not like that. Just… come."

It would be so easy to say no. To end this, finally, once and for all. To stop letting him have a say in your life, in your heart, in anything.

But you don’t say no.

Instead, you sit there, staring at the ceiling, and you wonder.

And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the start of something else.

Is it casual now?

[raeslibrary]

First Time - Jamie Drysdale X Reader

Hockey Masterlist

Warnings: swearing, SMUT, fingering, oral, anxiety mention.

Words: 1310

Summary: First Time - yours and Jamie’s first sexual encounter is a lot rougher than you both thought it would be, not that anyone’s complaining.

A/n: Hi oh my god writers block is still kicking my ass but I wanted to get a fic out bc I miss yall. Debating if this should be a part one LOL. I’m so sorry my signature move is leaving yall wanting more but trust me it does wonders for engagement lmao.

You can read part 1 of the series of firsts here.

“You said Trevor’s out right now?” I ask Jamie breathlessly as he toys with the hem of my pink baby tee. He hums against my lips, desperately trying to maintain the kiss.

A lazy day off after a full breakfast and a prudish sleep over, Jamie and I are tangled in his bed, with him shirtless in his briefs, and me straddling him in a cropped Short N Sweet baby tee and a lacy black pair of panties.

After the third time of Trevor walking in on us with messy hair and mortified panting, I’ve learned my lesson to ask if he’s gone.

“Should be,” Jamie replies absentmindedly. As he speaks, he slides his hand under my shirt, up the length of my stomach, eagerly and shyly coming to rest in the valley of my chest. His hand falters, not wanting to push too far but desperately needing the feel of my skin in his calloused hands. Of course Jamie and I have made out, almost too many times to count, but any heaving petting involved has always been over whatever clothes we’d had on. And one of the main differences being I’d had a bra on in those instances, which was very much not the case now.

As his hand comes to rest between my boobs, I feel him grow hard underneath me. The sensation is overwhelming and I feel myself throb against him and the way Jamie’s eyes flick to meet mine indicates he felt it too. I sigh out a small breath to try and alleviate some of the tension but the point is moot.

Sensing Jamie’s hesitation, I grab his wrists in my hands and slowly guide them, one over each breast. He let’s out a sigh of excitement as we both feel my nipples harden under his large palms. I moan out when he squeezes gently, and slide my hands up from his wrists to apply the pressure Jamie was afraid to do himself.

“You’re not gonna break me, Jame.” I huff an antsy breath and he laughs, bashfully at first glance with an undertone of sexual deviancy.

“Is that so?” Licking my lips gently, I do my best to disguise the anxiety in my voice as I dare to tease Jamie,

“I’m telling you to be rougher, dumbass.”

As if a switch had flipped, my taunt activates Jamie. He swiftly reaches his right hand to grip around my throat, pushing me backwards with enough force so I fall flat on my back. With my head hanging off the foot of the bed, Jamie applies more pressure with his right hand, shortening my breathing and kinking the aorta to restrict blood flow. The sensation is grimly delightful, an aroused smile coming to rest on my delirious face. Jamie hums a small laugh, satisfied with his job well done. He places a gentle kiss on my lips before finally releasing the pressure on my throat. I pull in a sudden gust of air as Jamie’s fingers massage the area he had once held so captive.

“You okay?” He asks, suddenly his shy, considerate self once more. I look at him and laugh in disbelief,

“Fuck yeah.” I sit up abruptly to get closer to his adorable face, hoping to kiss him passionately, but Jamie braces a hand on my chest and shoves me back down onto the mattress.

“Good, ‘cause we’re not done yet.”

And before I can get a word in, Jamie sensually pushes the hem of my shirt up and over my naked chest, circling back to squeeze my left breast in his large hand. I whine out a moan at the way he caresses me, savoring every last moment of his touch. His other hand comes up to fidget with the panty line around my hip. He hesitates,

“Is this-?”

“More than okay,” I nod fervently, as if Jamie could evaporate any moment. My body is beyond desperate for his touch. We’ve waited for this moment for so long, neither of us ever really knowing why. But now that it’s here, I feel as though I can’t wait a moment longer, “Please.”

That’s all Jamie needs to hear. He quickly pulls the black lace down over my hips and off the end of my legs.

All the unrest and desperation of the previous moment has dissipated and I nervously let my knees fall together in self consciousness. Jamie places his hands on my hips, sliding them up the undersides of my thighs pushing my legs against my chest, exposing my pussy to his eager and willing touch.

Jamie kissed the inside of my thigh, as close to where I want him as possible, but still far enough to keep my own desire at bay. He sucks the sensitive skin between his teeth, nipping and grinding. He pulls his head away from my thigh, the skin of my leg still caught between his lips. He lets go with a salacious pop before pressing a sweet kiss to the soon to be bruised skin. I sigh in anticipation, using my hips to try and sit up once more; Jamie’s grip tightens and firmly holds my legs and hips in place. I groan out of frustration and right as I prepare to fight back harder, I feel the sultry sensation of Jamie’s tongue against my heat.

He licks the quivering expanse of my hole, slowly making his way up to where I need him most. I moan sharply as he flicks the tip of his tongue over my clit. Jamie quickly turns to sucking the exposed bud and I cry out even louder. His grip is unwavering, pinning me to the bed with no chance of escape. I reach down to tangle my hands in his hair; some semblance of control as he relentlessly devours me. I would think he was starving with the way he eats me, like he would never have a chance at sustenance again.

As I feel myself climbing higher and higher to release, the sensation is gone when Jamie pulls away. Before I can mutter any kind of reaction, Jamie plunges two fingers inside me. I moan so loud I instinctively reach up to cover my mouth, but my hand collides with Jamie’s as he comes to place it on my throat once more.

The hand on my neck is no doubt a warning for my volume level but I can’t help myself when Jamie knows how to curl his fingers just right. Each time he brings his fingertips up to reach that certain spot, like he’s coaxing the orgasm out of me one pump at a time. I feel myself growing closer and closer to finish, reveling in the pleasure of his touch. How lucky am I?

Jamie finger fucks me better than I could’ve ever imagined, and right as I think I’ve seen it all, he begins thrusting his fingers in and out of me, applying pressure against my throat. What little air escapes my lips amounts to a pathetic, desperate whine under the weight of his heavy hand. And just like that a blinding white light takes over my senses. I fight the urge to scream as I release pure sexual energy around his right fingers, fighting for breath and blood flow under his left.

Slowly, I come down from my high, and Jamie releases his grip on my throat, his fingers coated in my wetness when he pulls them out.

“You’re so hot,” he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Oh my god,” I fight to catch my breath as my body twitches from overstimulation. Jamie sits back on his heels and watches in awe, too bashful to admit he is most definitely proud of himself right now. Jamie leans over me so he can look at my face,

“You made a mess by the way.”

“Me?!”

[raeslibrary]

Summer Bummer - Fraser Minten

"White lies and black beaches, miles in between us, Is this love or lust or some game on repeat? It's like makin' me crazy, Tell me, "have patience", baby, I need this."

*** request: "Heyyyy I saw your request for Fraser fics and I was thinking about something maybe with smut prompt 45(you're so wet, and i've barely even touched you) where reader flys to Toronto to see him and when they reunite they can’t keep their hands off of each other" summary: after you come back from vacation, your boyfriend makes it clear how much he missed you. word count: 7.4k warnings: 18+ NSFW! oral(f,recieving), purposeful unprotected sex & creampie, idk what to call it but a slight kink for seeing ur partner disassociate during sex. notes: - hi guys sorry for going MIA. I've been stuck on this but I have been working on other things. - I am so bad at writing smut without plot. so this has a plot - despite the warnings. this is "minty obsessed with his gf" type plot - I tried my best to proof read but it still might be repetitive. ***

The honeymoon phase always seemed to wrap itself around you like a comforting embrace, and here you were again, caught in its sweet allure. The funny thing? It never seemed to fade—not with him. Three months had passed since the start, and today, your heart still raced at the thought of seeing Fraser, just as much as it had in the beginning.

Your plane had just landed in Toronto after a long week in California visiting your grandparents. As you stand in the baggage claim, the hum of the airport fading into the background, you can’t help but feel an impatient flutter in your chest. The anticipation feels like electricity. You’re scanning the room, eyes darting over the crowd, searching for that familiar face. But you don’t see him. A little knot of worry tightens in your stomach—Is he late? You check the time on your phone, forcing yourself to breathe. Maybe something came up. He’s coming. He’ll be here.

Your thoughts spiralled, and that hint of doubt creeped in—until, out of nowhere, you felt it. Warm arms slipped around your waist, pulling you close from behind, and your heart leaped before your brain even caught up. It’s him. You could feel it in the way his body fit perfectly against yours, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back, and the familiar scent of his cologne that instantly melted away every shred of doubt.

"Miss me?" His voice was soft, just above a whisper, brushing against the curve of your ear. A shiver ran down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile, your body instinctively relaxing into his hold. His lips were gentle as they pressed against your neck, trailing slow, soft kisses along your skin.

"Of course I did," you murmured, turning slightly to catch a glimpse of him. Your heart skipped when your eyes met his, that same playful spark in his gaze as he leaned in for a kiss—soft at first, but quickly deepening, and you could feel every ounce of affection pouring into it.

Your bags? Forgotten. The busy airport? Distant noise. All that exists at that moment is him, Fraser, and the way he makes you feel like the world shrinks to just the two of you.

His hands never seemed to leave you, one wrapped around your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he leaned in again for another kiss, this one softer, sweeter, like he was savoring the moment. He pulled back, just barely, his lips hovering close to yours. "I missed you more," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours with that tender intensity that always makes your heart flutter. You couldn't help but blush, the warmth of his affection making you feel weightless.

When he finally released you, it was only to grab your luggage, his hand slipping back into yours as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. The car ride home is just another excuse to stay close—Fraser is always touchy, always affectionate, but today, after a week apart, it feels even more intense, more intimate.

By the time you reached the car, your heart was fluttering again, more from him than anything else. He tossed your bag in the back seat before opening the door for you with a teasing bow.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, sliding into the seat.

Fraser slid in beside you, reaching across to buckle you in before taking his place behind the wheel. His hand settled naturally on your thigh as he started the engine, thumb brushing against your skin with deliberate, slow strokes. It was subtle at first, but you could feel the warmth of his hand growing, his touch lingering.

Your heart sped up again, heat rushing to your cheeks as you glanced over at him. The look in his eyes as he focused on the road told you he wasn’t just thinking about driving. You just bit your lip, trying not to grin too wide.

*** You fumbled with the keys to your apartment door, your heart still racing from the way-too-long car ride. Fraser was practically glued to your side, his hand intertwined with yours, fingers squeezing lightly every few moments as if to remind you he was there. The second the door opened, he wasted no time, dropping your luggage unceremoniously in the hallway and tugging you toward the living room.

“Fraser,” you laughed, breathless as he led you to the couch, “I need to unpack first.”

But he didn’t seem to care about that, not one bit. His arms circled your waist, pulling you close, and he practically fell back onto the couch, dragging you with him until you were pressed against his chest. “We can unpack later,” he murmured, his voice soft and low, lips grazing the side of your neck. “I missed you too much for that.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. He had this way of making the world disappear, like nothing else mattered but the two of you tangled up in each other. His hands slid up your back, tracing slow, lazy patterns over your shirt as he let out a contented sigh. You felt his heartbeat beneath your palm, steady and strong, and it was like your own heart started to sync up with his.

Still, a day’s worth of travel clung to your skin, and as much as you wanted to give in to his sweet, insistent touch, you felt the need to freshen up.

“I should shower,” you mumbled against his chest, though the warmth of his body made it hard to pull away.

Fraser groaned softly, tightening his grip as if that would stop you. “Do you have to?” he whined, burying his face in your hair. “You just got back. Can’t we stay like this for a little longer?”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek before gently untangling yourself from his arms. “I won’t be long,” you promised, standing and stretching slightly, your muscles aching from the flight.

He watched you go, his gaze heavy, and you could practically feel the weight of it on your back as you made your way to the bathroom. It took every ounce of willpower not to turn around and crawl back into his arms, but you knew if you didn’t shower now, you’d never get around to it.

The sound of the water cascading in the shower was soothing, the steam filling the room and relaxing your tired limbs. You let out a small sigh of relief as the hot water washed over you, your mind finally starting to unwind. You reached for the shampoo, fingers working it into your scalp when you heard a familiar creak—the bathroom door opening.

“Fraser?” you called out, though you already knew it was him.

“Couldn’t wait,” he replied, his voice soft and playful as he stepped inside. A second later, the shower curtain shifted, and there he was, slipping in behind you, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. “You know I hate being away from you for too long.”

You leaned back into him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. His hands splayed across your stomach, gentle and unhurried, as the water cascaded over both of you. “You’re such a baby,” you teased, though your voice softened as you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breath steady against your skin.

“Mmm, maybe,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder. “But you like me anyway.”

The way he held you, so close, like he couldn’t stand even the smallest distance between you—it made your heart ache in the best way. His hands slid up your sides, slow and careful, like he was savoring every inch of you, and you found yourself melting into him all over again. The steam wrapped around both of you, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, and his touch, warm and insistent, made your skin tingle.

Fraser’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the playful teasing melted away, leaving something deeper, something tender. His fingers traced small circles along your waist, like he needed to keep touching you, keep reminding himself that you were real and here, not just a memory from the last week. You reached back, threading your fingers through his hair, and he let out a soft hum of contentment.

He wasn’t rushing; every touch felt deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the feel of you all over again. You felt his lips against your shoulder, soft and lingering, and then he murmured, almost to himself, “You’re so beautiful…”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled, leaning back into him, feeling the warmth radiating from both his body and his words. His hands slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, and you could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he sighed contentedly. “You look different,” he whispered, his voice full of awe. “Your hair’s lighter… and you’ve got these little tan lines now.” His fingers brushed against your skin, following the faint lines where the sun had kissed you, and a soft hum escaped his lips. “God, you look so good.”

You couldn’t help the blush that crept up your neck, the heat mixing with the steam around you. Fraser’s hands were everywhere—on your waist, up your sides, fingers ghosting over the faint golden marks that lined your skin. His touch was gentle, but it held a kind of reverence, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And maybe, just maybe, you liked that. Maybe you liked the way he clung to you, as if the week apart had been unbearable and he couldn’t stand another moment without touching you.

“You’re all sunkissed, like summer followed you home,” he continued, his voice soft but full of something deeper, something almost needy. “It’s not fair. You come back looking like this, and I… I just—” His words faltered for a moment, and you could feel the subtle tension in his hold. His lips brushed against your shoulder again, this time lingering longer, the pressure of his kiss more insistent, as if to prove his point without saying it.

You turned slightly, catching his gaze over your shoulder, and the look in his eyes made your heart skip. There was something raw in the way he stared at you, his eyes wide and full of longing, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and here in his arms. “You missed me, huh?” you teased, though your voice was softer than usual, a little breathy from the intensity of his touch.

“Obviously. I hate that you went away,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with a whine that made your lips quirk up. “I couldn’t stand not having you here.” His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “I missed you so much.” The words came out almost plaintive, like he was confessing something he couldn’t keep hidden any longer.

You turned in his embrace, your body facing his as you wrapped your arms around his neck. His eyes met yours, and there was something soft and vulnerable in his gaze that made your heart ache in the best way. You reached up, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the slight stubble that hadn’t been there before. “I’m right here now,” you whispered, the words a quiet reassurance, though you could see the way he was already holding onto you like you might disappear again.

Fraser leaned down, his forehead pressing gently against yours, his hands settling on your hips. “Yeah,” he breathed, though there was still a hint of frustration in his tone, like even that wasn’t enough. “But I can’t be attached to you all the time. It’s torture.” His lips brushed against yours, soft and lingering, as if to prove his point. You could feel the need in his touch, the way his body pressed against yours, seeking as much contact as possible.

A soft laugh escaped you, and you pulled back just enough to look up at him, the teasing warmth of his gaze sending another wave of affection through you. “You’re so clingy,” you whispered, your fingers playing with the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

“Of course I am,” he shot back, his tone light but filled with sincerity. “How could I not be when you look like this?” His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail, the awe in his gaze making you blush under the warmth of his attention. “You’re too gorgeous. It’s distracting.”

You laughed again, though your heart swelled with the weight of his compliments. Fraser wasn’t usually this sweet—at least, not so openly—and every word felt like it was wrapping around you, cocooning you in the warmth of his affection.

As the two of you finally emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, skin still warm and damp from the shower, Fraser’s hands didn’t leave your body for a second. It was like he was making up for lost time, for every moment he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t feel your skin beneath his palms. You barely had time to dry off, each towel swipe punctuated by his impatient fingers tracing along your shoulders, down your back, across your hips. His eyes never left you, dark with need, but there was also something so soft in his gaze, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there in front of him.

Your mind is racing. The moment Fraser speaks, everything else melts away—it's like he's the only thing in the room. His words, "You're glowing," feel like they're sinking deep into you, making your skin buzz. You want to respond, but nothing comes. All you can do is feel the heat of his hands, the pull of his body as he guides you toward the bed. It’s overwhelming, the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like he’s about to devour you. Your heart pounds, and your thoughts jumble, focusing on how close he is, how much you want him.

When he says you’re beautiful, you almost laugh. It's embarrassing, the way it affects you—like you're a teenager again, feeling desired for the first time. You want to hide, but you can’t, not with the way he's touching you, every brush of his fingers making your skin tingle. His words are so raw, so sure, and you can feel them sinking into you, making you ache for more. You try to play it off, to joke, but there's no denying how much you're falling apart beneath him.

And then, he says he can't handle the way you look, and you don’t know how to handle it either. The way he’s touching you, speaking to you, makes it impossible to think about anything other than the feeling of him. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, spreading through your body as his hands move lower. You bite your lip, trying to keep from moaning as his fingers trace over your skin, each touch driving you crazy.

When his fingers drift down between your legs, you can barely breathe. “Fuck,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers moved higher, brushing just barely over the slickness between your legs, and you gasped, your body arching into his touch instinctively. “I can’t believe how wet you are already. Jesus.”

It’s like he knows exactly how much you want it, like he’s been waiting for this too, and that’s what drives you crazy. His fingers just barely brush over your slickness, and you’re already gasping. It’s embarrassing how quickly you’re falling apart, but you can’t stop it. The tension is unbearable, and you hate how much power he has over you right now.

His breath is warm against your ear, and you can’t help but shiver. “I wanna go down on you,” he murmurs, and you freeze. The words hit you like a jolt, and suddenly, all your thoughts are crashing into each other.

The idea of him down there, of feeling his mouth, it’s overwhelming. You don’t even know what to say. Part of you wants to say no, to keep things simple, but the other part of you—the part that’s aching with need—wants it more than anything.

He notices your hesitation, his fingers still teasing, and you can feel the shift in the air. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says, his voice a little rougher, a little more serious. “Every time I’ve touched myself this week, I’ve been thinking about how you’d taste.”

Your heart skips. It’s too much. It’s raw, and you don’t know how to handle it. He’s so honest about what he wants, so direct, and you’re not used to that. It makes you nervous, but it also makes your body buzz with anticipation.

His fingers drift lower, just above your pelvis, and you can’t stop the way your body reacts. You’ve never had anyone do this for you, and the thought makes your cheeks burn. You feel shy, almost embarrassed by how much you want it, but it’s all you can think about now.

He seems to sense it, his hand pausing to cup your face, gently forcing you to look at him. “No one’s ever done this for you?” His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—something that makes you feel vulnerable.

You nod, swallowing hard. The truth makes you feel exposed, but it’s also freeing in a way. He’s different. He’s not just touching you—he’s paying attention, like he wants to know every part of you.

His thumb brushed against your skin in slow, deliberate circles, soothing and grounding. “Baby,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl. “That’s a damn shame.” His tone was full of genuine disbelief, like he couldn’t fathom how someone hadn’t already worshiped every inch of you the way he was about to. “I’m gonna fix that.”

The way he said it—so confident, so sure—made your heart skip, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that slipped out. “Are you, now?”

He didn’t even respond before his lips were on you. Soft, but purposeful, right at your collarbone. Your breath caught as he kissed along your skin, trailing lower, his fingers following, touching you like he couldn’t get enough. He whispered something about how much he wanted to taste you, how he had been thinking about it for days, and the need in his voice sent a shiver through your whole body.

You tried to keep up, to respond, but the way his lips moved down your neck, it was impossible to think clearly. Your body was already reacting on instinct, arching toward him, craving more. It wasn’t just his touch—it was how he made you feel like he meant every word.

His hands were slow, deliberate, making your skin tingle as they trailed down your sides. He was taking his time, savoring it, and it made your heart race. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, his voice so close to your ear. “Every part of you.”

The heat was unbearable now. Every inch of you felt like it was burning under his touch, and you could barely keep up with what was happening. Your thoughts were jumbled, overwhelmed by the way he was making you feel—his hands sliding down your body again, his lips still leaving a trail of heat wherever they touched. Your breath caught as his hands parted your legs, his grip firm but gentle, guiding you into it like you’d never felt before.

And then, he was between your legs. The anticipation built as you waited, your heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. His breath against your thighs sent another wave of need through you, and when his lips pressed to your skin, you gasped. You couldn’t stop your hands from gripping the sheets, every nerve in your body alive with anticipation.

“Try to stay still for me, okay?” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, and then his tongue flicked over your clit. It was light at first, teasing, but the sensation hit you so hard, you moaned before you could stop yourself. The need inside you was unbearable now, every stroke of his tongue driving you closer to the edge. Your mind was blank, focused entirely on him and the way he was making you feel.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, each one dragging a little more pleasure out of you. Your body was trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. You couldn’t hold on much longer. You didn’t even care how loud you were, only that the pressure was building, tightening inside you until you were right on the edge. He knew it, too, groaning softly as his tongue worked faster, each flick and gentle suck sending shockwaves through your body.

You wanted to tell him how good it felt, but you couldn’t get the words out. All you could do was moan his name, barely able to keep your body still as he took you apart. You were right there, teetering on the edge, and then—everything crashed down. The orgasm hit so hard it left you trembling, your back arching as your body shook with the intensity of it. His mouth stayed on you, riding out every last wave of pleasure, not stopping until you were a mess beneath him.

You can barely think. Everything feels hazy, the warmth still spreading through your body as you lie there, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The way his hands move, softly gliding over your thighs, keeps you grounded, but it’s not enough. Your mind is racing, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, replaying everything that just happened. He’s so good at this. Too good. You still can’t believe how quickly he unraveled you.

When he kisses your inner thigh, your body reacts immediately, shivering at the contact. It feels like every nerve is on edge, sensitive from the aftermath, but still craving more. The feeling of his mouth lingering there, right where you’re most vulnerable, only heightens that need. It’s so much, but you want more. You always want more with him. The thought of how easily he controls your body like this only makes the heat in your stomach swirl even faster.

As he moves up, pressing his lips to yours, you can taste yourself on him. It sends a new rush of warmth through your veins, making you wonder how he always manages to leave you feeling so desperate. His hands, tracing up your sides, ignite something inside you that’s impossible to ignore. You’re still trembling, still recovering, but you’re not done yet. You don’t want to be done yet.

His words float through your mind, that playful glint in his eyes almost mocking you as he asks how you’re feeling. But you can’t find the words. You just nod, feeling the way his thumb brushes over your lip. It’s maddening how gentle he is after everything he’s just done. It’s like he’s teasing you, pretending not to know how badly you need him again. His body, hard and warm against yours, is all you can focus on now. That and the growing need building between your legs.

He calls you pretty, and it’s like the air gets knocked out of you all over again. You feel raw, exposed, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to the praise. His eyes scan your face like he’s memorizing every detail, and it makes your heart race. You feel wrecked in the best way possible, and the way he’s looking at you now, so full of pride and desire, only makes it worse. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how much you want him to keep going, but he’s holding back, making you wait. Making you need him more.

You’re trying to calm down, but the sight of him, mouth still glistening from earlier, sends a fresh wave of desire through you. It’s almost too much, the way he touches you now, slowly dragging his hands over your body like he has all the time in the world. He’s savoring it. Savoring you. And you can’t stand it. You want him closer, deeper, but he’s still taking his time, his fingers tracing your waist, your breasts, with that maddening slowness. It’s driving you crazy.

When his lips brush over your skin again, murmuring how beautiful you are, it’s like every thought in your head vanishes. You feel warm all over, too vulnerable under his gaze, but somehow, it feels good. Like he’s worshipping you, like he’d spend all night doing nothing but admiring you. And that thought alone sends a jolt of heat straight through your core. It’s overwhelming, how much you want him, how much you need him.

He knows it too. The way he grins as his lips trail down to your chest, it’s like he can feel the desperation building inside you. You want him so badly, you can’t even form a coherent sentence. You just need more of him. His touch, his mouth, anything. And when his fingers finally brush between your legs again, you almost lose it. Every inch of you is still sensitive, still throbbing, but that only makes you crave him more. You gasp, your hips bucking into his hand, and it’s like he knows exactly how close you are to begging for him.

But he’s still teasing you, still making you wait. His fingers move slowly, drawing out every bit of your frustration, and it’s driving you insane. You can’t stand how good it feels, how easily he pulls you apart, and you can’t help the way your body reacts, pushing into him, silently begging for more. You need him. All of him. But he’s still holding back, wanting to make this last.

"I know, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as his fingers slid through your wetness, teasing you. "I want you too. But I wanna take my time with you. Wanna make sure you feel good."

His lips grazed your chest, right above your heart, and the warmth spread through you, but all you could focus on was his fingers. The way he teased you, dipping just inside before pulling back, left you desperate, aching for more. Your breath hitched. It was slow, deliberate. Torture. He knew exactly what he was doing.

His words, low and breathy, sent a pulse of heat through your body. "You deserve to feel this good every day. I'm gonna make sure you never forget it." His breath against your neck sent chills racing down your spine, but you could hardly focus on anything but his touch. Every nerve felt on fire.

Your chest tightened as the slow burn of need overwhelmed you. The teasing, the slow pace—it was too much, but not enough. You needed him. You needed more. "Fraser..." His name came out in a broken whisper as your hands found his shoulders, clinging to him, desperate for relief. "Please."

His low chuckle only made it worse. His fingers slid deeper, his thumb pressing against your clit, and your hips jerked up without thinking. You couldn’t stop the needy little whimper from escaping your lips.

"I want..." You couldn’t think straight, the words fumbling as his touch overwhelmed every thought. "I want you inside me."

He shifted, and your body tensed in anticipation. The thought of him filling you made your skin flush. His hard cock pressed against your thigh, and you couldn’t stop the way your breath quickened, chest rising and falling in short bursts as the need built.

But then you saw his hand reaching for the nightstand. You acted on impulse, grabbing his wrist, breathless as the words tumbled out before you could think. “No... I don’t want one. I want to feel all of you.”

The surprise in his eyes was brief, replaced by that cocky grin that always made your heart race. "You want it raw?" His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper behind it. The way he looked at you... you bit your lip and nodded, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

His groan was low, almost pained, as he rested his forehead against your collarbone. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me." You could feel the tension in his body, every muscle tight as he struggled to keep control. "You sure you can handle it?”

Your entire body trembled, but you couldn’t hold back anymore. "Please," you whispered, barely able to get the word out, the desperation in your voice making you cringe, but you couldn’t help it. "I want all of you."

He paused for just a second, then kissed you hard, like he was holding back everything. His weight pressed against you, his cock heavy and thick between your legs, and you could feel the heat rolling off him. He was trying so hard to stay in control, but you could sense it—the crack in his restraint.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he muttered against your lips, pulling your thighs apart. The head of his cock brushed against you, slick and teasing, and you could hardly breathe, the tension coiling tighter inside you. He wasn’t rushing, taking his time, and it was killing you. Every inch of him felt like too much and not enough all at once.

When he finally pushed in, slow and steady, you couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped your lips. He filled you completely, stretching you until you couldn’t think of anything else. Your fingers dug into his back, needing something to hold onto as your body tightened around him.

"You're taking it so well," he murmured, his voice rough, almost strained. Every word made your skin burn hotter. Every inch of him had you spiraling, unable to keep up with the sensations that crashed over you in waves. You couldn’t hold back the small cries, couldn’t stop your body from moving against him, needing more.

You whimpered softly, your hips bucking up against him as if begging for more, but he wasn’t going to rush it. He wanted to feel every inch of you, savor every moment. “Shh, baby,” Fraser murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

The way his voice wrapped around the words made your toes curl. His tone was soft, almost tender, but the roughness underneath it sent a bolt of desire straight through you. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the lines of your body in a way that made your skin buzz with electricity. He was teasing, dragging his fingers over every sensitive spot he could find, but always returning to your hips, holding you steady as he pushed in a little deeper.

Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the pillow, mouth slack, as another wave of pleasure hit. It was so much, too much—but in the best way possible. The sound of your own voice, soft gasps and moans, filled the room, but it felt distant, like you weren’t entirely in control of yourself anymore. Everything in you was unraveling, your thoughts dissolving into nothing but pure, raw sensation.

Fraser watched every second of it, his gaze locked on your face, the way your body responded to him, how your mouth fell open, the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath. His lips pulled into a lazy, cocky grin, and you could feel the low rumble of his laugh vibrating in his chest as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, tasting the way your breath stuttered.

​​Fraser grinned down at you, that lazy, cocky smirk only making your chest tighten more as he wiped the trail of drool with his thumb before pressing it back against your lips. "God, you’re so fucking gone, aren’t you?" His voice was rough, low, but there was a teasing lilt to it that only fueled the heat building in your belly. "Look at you. Can’t even keep your mouth shut. Just a little messy thing for me, huh?"

The words made your body respond instinctively, your hips rising up to meet his, chasing more of that slow, devastating pressure. But Fraser’s hands were firm, gripping your hips and pushing you back down into the mattress, refusing to let you take control. He was making you take it, making you feel every inch of him as he pressed into you, the head of his cock dragging along that perfect spot again, sending another jolt of pleasure that left you gasping. Your back arched off the bed, your mouth falling open as a broken, choked moan slipped out, eyes squeezing shut as your head fell back against the pillow.

His hand slid up your side, fingers tracing over your skin with a featherlight touch before his palm pressed against your lower belly, pushing down just enough for you to feel it. The pressure mixed with the slow, deep thrusts sent your mind spiraling, every coherent thought slipping further and further away. A broken moan escaped your lips, and you didn’t even realize that your mouth was still hanging open until Fraser chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"You’re still drooling, baby," he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, catching the wetness there before dragging it down your chin this time. His pace never faltered, deep and steady, the rhythm making you whimper helplessly beneath him. "You’re going all brainless for me, aren’t you?"

The words should’ve embarrassed you, but all you could do was moan in response, your body trembling as another wave of pleasure hit. Your hips bucked up instinctively, desperate for more, for anything, but Fraser wasn’t giving in just yet. He kept that same slow, agonizing pace, dragging it out, making every thrust feel like it was going to break you apart in the best way.

“Yeah, you are,” he continued, his voice rough but soft, dripping with pride as his fingers curled around your hip, gripping you tight as he pushed in deeper, hitting that spot again that made your brain short-circuit. "Look at you, baby. Fucking perfect. Can’t even think straight, can you?"

Your response was nothing more than a choked whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders as your body trembled, the pleasure building and building with each slow, deliberate movement of his hips. You were a mess, drooling and gasping, the only sound you could manage a string of broken, breathless moans.

"God, you’re so fucking hot like this," Fraser muttered, his voice thick as he watched you fall apart beneath him. "So fucking pretty, baby. So perfect. Taking everything I’m giving you. You don’t even realize how good you are, do you?"

His words washed over you, but they barely registered. You were too far gone, your mind melting with every thrust, every press of his body against yours. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving red lines in their wake, and Fraser groaned at the sensation, his hips pressing a little harder, a little deeper, but still keeping that same torturous, deliberate pace.

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending buzzing, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps as you tried to keep up with the intensity of it all. But it was impossible. Every time he hit that spot, the one that sent pleasure shooting up your spine, your mind blanked, leaving nothing but the overwhelming need for more.

Fraser’s hand moved back to your face, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip, and your mouth instinctively opened, desperate for him in any way you could have him. He grinned at the sight, his eyes dark with desire as he watched you, his thumb slipping past your lips. You sucked on it automatically, eyes fluttering shut as you moaned around him, the sensation sending a new wave of heat pooling in your belly.

"Fuck, you’re so good for me," he groaned, his voice rough as his cock pressed deep inside you again, making you whimper around his thumb. "So fucking good, baby. Doing everything just right."

The praise made your body respond even more, hips lifting off the bed to meet his thrusts, but he still wasn’t letting you take control. His hands gripped your hips, holding you down as he pushed deeper, slower, the sensation making you see stars.

“God, you’re so fucking hot like this,” he groaned, his voice thick with admiration as he watched you fall apart. His hand slid down to your thigh, lifting your leg higher, opening you up even more, and the new angle made you see stars, the pleasure so intense it felt like your body was going to break apart at the seams.

“Fraser…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a broken sound that didn’t even sound like your own. He grinned at the sound of his name on your lips, his thumb slipping from your mouth as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I know, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I know. You’re so fucking perfect for me. Doing so good. Just a little more, okay? You can take it.”

Fraser’s hand slid down your side, his fingers splayed wide over your skin as if he couldn’t get enough of touching you. He wasn’t rushing it—just savoring it, savoring you, the way your body trembled and responded to him. His thumb brushed lightly over your belly, then drifted lower, the sensation making you shiver. His fingers found the slick mess between your legs, and the sudden shock of it, the pressure of his touch, had your hips jolting up involuntarily, chasing after more.

"Shh, baby," he breathed, his voice thick with amusement as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I’ve got you. Don’t need to rush.”

The feeling of his fingers circling slowly, combined with the maddening, steady thrusts of his hips, had you falling apart in a way you couldn’t control. You felt like you were coming undone, like every inch of you was burning and tingling, and you were barely hanging on, your breaths coming in short, frantic gasps as he kept you on the edge.

"I know," he muttered, his voice rough and strained, but still so full of care. His thumb pressed a little harder, the pressure hitting just right, and you cried out, your back arching off the bed as your body reacted on instinct, chasing after that high that was just out of reach. "God, you’re doing so fucking good. Just like that, baby. Just like that."

The praise, the way he was watching you fall apart beneath him, sent you spiraling, and suddenly, you couldn’t hold on any longer. The coil snapped inside you, your entire body seizing up as the orgasm ripped through you, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred, and all you could hear was the sound of your own broken moans mixed with Fraser’s soft, raspy words of praise.

"That’s it," he groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep his control, watching the way you trembled and gasped beneath him. "So fucking perfect, baby. You’re so perfect. Look at you—fuck, you’re amazing."

His words barely registered through the haze of pleasure that was consuming you, your body still shaking from the aftershocks as Fraser’s pace picked up. He wasn’t slow anymore, couldn’t be, his thrusts coming faster, harder, as he chased his own release. You could feel how close he was, his body tensing, the muscles in his back tightening beneath your hands as he buried himself deep inside you.

"Fuck—" Fraser’s voice broke as he gasped for breath, his grip on your hips tightening as he pressed as deep as he could, his entire body trembling above you. He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and raw, and you could feel him shuddering as he came, his hips stuttering through the final thrusts. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he collapsed on top of you, both of you still shaking from the intensity of it all.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your combined heavy breathing, the two of you lying in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, your hearts pounding in unison. Fraser’s hand was still on your belly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against your skin, and you could feel the soft, lingering press of his lips against your collarbone, like he couldn’t quite let go of you just yet.

“You okay?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of concern, the rough edge of exhaustion barely hidden beneath the gentleness of his tone. His lips barely brushed your skin as he spoke, like he couldn’t pull away from you, like he needed to stay connected, even after all that intensity.

You nodded weakly, the movement making your head spin as you forced yourself to find your voice. “Yeah,” you breathed, though it came out as more of a sigh than anything else. You weren’t even sure how to form words at this point, your mind still swirling in the afterglow. “Just… tired.” It was an understatement. You felt completely spent, your limbs heavy, like you couldn’t move if you wanted to. But it was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that left a deep warmth blooming in your chest.

You felt his chest rise and fall steadily against yours, the weight of him grounding you in a way that was so comforting it almost made you want to cry. There was something so intimate about the quiet after, the way he stayed so close, his hand drifting lazily over your skin, tracing the remnants of the moment you’d shared.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured softly, his voice thick with exhaustion but still filled with that familiar care. He pressed a lingering kiss to your shoulder before slowly lifting himself off you, his movements unhurried and careful, like he didn’t want to pull away just yet.

You watched him move, the way his muscles shifted under his skin, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to him. He grabbed a towel from the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he wiped away the mess between your legs, his gaze never leaving yours. There was no rush, no sense of urgency—just slow, deliberate movements, as if he was savoring this quiet moment of aftercare.

Your body trembled slightly as he finished, and when he finally tossed the towel aside, he was back beside you in an instant, pulling you into his arms like he couldn’t stand to be away from you for too long. His chest was warm against your back, his arm looping around your waist as he held you close, his lips brushing lightly against your temple. “You’re amazing,” he murmured, his voice rough but so full of affection that it made your heart swell.

You melted into him, your body still buzzing from the intensity of it all, but now there was a deep sense of contentment settling into your bones. Fraser’s arms were tight around you, his hand splayed wide over your belly as he pulled you even closer, like he needed to feel every inch of you against him. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back, and it soothed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. There was no need. The quiet was filled with the soft sounds of your breathing, the gentle rustle of the sheets as Fraser shifted slightly, pulling the covers up over both of you. His body was warm, his chest pressed firmly against your back, and you felt completely enveloped by him, cocooned in this perfect, blissful stillness.

Eventually, you let out a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion started to creep in. Fraser’s hand drifted up to your hair, his fingers combing through the strands in slow, soothing motions, lulling you closer and closer to sleep. His lips pressed one last kiss to the back of your neck, a soft, lingering touch that made you smile.

[raeslibrary]

PHASE TWO — always trust the match maker (jamie’s version)

part one

pairing: jamie drysdale x reader

genre: fluff (lots of it tbh)

word count: 4.8k+

warning(s): trev getting too smug about being cupid, georgie being (*forcefully*) dragged into trevor’s ideas, reader cannot skate in this part so if you can please just pretend 🙏, meddling trev, confessions of love (FINALLY JESUS), mentions of parties + alcohol, & a teeny tiny makeout sesh (BOOMSHAKALAKA)

note: decided to replace the gifs with pictures bc they seem more aesthetically pleasing to my eyes & are a little summary as to what will/may be in the fic <3 brittany is an oc that i made up for the plot who is mason mctavish’s girlfriend. also, thinking of doing a bonus chapter/part 3 inspired by “meet the parents” but idk 🤷‍♀️ let me know if you’d like that! (or i could do a poll for it) sorry that the ending is a little rushed, i was just so excited to get it out <3

“You know she can’t skate, right?”.

If looks could kill, Trevor Zegras would be six feet under at the moment.

Georgie didn’t understand the man’s fascination with getting her roommate and his teammate together. She could see the attraction they shared but would rather not meddle with it. Trevor and his want of being involved in everything is really shining through in this current moment.

“That’s perfect! Jamie’ll be right there to swoop in and save her from falling. See? My plan is perfect, Gigi!” Trevor exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement and anticipation.

His current plan for ‘phase two’ of his plan to get you and Jamie together included the family skating event that the Anaheim Ducks were hosting later in the week and since neither Jamie nor Trevor had family in California, it was a perfect idea to recruit you and your roommate as their plus ones for the night. He’d pair himself up with Georgie while Jamie was paired with you. It was perfect in his eyes. Nothing could go wrong and that night would be the night where everything fell into place and the both of you would finally get together after bearing witness to the mutual pining and obliviousness.

“Y’know this isn’t a rom-com movie, right?” Georgie scoffed out, eyes rolling and head shaking as she did so.

“I’m well aware thank you,” Trevor sassed, copying the actions of the woman in front of him. “You have nothing to worry about. She’ll be in great hands. Jamie won’t let her fall or anything”.

The woman across from him only hummed and crossed her arms over her chest, not fully believing in the blue eyed man. Whatever he’s planning, she thought, better be good. Poor girl deserves a break.

———

“You know I can’t skate, right?”.

The question seemed to hit Trevor in the face, eye nearly twitching in agitation.

“Yes. I’ve been made aware of that”.

“So why do you want me to go to your family skate so bad?”.

The blue eyed man nearly wanted to rip the ends of his hair out in frustration. Why couldn’t you just say yes without any questions? It was a simple question that required a simple answer.

“You can practice your skating skills! Everyone should at least learn how to skate one time in their life. Plus, neither Jamie or I have family in California and it’d be nice for you and Georgie to tag along,” he replied, internally on his hands and knees begging as he asked you.

“I’ll fall,” you retorted, arms crossed against your chest.

“Jamie or I will be there to catch you. Hell, if you want Mason to do it, I’ll make sure he will. Just…please come”.

Trevor’s words only caused you to sigh out, nerves already bunching in your stomach at the thought of stepping on the ice. It’s not that you haven’t skated before. It’s just that it’s been years since you have and even then, it was only your third time ever skating. You didn’t want to make yourself look like a fool and fall straight on your face.

“Promise?” You asked.

“Promise,” Trevor nodded.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you, Zegras”.

“I’d never. Scouts honor!”.

You had a feeling that you were going to regret agreeing to skating with Trevor. And you’d be proven right exactly four days after this interaction.

———

“If I slip and die, I’m going to haunt your ass!” You shrieked, hands out in front of you as you wobbled on the sleek ice, trying to balance yourself.

The force of laughter that left Jamie’s lips nearly knocked the both of you over, skates slipping back and forth on the ice as you tried to balance yourself once more.

You don’t know how you were in your right mind when you agreed to Trevor’s family skate idea. You immediately regretted it the minute you stepped onto the ice and nearly face planted. He had managed to catch you last minute, hauling you up as he laughed at your state, declaring you ‘Bambi on ice’.

You had been handed off to Jamie when Trevor decided to help Georgie, even though she had a lengthy history of skating and could manage on her own. He practically dragged you over to the Canadian before lightly shoving you into his frame, clinging onto Jamie’s outstretched arms as you cursed the Zegras boy out.

“You’re doing great so far! Just focus on what’s in front of you,” Jamie replied, the sweetest smile on his face as he continued to grasp your hands in his own. You were surprised he could still feel his hands from how tight you were gripping them. “It’s always hard the first couple of minutes on the ice. But it gets better as time goes on”.

“Says the professional skater”.

He grinned at your statement, eyes never straying from yours as he did so. You did have a point. Jamie had has ample time to refine his skating skills whereas you barely even touched the ice growing up.

“Okay, you got me there. But trust me. The more time you spend on the ice today, the easier it will be next time,” he added, eyes quickly darting behind him to make sure no one was behind him as he continued to skate backwards.

“Next time? Oh no! No. There will not be a next time! This is the only time I will be stepping on the ice,” you retorted, shaking your head.

Jamie only shook his head in response, grin still plastered on his face as the both of you continued to glide across the ice.

“It won’t be if Trevor has anything to do with it. Now, you’re doing great! Just keep bending your legs,” he replied, hands tightening their grip on yours ever so slightly.

A scoff was the only response to escape your lips as you continued to focus on skating properly, desperate to not fall on your face.

———

“So, how was it?”.

Hours had passed and you were all skated out, Jamie practically carrying you off the ice as you complained about how much your feet hurt.

A glare was shot in Trevor’s direction. His usual, stupid grin on his face as he plopped himself right next to you as Jamie untied your skates for you. (You had protested much on the fact. But he insisted on untying your laces for you. You could not refuse him after he practically pouted at you to let him.)

“I’m killing you when we get home,” you replied, massaging your foot once it was free from the tortuous confinement of the ice skate. “I can’t feel my feet, Trev!”.

“She did pretty good. Better than I expected,” Jamie commented, gently placing the other foot onto his thigh, fingers deftly untying the laces.

You let out a gasp of shock, gently nudging Jamie’s forehead as you pouted, “You have no faith in me at all!”.

The onyx haired man only chuckled at your response, shaking his head a little to fix his locks as he continued to aid you in getting out of your skates.

“From what I could see, you did well, babe” Georgie piqued, skates already off and tennis shoes on her feet. Her piercing eyes glared at Trevor for a second before returning to you, softening a bit.

You mouthed a ‘thank you’ to her, a gentle smile on your face.

“All right,” Jamie murmured, softly taking your foot out of the unlaced skate and placing it on the ground underneath him. “You’re all ready to go!”.

“Thanks, Jimmy!” You spoke, stretching out that foot as you wiggled your toes and tried to relieve yourself of the soreness.

Trevor shot Georgie a look, something that neither you or Jamie noticed. The man wiggled his eyebrows a bit, earning an eye roll and a smack to the shoulder from the woman in front of him.

“McTavish is having a little get together later tonight if y’all are interested in joining,” Georgie commented, very discreetly kicking Trevor’s shin, earning a yelp from him.

“Oh, right! Something about starting the new season off with a bang or whatever,” the brunet added, rubbing his shin. That’ll definitely bruise.

“We should definitely go!” He continued, trying to gauge you and Jamie’s separate reactions to the suggestion.

You looked a little unsure, sparing a quick glance to Jamie as he absorbed the information given to him. Parties were never your thing to begin with. But it always managed to be fun if a certain Ducks player attended.

Jamie shrugged, hand still loosely holding onto your ankle, “Sure!”.

You nodded in response, a smile gracing your features as you looked at Georgie in confirmation.

“Great!” She exclaimed, hands clapping together as she ushered you up, ankle now becoming cold as Jamie’s hand slipped from it. “Us girls will get ready while you two do whatever. Just don’t forget (Y/N)’s drinks this time”.

Georgie shot a hard look at Trevor when she finished her commentary, glaring at him once more before she handed you your shoes and turned your back towards the two boys.

The blue eyed man only rolled his eyes and scoffed, arms crossing over his chest.

“She’s right. Don’t forget it,” Jamie added, including his, in Trevor’s opinion, unwanted input.

“I won’t, lover boy,” Trevor scoffed, ruffling his friends hair before getting up himself, phase two already beginning to circle in his brain.

———

The ‘little get together’ Mason was throwing was, in fact, not little.

If you had to guess, you would say there were at least thirty people squished in Mason’s apartment. Every person there either seemed to be a player or a friend of a friend. You didn’t recognize most unfortunately.

People were bumping into one another as they mingled their way through the crowd to get somewhere else or greet another friend. It was overwhelming to say the least. And it didn’t help that once you stepped through the door, Georgie excused herself to go to the bathroom and left you by the overflowing coat rack Mason had stationed by the entrance to his apartment.

You were close to turning around and leaving the party when you heard someone shout your name—Trevor.

“And where do you think you’re going, missy?” He asked, two alcoholic beverages in hand. “You’ve barely been here thirty seconds and you already want to leave,” Trevor continued, tsking at you.

“This isn’t a little get together, Z,” you shouted, the music and loud talking in the small space making it hard to hear what Trevor was saying.

Trevor sheepishly shrugged. “It was!” He exclaimed, “But then Brittany wanted to bring some of her friends and then they wanted to bring some of their friends…”.

You only shook your head, snatching the familiar labeled beverage in his hand and cracking it open before he finished his sentence.

“But hey, Jamie’s here!” He excitedly shouted, a wide smile spreading on his lips. “He’s back in Mason’s room! I left him there to get you since Georgie texted me that you guys were here”.

A small blush crept onto your cheeks at the mention of the defenseman, warming up your face. Trevor had taken that reaction as a sign to grab your free hand and drag you to Mason’s room, squeezing his way through the numerous bodies littered across the room.

“It should be more peaceful in there,” Trevor commented, turning his head a little bit so you could hear him. He knew how you got with large enough crowds and had personally asked Mason if you could stay in there for a majority of the time so you wouldn’t be overwhelmed. (Not that getting you into Mason’s room with Jamie was a part of his plan, of course not!)

Once you had reached the pearl white wooden door, Trevor had quickly ushered you in before closing the door behind himself, trying extremely hard to keep a straight face so as to not blow his cover.

Jamie was seated on Mason’s bed, elbows on knees as he was scrolling through whatever app he had on his phone. His dark hair had fallen forward due to the position, causing Jamie to have to push back the strands to get a good look at whoever walked into the room.

A smile broke onto his lips once he saw that it was you. “Hey,” he spoke, turning off his phone and throwing it to the left of him, the device making contact with the soft pillows.

“(Y/N/N) here tried to run. But, I caught her in time before she could make an escape. You’re welcome,” Trevor praised himself, giving a little bow to Jamie and you.

You rolled your eyes and took a sip of your beverage. “Oh, why, thank you so much, Trev!”.

Only a wide grin was Trevor’s response to your quip, teeth on full display as his blue eyes twinkled with an all too familiar look.

But before you could question what he was up to, a loud knock came from behind Mason’s bedroom door, catching the attention of all three of you in the room.

The door opened to reveal Lukáš Dostál, one of the Ducks goalies. He had a sheepish smile on his face as he called out to Trevor, telling him that Mason needed him real quick before slowly backing away from the door frame to allow space for the center player to get through.

“Alright,” Trevor spoke, clapping his hands together, or at least as much as he could with his beer in hand. “I must depart. So, I’ll leave you two alone. Don’t miss me too much now”.

A fake laugh escaped your lips as the boy exited the room, the loud slam and click of the door echoing throughout the room. Trevor shot you a small wink just before he completely disappeared behind the door.

“He’s up to something,” Jamie commented, eyes squinted at the door, gaze lingering on the general area Trevor stood just moments prior.

“I was about to say the same thing, Drysdale” you murmured, non dominant hand on hip as your dominant one still held your cool beverage.

“You’d think we’d have a sixth sense for this,” he chuckled, fingers raking through his dark hair. “With all the shit he pulls, you’d think we’d be better at recognizing when he’s up to something”.

You smiled at his comment, nodding with what he was saying as you took a sip of your drink. Trying to pinpoint what exactly Trevor was up to was always a hard feat—something that you hadn’t quite mastered yet even after all these years of knowing him.

“He’s sneaky. Too much for his own good sometimes,” you spoke, flopping onto Mason’s bed, cup already emptied and discarded somewhere amongst the room.

Jamie only hummed in response as he felt your weight dip the mattress, the force of it nearly forcing him backwards, his left hand going behind him in order to stop himself from crushing you.

From his position, Jamie could see every faint freckle on your face and every birthmark that painted your skin. You were wearing a black baby tee that had two pink magic eight balls positioned as cherries, tied by a ribbon on the very front. The necklace that held your first initial laid in the middle of your chest, moving up and down with each breath you took. The jeans you were wearing hugged your figure perfectly. Your eyelids were gently closed and from time to time, he could see your eyes move underneath the lids. Your hair splayed around your head like a halo, shining in the overhead light. To Jamie, you looked like an angel sent from above—so pretty and kind and captivating. He couldn’t believe he had met you when he did. He felt so blessed to get the privilege to be in your life, in whatever way you deemed appropriate.

“Trevor’s special. In more ways than one,” Jamie chuckled.

His comment made you laugh, your head thrown back against the sheet as your legs lifted up to your chest as they kicked instinctually from laughter.

Your reaction made Jamie smile and blush, blood rushing up his neck to his cheeks, dusting his face a light pink color.

“I’m surprised we’re still friends with him,” you wheezed out. “With all the shit he’s pulled, he should’ve been blocked a long time ago”.

Jamie chuckled and nodded in response.

His heart was beating extremely fast, something it did regularly when Jamie was in your presence. He also had a hard time breathing too, but who wouldn’t?

A comfortable silence had settled between you two. You still laid down on Mason’s bed, eyes delicately closed and breathing steady as you tried not to fall asleep on the comfortable mattress.

The loud chatter of those outside Mason’s bedroom was only an afterthought as the two of you continued to bask in the comfortable silence. The domesticity of it all made Jamie’s heart lurch and his mind race. It wasn’t an entirely domestic scene, but it was enough for him. You are always enough for him.

The man wasn’t going to lie about how he knew about Trevor’s “masterful plan”. He had figured it out quickly after he heard his roommate mumble to himself about how his plan failed after that one party at their shared apartment. Confiding in Georgie only proved Jamie’s suspicions right—the redhead practically spilling every thought and plan Trevor had come up with in an attempt to get the two of you together. Jamie had nearly died at Georgie’s confession. That was the only confirmation he needed to pull up his bootstraps and finally work up the courage to confess to you. And, of course, Jamie knew of Trevor’s idea of throwing you two in a room together in hopes of the two of you getting together.

“(Y/N)?”.

So, here goes nothing.

“Can I tell you something?”.

That question piqued your interest.

You opened your eyes and sat up, faces inches away from Jamie’s face as his eyes never left yours. Your cheeks burned pink from the proximity and you found yourself cursing at your low tolerance for alcohol. Another reason why you much preferred the colorful, fruity drinks many alcohol brand names created. You didn’t need much to feel the effects.

“Yeah. What’s up?” You asked, shifting yourself a bit so all of your weight wasn’t put onto your arms, leaning a little forward.

Jamie’s mouth suddenly went dry, the words caught in his throat as his brain tried to scramble for something—anything to say.

“Should I have not said that about Trev?” You wearily asked, worried he took what you said about his best friend to heart. “Because I didn’t mean that! He’s a cool guy, really! Can be a bit annoying, but I’d never block him. Unless he did, like, something incredibly stupid like—”.

“No.” Jamie simply stated, it coming out more as a croak than a word. He cleared his throat before continuing.

“No. It’s not about that. I honestly agree with everything you said”.

That granted Jamie a smile of yours that he so desperately loved seeing on you. He copied your smile, licking his lips before then.

“It’s just—Damn. I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” he whispered, head slightly shaking as his eyes darted from place to place, nerves tingling throughout his entire body.

“What? That what would be hard, J?” You softly ask, hand coming up to gently grip his bicep in a comforting grasp.

The skin you touched felt like it was on fire to Jamie. Every time you touched him, sparks erupted underneath his skin. It always felt nice. Like it was supposed to happen. Like you were supposed to be touching him.

“I’ve thought day and night about this nearly every day since I met you. Do you remember that? Trev was so excited to introduce you. He was practically buzzing off the walls with excitement,” Jamie begins, his own hand gravitating towards yours that still grasped his bicep, gently wrapping around your wrist.

You giggled at the memory. Trevor had been excited to introduce the two of you. He was dead set on Jamie being the one to rid you of your relationship disappointments. The man had commented many times how his friend and roommate Jamie could be your one. You very much doubted that statement. You had given up at that point. But the second you locked eyes with Jamie Drysdale, all bets went out the window. He was so sweet and so gentle in speaking with you and shaking your hand. You were sure if angels walked the Earth, Jamie was one of them. That night, after leaving the café Trevor brought you to, you had realized that the center hockey player was right about Jamie being the change for you. But you still had doubted that something as kind, as beautiful as Jamie would fall for someone like you.

“Trevor wouldn’t stop talking my ear off about all your little quirks,” you commented. “He told me about your sleep talking and how you always watch the Mighty Ducks series whenever you don’t feel well”.

“Of course he did,” Jamie snorted. “What didn’t he tell you.”

You only smiled in response as you waited for Jamie to continue whatever he was saying beforehand. The butterflies in your stomach swarming and hurriedly batting their wings. You weren’t sure what Jamie was trying to say. You just hoped that he wasn’t going to abruptly end the friendship you two had.

“Trevor had mentioned some things here and there about you. Honestly, I wasn’t sure who I was going to meet that day from how little he mentioned you. He refused to tell me anything and insisted that I actually talk to you to find out more about you. Which, I guess, I should thank him for because then I probably wouldn’t have connected with you the way I did.”.

“It’s forever sketched into my brain—that day. I remember how cold it was that morning and how you walked in with only jeans and a jacket on while I had too many layers on to count. I think my lungs stopped working the minute you walked through the café doors and we locked eyes. I nearly spilled my drink.”.

You both chuckled at that. You had a feeling of where this conversation was going to go and your brain nearly started to overheat from how hard you were thinking and trying not to just blurt out how you felt to him. You never got those long confessions from those you were interested in. And since you were now getting that, you didn’t want to interrupt and ruin the moment. So, you stayed quiet and silently urged Jamie to continue.

“I know it’s cliché to say, but I’m pretty sure I loved you the moment I saw you. Everything about you intrigued me. Everything about you was so enchanting and I couldn’t stop myself from being greedy and wanting to get to know you better. I don’t even think Trevor spoke to us once during the entire three hours we were there. It was hard having to leave and part ways. I wanted to spend more time with you.”.

“I called my Mom later that night and told her everything. She laughed at me and told me that something similar happened to her and my Dad. That I should keep you as close as I could. I’m pretty sure even she could tell that I was already taken aback by you. It was that night that I knew no one else could compare. I mean, it took you, what, five seconds to break me out of my shell and have me talking the entire morning. You were special for some reason and you’re something that I cannot imagine letting go.”.

“So, I guess what I am trying to say is, I think—No. I know that I’m in love with you. And I have been since Trevor uttered your name,” he finished.

Unshed tears gathered in your waterline, threatening to spill over as you took in what the man you had held so close to your heart for so long just confessed.

Jamie too had small tears gather at the corner of his eyes. His heart pounded against his chest as he tried to slow his breathing down. He poured his heart and soul out to you and he only hoped that you matched his feelings back.

“Oh, Jamie,” you whispered, voice full of emotion. “I too have loved you since the moment we met. I think I had a harder time coming to terms with it. I had some rocky relationships in the past that made me feel inadequate for love. For the longest time I thought I was only made for half assed love and the kind of love that made me feel empty when it was over. But, meeting you has changed everything. Meeting you has rewired my brain in so many ways that I can’t begin to tell you the impact you’ve had on me. Just you alone have made me believe all over again. You make love seem not as scary as I thought”.

By the time you reached the end of your sentence, Jamie had tears running down his pale cheeks. He knew of your less than satisfactory relationships and hoped that one day, he could change your mind. He didn’t think he’d actually achieve it as just your friend. He only hoped that he’d be able to do more as your partner.

Silence fell over the two of you again as you both sat there in a warm touchless embrace. Jamie’s hand still gripping yours. Eventually, he moved your hand from his bicep up to his lips, delicately kissing it before placing it on his cheek as he leaned into the soft flesh of your palm.

“I feel like that was really cheesy, no?” He whispered, a giggle falling from his lips.

You could only giggle and nod in response, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

Your eyes met, both wet from the tears shedded. An unspoken question (Can I kiss you?) was asked between the two of you, a simple shake of your heads was the only confirmation you needed before leaning in and pressing your lips together.

Jamie’s lips were so, so soft that it made you want to cry all over again. His cologne was more pungent now that you were lip locked. The smell made you feel dizzy, your closed eyes not helping the slight vertigo sensation you felt. His unoccupied hand went to your cheek to pull you even closer, the need to become one ever so present in the air.

Your other hand went up to his soft locks, desperately tugging at the ends, making Jamie shudder at the feeling. You tried to get closer to the man, but the position the two of you were in was not ideal.

But, before you could pull away and climb into Jamie’s lap, the door to Mason’s bedroom slammed open, scaring the two of you away from each other.

“Holy shit! Yes!” A voice shouted, the owner jumping up and down as they squealed and shrieked in excitement.

“Trevor, what the fuck?!” You screamed, now lying on the bed sideways from the scare you received.

“I did it! I finally did it! You guys kissed! I am the ultimate matchmaker, bitches!” He continued, ignoring the glares he was getting from the two of you.

As Trevor began to dance in celebration in front of Jamie and you, you peeked a look at the man you just kissed only to see him smirking as he gazed at you.

But, the only thing you could do was shake your head and urge yourself forward, locking Jamie into another kiss.

“Ew! Hey, I’m right here! Just because you’re together now does not mean I consent to seeing you two eat each other’s faces,” Trevor exclaimed, a small smile on his face as he teasingly tsked at the two of you.

The only response to his comment was your middle finger as he slipped through the door again, careful to lock the door as to leave the two of you some peace and privacy.

———

( “So, did they do it?” Mason asked, feet propped up against the small table placed in front of his couch.

The Ducks player had originally been against Trevor’s “plan” but had ultimately agreed when he got sick and tired of Jamie moping around like a lost puppy after someone mentioned your name.

The smirk on Trevor’s face said it all.

“Good, hopefully he’ll stop looking like a lovesick fool every time someone mentions her,” he added, sipping his beer. “But you owe me big time, Zegras! I just don’t let anyone use my bedroom for their matchmaking plans”.

Trevor only saluted his teammate, uttering a sir yes sir! before practically skipping his way to Georgie to spill the beans.

Mason shook his head as he watched Trevor go, thinking about how much of a clean day tomorrow will be, headache already forming at the thought. )

[raeslibrary]

SAFE IN YOUR ARMS MACKLIN CELEBRINI

Summary :: Wrapped in Macklin’s warmth, sleep slowly pulls you under as his gentle touch soothes you. In this quiet, intimate moment, everything feels still, and you realize—this is exactly where you’re meant to be. (REQUESTED :: prompt 20)

Warnings :: none

Word count :: 1.0k

The soft glow of the lamp casts golden light across the room, painting everything in warm, muted hues. The world outside feels distant, muffled by the thick curtains drawn across the windows, shutting out the city’s restless hum. The quiet is a kind of comfort, a protective cocoon that keeps the chaos at bay. Inside, the air is warm and still, the only sounds coming from the low hum of music drifting lazily from the speakers and the occasional rustle of fabric as you shift.

It’s peaceful. Safe. A sanctuary carved out of the unpredictability beyond these walls.

You’re curled up against Macklin, your body tucked neatly into his side, fitting against him like a missing piece. His arm is wrapped loosely around you, his fingertips tracing slow, absentminded circles against your back, the motion lulling you into an almost dreamlike state. It’s such a simple touch—one you’ve felt countless times before—but there’s something about it tonight that feels different, like he’s anchoring you to the moment, keeping you close, as if he never wants to let you go.

Your book sits forgotten on the coffee table, pages splayed open where you left off, a story abandoned in favor of something much sweeter. You had been determined to finish it tonight, had stubbornly insisted that you weren’t tired, that you just needed “five more minutes.” But now, exhaustion has settled into your bones, turning your limbs heavy, your body slow and unresponsive to the world around you. Each blink lasts a little longer than the last, your lashes brushing softly against your cheeks, your mind slipping further and further into the pull of sleep.

Macklin shifts slightly, just enough to press his cheek against the top of your head. He’s warm—comfortingly so. The kind of warmth that seeps into your skin, that soothes something deep within you, making it nearly impossible to fight off the exhaustion pressing in from all sides. You breathe him in, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering on his hoodie, mixed with the faint, sweet hint of vanilla from the candle burning on the bookshelf. It smells like home.

Your body melts further into him, and you feel it the moment he notices. There’s a brief pause in the lazy motion of his fingers, a subtle change in his breathing, as if he’s savoring the way you instinctively lean into him, trusting him to keep you safe.

Then, his voice, soft and amused, breaks the quiet.

“You’re falling asleep on me, love.”

The words barely register, brushing against your skin like a whisper. Warm and low, laced with quiet affection. You want to respond—to insist that you’re still awake, that you’re listening, that you were just resting your eyes for a second—but the effort feels monumental. Even forming words feels like too much.

Instead, you manage a small hum of protest, nuzzling deeper into his chest, as if that alone will prove him wrong.

“I’m not asleep,” you mumble, but your voice betrays you, thick and slurred with exhaustion, barely above a whisper.

Macklin chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating beneath your cheek. You feel it more than you hear it—the quiet amusement in the way his body moves, the way his hand slows against your back before resuming its gentle motions. His fingers move upward, threading lazily through your hair, his touch featherlight as his thumb brushes against your temple in slow, soothing strokes.

“You are,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “But that’s okay. You’re safe here.”

That simple reassurance sends another wave of warmth through you, melting away the last remnants of tension in your body. You hum again, softer this time, a barely-there sound of agreement, of trust.

His touch remains steady, tracing patterns against your skin—thoughtless, effortless, as if it’s second nature. As if holding you like this is as easy as breathing.

Your breathing slows, syncing with his, your body instinctively matching the steady rise and fall of his chest. You’re caught in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, where the world feels distant and soft, where thoughts slip through your fingers like grains of sand. Time seems to slow, stretching out indefinitely, turning each second into something languid and unhurried.

There is no rush. No urgency. Just the quiet rhythm of your breaths intertwining, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, in the stillness, in the kind of peace that only comes with knowing you are exactly where you belong.

After a while, Macklin shifts just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. It’s soft, barely there, the lightest brush of his lips against your hair—but it sends a quiet shiver down your spine. His voice is even softer when he speaks again, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re always so sweet when you fall asleep,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You want to respond, but sleep is pulling you under now, heavier and more insistent, wrapping around you like a thick, cozy blanket. You manage a small, lazy smile, barely-there, but enough that he notices. His fingers continue their slow, lazy strokes against your skin, lulling you deeper and deeper.

Macklin exhales, a slow, contented sound, as if he’s drinking in the moment. His hand moves to rest over yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady, lazy rhythm. A silent promise. A wordless reminder that he’s still here, that he’s not going anywhere.

There is something so intimate about this—about the quiet trust that lingers between you, the way neither of you feels the need to fill the silence with words. You love this about him. How comfortable he is in the stillness, how effortlessly he makes you feel safe, without ever having to try.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognize the feeling curling deep in your chest—the quiet, unshakable certainty that you could stay like this forever.

Macklin lets out a breath, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly, as if he, too, is realizing the same thing.

“Sleep well, love. I’m right here.”

And as the world fades away, as sleep finally pulls you under, you believe him.

[raeslibrary]

Someday ⊹₊⟡⋆

Nico Hischier x reader // masterlist

summary: an overheard comment at a team party has Nico spiraling about the future- in the best kind of way. 2.9k

or: stache!nico looks like a dilf so I wrote a breeding kink fic. nobody perceive me.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, breeding kink but like. in a for fun way not an actually trying to get pregnant way, unprotected sex, strong language, mentions of future pregnancy

i blame cece & sabrina carpenter

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Nico asks, his voice ringing out through the softly lit kitchen.

You hum, shaking soapy water off your hands into the sink. “Gonna have to be more specific, babe.”

You figure he’s probably talking about something you said when you were at the Lazar’s house for a football game watch party. He’s been a bit pensive ever since you got home, a bit lost in his own head. Not in a bad way- you know the man well enough to know he’s not upset. He’s just been thinking. When you turn to face him in the kitchen, his bottom lip is pink, like he’s been biting at it, and his brows are slightly furrowed. But his eyes are soft. Warm.

He leans on the island, hands splayed against the granite. He’s studying you. You wrack your brain for what you might’ve said earlier to make him spiral like this. Was it the chilli you asked for the recipe for, or the team you decided to cheer for? Was it your comment about the summer in Switzerland, how you missed it already? Was it-

“You were in the kitchen,” he says. “You were helping feed the baby.”

You blink, your heart fluttering slightly. It’d been one of his teammates’ wives, and she’d been trying to juggle the baby and her toddler, trying to soothe both of them. You’d offered to help, willingly tucked the baby into your arms and gave them a bottle. She’d smiled at you, eyes alight with mischief.

“You’re a natural,” she’d said. “You want one of your own someday?”

You’d nodded, without even thinking about it. “Someday,” you’d agreed. “Nico would make such a good dad. Especially with the mustache, my god.”

She’d laughed. You had, too. And then you’d moved on. You hadn’t even realized Nico had heard it.

“You were eavesdropping,” you tease, gently.

He grins sheepishly. “You looked pretty. With the baby.”

He’s treading lightly. You are, too.

“Had to try and match your DILF energy,” you tell him. When he cocks his head, you continue. “You know. Dad I’d like to-“

“I know,” he interrupts, his cheeks going pink. “You- I… you meant it, though?”

You blink. “Yeah, Neeks. We’ve talked about that, remember? Said we were both open to kids, eventually.”

He nods, swallows. “Yeah. In general. We- when we talked it was so… early. But today you said-“

He pauses. You take a good look at him- really look. The flush on his cheeks, the spread of his palms against the counter. His dark, wide eyes. And suddenly, you think you know.

“Today I said you’d make a good dad,” you fill in, and he blinks, slowly. “Especially with the mustache.”

He rumbles out a laugh, his thumb rubbing against the counter. You push yourself away from your spot and round the island, so you’re within arms reach of him. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his body. Warm like a sunny afternoon.

“I meant it,” you add. His shoulders shake, almost imperceptibly. “Did you like that, baby?”

His eyelids flutter, lashes tangling against his cheeks. “I like you.”

He’s deflecting. You laugh, and without any real effort, you slip under his arm to stand between him and the counter. He’s bracketing you in now, one arm on each side, staring down at you. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest with every breath. You can feel the weight of his gaze. You can feel the tension rolling off of him- good tension. Like a late summer storm, waiting to break.

You reach up and wind your hands around his neck. He shivers, then repeats the motion when you toy with the ends of his hair where they brush against his neck.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” you say. “I wanna know.”

He leans forward and brushes a chaste kiss to your forehead before he speaks. “I liked it. You saying that.”

You hum and tug on his hair, just slightly. “Yeah?”

He swallows and nods. “Yeah. Maybe a little too much. I mean. I know, someday, you know. Now isn’t the time for… for a baby. But…”

You can feel your face grow warm, feel your own pupils grow wide, feel the way you’re leaning into him already. The tension crackles underneath your skin.

“There’s always time to… practice,” you tell him.

That seems to be all the permission he needs, really. His hands fly from the counter to your hips, cold from the granite but warming up quickly. He leans down to capture your mouth in a heady kiss, one that has you feeling desperate within seconds. He presses you close against the island, then presses himself close to you, close enough that you can feel how hard he is underneath his sweatpants. You gasp against his lips, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, hot and insistent and needy.

His hands on your hips slip lower, lower, lower, until he’s cupping your ass, hauling you up and away from the counter. You squeal against his lips when he lifts you up, pulling at your legs to wrap around his waist. It changes the angle, lifts your head higher than his, and you cup his face in your hands to kiss him again, relishing in the soft groan he lets out.

He carries you to the bedroom by memory alone, and you bite back a laugh when he bumps into the wall slightly on the way. You’re not laughing much longer, though, when he stumbles his way to the bed and tosses you down onto it. You yelp, landing with a slight bounce, eyes suddenly wide open as you stare up at him. His shoulders are heaving, eyes wild, mustache sitting proudly above his kiss reddened lips. He’s hesitating.

You reach for the hem of your shirt. “You’re gonna make a hot dad, you know. Mustache and all.”

The groan he lets out is deep and ragged. He lurches towards the bed to lean over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. You grin up at him, happily. He has a smirk on his lips when he reaches down and rips your hands away from the hem of your shirt, pinning them above your head easily, both wrists between one hand. You sigh, flutter your eyelashes at him, and arch your back towards him.

“Let me,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”

You shudder beneath him as the smirk turns to a full on grin. He keeps your hands pinned above your head, but his other hand skates down your body, replacing yours at the hem of your shirt. He toys with the fabric before he slips his hand underneath to brush over your skin. His hands are heated, now, as he shoves the shirt up your body, leaving you exposed to him. You feel yourself growing hazier.

“You take good care of me, always,” you tell him, grinning up at him. “Gonna take such good care of us.”

He groans at that, a guttural sound that has fire licking up your spine. You whine, squirming on the bed beneath him, trying to reach for him, to hold on, to pull him close. He lets out a laugh, keeps your hands pinned, and his other hand slips over to lay flat against your stomach. He holds you down against the bed. Your breath hitches.

“Gonna feel me right here,” he says- promises. “Gonna make you mine.”

He gets your clothes off quickly after that. His clothes follow yours into a pile on the floor. The moment of distraction lets you shift on the bed, wiggling your way up towards the pillows. You roll over, half onto your stomach, reaching towards the headboard to pull yourself farther. Nico doesn’t seem to like that- his hands land on your now bare hips, and he yanks, leaving you yelping and giggling as he pulls you back down towards the end of the bed. There’s laughter on his lips when he finds you again, when he climbs up onto the mattress with you, when he engulfs you, his lips meeting yours again, hot and wet and intoxicating.

He’s more rushed than usual, more frantic. His hand slips between your legs to cup your cunt, groaning at what he finds there. You know you’re soaked- how could you not be, when he looks like that and talks like that and kisses you like that. His fingers drift toward your center, his thumb brushing against your clit, and you whine. You reach up to hold onto him, your hands clawing at his shoulders as he teases you.

“Just want you to fuck me,” you admit, voice high and breathy. “C’mon, Nico-“

“Jesus,” he mutters, dragging his lips against your jaw, his mustache scraping against your skin. “Gonna be the death of me.”

He takes his time, touching you until you’re a whining mess beneath him. When he finally gives in, finally takes his cock in his hand and leans close, you’re practically begging him for it. You can see the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks- he’s feeling it too. He brushes the head of his cock over your center and chews on his bottom lip. The noise he lets out when he sinks into you is close to a sigh. Like he’s relieved. When you look up at him through half lidded eyes, he’s watching you. Watching your face. His brow ticks, and you wonder what he sees there. If he can see the way you’re already falling apart.

He splays his hand across your stomach again- you whimper and squirm beneath him, if only to test the way he’s pinning you down. He sighs, again.

“You take me so well,” he coos.

You keen, your eyelids fluttering shut at the words. When he bottoms out, you hear the groan that leaves his lips, and then you feel it when he ducks his head to mouth at your collarbone. He stays put for a moment, the stubble on his jaw brushing against the sensitive skin of your chest.

Then, he starts to rock his hips, and along with that, he starts to run his mouth.

Nico’s always been a talker, at least towards you- outside of bed and in bed. It’s one of your favorite things about him. On a bad day, he can take your mind off things with a long winded ramble. In bed, he can keep up a running commentary of dirty talk that sends you careening towards the edge far faster than you ever have. But if you’d thought it was something good before, now…

“That’s a good girl,” he groans, grinding against you on the end of a roll of his hips. “Gonna take me so well, huh? Gonna let me fill you up, yeah?”

You cry out beneath him on the next thrust, arching off the bed again, trying to wrap your legs around his waist to keep him there. It’s no use. He keeps you pinned, his hand pressing into your thigh to hold you open for him, his other hand still pressed against your stomach.

“Fuck,” he mutters, panting openly against your chest. “Oh, fuck. Good girl. So good for me.”

You reach up and bury your fingers in his hair, to tug and pull and hold. He groans, again, rolling his hips against yours slowly. You pull, again, with a whine.

“Please,” you mumble, into the open air above you. “Need it, Nico.”

He huffs. And then he really starts to talk, punctuating his sentences with lazy but pointed rolls of his hips. He tells you how good you looked that day, how you’d made his imagination run wild. He tells you how he pictured this. He tells you how someday, he’s going to have you like this for real, take you like this over and over again until it works, until you make him a dad. He cradles your face in his palm and kisses you, lets his hand slip down to hold your throat, and tells you how good you’ll look when he’s finished with you, when he’s left his mark.

You don’t realize the repeated pleas that hang in the air are coming from you until he’s shushing you, gently.

“Please what, baby?” He asks, voice soft and sweet, bordering on patronizing. “Tell me what you need, anything you need.”

He rolls his hips again, shuddering when he presses deep. You bite back a wail, your skin on fire. Your hands have found anchor points now, one twisted in the duvet beneath you, the other clinging to his shoulder, sure to leave marks there. The same way he’s going to leave marks on you. The way he’s going to bury himself deep and come inside of you and-

“Please, Nico,” you cry out, cherishing the way his breath stutters in his chest. “I need it. Need you. Need you to fuck me and fill me up and take me- any way you want, just- please, please-“

He smothers the rest of your words with another kiss. You whine into his mouth, let his tongue twist against yours as you melt into the bed. And, as he’d said, he does exactly as you asked. His thrusts pick up speed, pick up intensity, pick up a new edge. He plants his hands beside your head and takes. When he breaks the kiss, gasping for air against your cheek, you open your eyes to look up at him. His pupils are dark and wide, a feral grin on his lips.

You can feel it coming, can feel yourself teetering on the edge. “Oh, Nico,” you whine.

“I’ve got you,” he promises.

He reaches for one of your hands and pulls it to your stomach. He presses his hand over the back of yours, using your own palm to pin you to the bed. You choke on your next breath-it all feels so intense, so heady, so overwhelming.

“Gonna fill you up,” he promises through a groan. “nd then m’gonna do it again. And again. As many times as it takes. And you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you-“

“Nico,” you gasp,clinging tightly to him. “M’gonna-“

“I know,” he coos. “Just let go, baby. M’right there with you, just-“

When you come around him, he buries himself deep and follows suit. The coil snaps for both of you, and the air is filled with a mix of your sounds. The shockwaves of your orgasm roll through you, and you can feel him coming deep inside you, pulsing and twitching, the way he promised he would, while your vision goes white.

You collapse back onto the bed, utterly spent. He follows quickly after, blanketing you with his body, his face buried in your neck. Your ears ring, loudly, and leftover stars dance in your vision. When you finally come back around, you realize he’s mumbling words into your skin. A mix of English and Swiss German, barely coherent-

“So good for me, schatz, so- verdammte hölle. Take me so well. My good girl. Gonna knock you up. Someday. Someday I’ll do this for real. Eines tages, baby.”

“Nico,” you gasp out, again, and he lifts his head, resting his chin against your collarbone, atop his hand.

“There she is,” he says. “You okay?”

You nod frantically. “So good. That was so good.”

He nods in agreement and rests his cheek against his hand, blinking up at you softly. “It’s like your song.”

You blink, frowning at him. “Huh? My song?”

He nods, drumming his fingers against your collarbone. “You know. The Sabrina one. I might let you make me Juno. That song.”

You blink wildly, your heart twisting, squirming beneath him. Because yeah, you know the song. The one about being so in love you’d let him get you pregnant. One of me is cute, but two though? You’ve had it stuck in your head for days, have been humming it nearly nonstop. Of course he noticed.

“I would, you know,” you tell him. “I’d let you.”

He rumbles out a laugh, eyelids fluttering against his cheeks again. “Good. Stop squirming. Stay put. Gotta make sure it takes.”

You shiver. “Nico.”

You know he knows you’re on birth control. You know he’s not really being serious. But god, it’s hot to think about it. To hear him say it. To feel him pin you to the bed with one hand, his other hiking your leg over his hip.

In response, he rolls his hips against yours, still buried inside of you. You quiver, your hands flying up to his shoulders, nails already scraping at his skin.

“Nico,” you sigh, though you have a feeling it’s no use. “S’too much. Can’t.”

He hums against your collarbone and repeats the motion. Then he reaches up, grabs your wrists, and pulls them down against the bed. He intertwines his fingers with yours, hands next to your head.

“Yes, you can,” he says. “You always take me so well, you can give me one more.”

You whine, but you’re nodding, too.

“Someday,” he adds. “I’ll do this for real. And I’ll do it over and over until it works. M’never gonna get enough of you. Could never get enough.”

You whine his name again. He shushes you, soft and warm.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Always do, always will.“

His thrusts are lazy, rhythmless. He’s in no hurry this time. He’s got all the time he wants. You melt into the bed and dream of someday.

…..

a/n: thank you for reading! come scream about mustache!nico with me in the inbox!

[raeslibrary]

i love you, my favourite everything | m. celebrini

-> pairing; macklin celebrini x fem!reader -> 3005 words -> request; "The holidays are here. How about a home for a holidays with a player of your choice? Being nervous to meet the fam?" -> notes; idk if his family still lives in the bay area but whatever. reader is described as being 18

***

When two Christmas-loving people start dating, what happens?

A lot of things. Specifically, the Christmas tree would be up on November 1st. Not a second later. But since you and Macklin didn’t live together—and that reality was far from your eighteen-year-old lives—you had to cope in different ways. Texts sent back and forth with links to holiday-themed playlists, debates over which streaming service had the best lineup of Christmas movies, and even a gingerbread house competition over FaceTime. This was how two festive people navigated being apart.

And then Macklin offered to take you across the bay to spend Christmas with his family since yours was all the way across the country. He said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, but your heart had practically tap danced its way up your throat when he asked. You’d agreed—because of course you would—thinking it’d be a great way to bond with his family and spend the holiday with your boyfriend.

The fact that you’d be able to sleep in the same bed together was also, apparently, a big selling point for Macklin. He was just about giddy every time he brought it up, because the two of you had never done that—never had the chance to just fall asleep next to each other. It wasn’t that you hadn’t been close before; you had. But sleepovers just weren’t practical. You lived in a tiny dorm room, and you really didn’t want to deal with Joe’s teasing if you went over to Macklin’s. So, the idea of spending nights in the same bed, waking up on Christmas morning, and sharing that with him felt like some serious magic.

And now you were here, climbing up the doorsteps of his parents’ home, nerves twisting in your stomach like a whole collection of tangled Christmas lights. Macklin held your hand, his thumb stroking over your knuckles as you reached the door. He must've noticed the slight hesitation in your steps because he turned and gave you one of those effortless smiles that had made you fall for him in the first place.

“Hey,” he said, voice softening as he leaned in, “They’re going to love you. My mom’s always wanted a daughter, you know? She’s been surrounded by boys forever.” He gestured towards the door, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “And now she’s finally got you.”

You rolled your eyes at his cheesiness but couldn’t help the smile that broke through. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Plus, they already like you because I like you. And I have impeccable taste.”

You snorted, and before you could make some sarcastic retort, the front door flew open, revealing a guy who was basically Macklin in two years. Taller, broader, but the same smile.

“Hey, finally!” the guy said, and you figured this had to be Aiden, Macklin’s older brother. He looked at you, smile widening, “You must be the famous girlfriend. I’m Aiden. Come in, come in.”

The next few hours were a blur of introductions, laughter, and the comforting chaos of a big family. His mom gave you a hug that felt so genuine it nearly made your chest ache, while his dad shook your hand with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. RJ, Macklin’s younger brother, immediately tried to one-up Macklin by insisting he was actually the funnier brother, much to Macklin’s squawking protest. And before you knew it, you were sitting around a beautifully decorated table, eating dinner with his family, sharing stories, and laughing until your sides hurt.

Later, after dinner, you found yourself in Macklin’s old bedroom, sitting on the floor with him, wrapping last-minute gifts. The room was exactly what you’d imagined it would be—sports posters on the walls, a few trophies on a shelf, and a bed with a worn quilt that looked like it had been there since he was a kid. It felt like a peek into a part of Macklin you hadn’t fully known yet, and you found yourself smiling at every little detail.

“You’re terrible at this,” Macklin teased, nodding towards the mess of wrapping paper you were currently struggling with.

“It’s the tape,” you defended. “It’s possessed or something.”

He laughed, leaning over to help, his fingers brushing against yours. It was comfortable, easy—until a knock sounded on the door, and Macklin’s mom peeked her head in.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said, smiling warmly at you both. “Just letting you know the guest room is almost ready for you, dear.”

You blinked, glancing at Macklin, who froze for a split second before his expression shifted to something almost comically bewildered. “Uh… guest room?”

His mom gave him a patient smile. “Yes, Macklin. The guest room. You know the rules.”

“But I’m eighteen now,” Macklin said, standing up. There was an edge of whine to his voice that made you press your lips together to keep from laughing. “Can’t we just—”

“Nope,” his mom cut in, her tone sweet but firm. “Rules are rules.” She glanced at you, still smiling. “We’ll have it ready in just a few minutes, sweetheart.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Macklin standing there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He turned to you, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

“I’m gonna go talk to her,” he said, and you nodded, biting your lip to keep from laughing as he marched out into the hallway. You could hear them through the wall—Macklin’s hushed but clearly exasperated tone, his mom’s soft but unwavering responses.

“But Mom, it’s Christmas Eve…”

“I said no, Macklin.”

“Come on, we’re adults…”

“And adults respect house rules.”

When Macklin finally came back in, he looked thoroughly defeated. He shut the door behind him, leaning back against it and pouting like a kid who’d just had his favourite toy taken away.

“So… guest room?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He huffed, crossing his arms. “Yeah. Guest room.” His eyes narrowed playfully. “This is not how I pictured tonight going.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. Macklin’s pout deepened for a second before he broke, a grin pulling at his lips as he dropped down beside you on the floor.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, nudging you with his shoulder.

“A little bit,” you admitted, still giggling. “It’s kinda cute how you thought you could sweet-talk your mom.”

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “I had a plan! Christmas magic, all that stuff. I was gonna be smooth.”

“You’re still smooth,” you said, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Just… maybe not as smooth as your mom.”

He sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Guess we’ll just have to make do. But I swear, next year…”

“Next year?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He paused, his expression softening as he looked at you. “Next year, I’ll convince her. You’ll see.”

You smiled, your heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it always did around him. “I’ll hold you to that.”

*** The bathroom was small, and both of you squeezed in front of the sink, sharing a single tube of toothpaste like you’d done it a thousand times before. Macklin’s arms circled around your waist as you brushed your teeth, his chin resting on your shoulder, and you could feel the little sighs he kept letting out, his pouty breath warm against your skin.

“You know, this is so unfair,” he mumbled around his toothbrush, his voice muffled and filled with a dramatic level of despair.

You glanced at him in the mirror, raising an eyebrow as you spit into the sink. “What’s unfair?” you asked, though you already knew where this was going.

He pulled his toothbrush from his mouth, his eyes going wide and almost comically woeful. “That I have to sleep without you tonight. On Christmas Eve,” he added for emphasis, like that made it an even greater injustice. He tightened his grip around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “I’m gonna miss you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. “Mack, it’s one night. And we’re, like, two doors down from each other.”

He huffed, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “But it’s different. I wanted to cuddle.”

You laughed, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a baby,” you teased, and he only groaned in response, pulling you even closer.

“I’m serious,” he whined, lifting his head to give you his best puppy-dog eyes in the mirror. “I’ve been waiting for this forever, and now it’s all ruined.”

Before you could respond, the door swung open, and Aiden stepped in, pausing when he saw the two of you tangled together in front of the sink. He raised an eyebrow, his expression caught somewhere between amused and disgusted. “Oh, come on,” he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Can you guys not do this in the bathroom? I’m just trying to get a towel.”

Macklin turned his head, still clinging to you, and shot his brother a glare. “We’re having a moment, Aiden. Can’t you respect that?”

Aiden snorted, grabbing a towel from the rack. “A moment? You’re literally whining because you can’t sleep in the same bed. Get a grip, Mack.” He shook his head, giving you a conspiratorial smile. “Good luck with this one. He’s always been a bit of a drama queen.”

You laughed, and Macklin shot his brother another glare as Aiden walked out, shutting the door behind him. Macklin turned back to you, his pout returning in full force. “See? No one understands us.”

“Oh, I think they understand just fine,” you said, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. He melted at the touch, his eyes softening as he looked at you.

“You’re not gonna let me convince you to sneak into my room later, are you?” he asked, his voice hopeful but resigned.

You shook your head, smiling. “Not a chance. Your mom would kill us both.”

He sighed dramatically, finally letting go of you as you both finished getting ready for bed. When you were done, he walked you to the guest room, his hand warm in yours, his fingers laced tightly like he couldn’t bear to let go.

When you reached the door, he stopped, turning to face you. “I’m serious, though,” he said, his voice softening. “I’m really gonna miss you tonight.”

Your heart gave that familiar flutter, and you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, and you felt him relax against you, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close.

You stayed like that for a moment, just holding each other, the quiet of the house settling around you. Finally, you pulled back, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice soft. 

“Goodnight, Mack,” you replied, your heart fluttering as he gave you a little wave before disappearing down the hall.

Later, as you lay in the guest room, the bed unfamiliar and a little too cold without the idea of Macklin beside you, your phone buzzed on the pillow next to you.

Macklin: I miss you already. This bed sucks.

You smiled, your fingers quickly typing out a response.

You: I miss you too. And it’s just one night. We’ll survive.

A moment later, another buzz.

Macklin: But I don’t wanna survive. I wanna THRIVE. And I can’t do that without you.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you typed back.

You: You’re such a dork.

Macklin: Your dork.

Your heart squeezed at that, and you found yourself smiling at the screen. There was a pause, and then—

Macklin: I’m sneaking in there. Right now.

You rolled your eyes, your smile widening.

You: Don’t you dare. Your mom will catch you.

Macklin: Worth it.

You: Go to sleep, Macks.

Macklin: Fine. But only because you told me to.

*** The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you in a blanket of stillness, broken only by the occasional creak of the old house settling. You’d just started drifting off, your eyes heavy, the warmth of the blankets pulling you under. But then—a noise. Soft, like the sound of a door handle turning, followed by the creak of the floorboards. You opened your eyes, blinking against the darkness, and before you could even sit up, a familiar silhouette slipped into the room.

“Macklin?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

He paused, his figure outlined by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. “Shh,” he said, tiptoeing towards the bed. “Don’t wake anyone.”

You bit back a laugh, your heart swelling at the sight of him. He looked so determined, his face scrunched in concentration as he moved as quietly as possible, like some sort of Christmas ninja. “What are you doing?”

“I told you I’d sneak in here,” he whispered, a grin tugging at his lips as he made it to the side of the bed. He pulled back the covers, slipping in beside you with a soft huff. “I missed you.”

Your heart gave a little flutter as he settled in, his arms immediately wrapping around you, pulling you close. He was warm, his familiar scent surrounding you, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “You’re gonna get us in trouble,” you murmured, but you were already snuggling into his chest, your head resting just under his chin.

“Worth it,” he mumbled, his lips brushing against the top of your head. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, his arms tightening around you as he wiggled a bit. “I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he admitted, his voice soft in the darkness. “Just... holding you. Falling asleep with you.”

You felt your heart swell, your chest aching with how much you adored him. He shifted again, his legs tangling with yours as he tried to find the perfect position. He huffed, his brow furrowing in frustration. “Okay, wait. This isn’t—” He paused, then suddenly rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him in one quick motion. “There. This is better.”

You let out a soft squeak of surprise, your hands pressing against his chest as you looked down at him. “Mack,” you whispered, your cheeks warming. “What are you—”

“Shh,” he said again, his hands settling on your back, holding you in place. He looked up at you, his eyes soft, his smile gentle. “This is perfect. I can feel your heartbeat.”

Your heart did a little flip at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, but you leaned down anyway, resting your head against his chest, your ear just above his heart. It was steady beneath you, a comforting rhythm that made your eyes grow heavy again.

He sighed, a content sound that rumbled through his chest. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your back, his touch light and soothing. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Just... you and me. No rushing, no sneaking around. Just... us.”

You felt your throat tighten, your chest aching with the weight of everything you felt for him. You’d never imagined you could feel this close to someone, this safe, this... loved. And maybe that was why, in that moment, you found yourself whispering the words that had been sitting on the tip of your tongue for what felt like forever.

“I love you, Macklin.”

There was a beat of silence, his fingers pausing on your back. You held your breath, your heart pounding, and then—

“You... you love me?” he asked, his voice cracking just a bit.

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. He looked at you like you’d just hung the stars in the sky, his eyes wide, his lips parting in surprise. You nodded, your heart in your throat. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”

His face broke into the softest smile you’d ever seen, his eyes shining as he reached up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I love you too,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I love you so much.”

You felt tears prick at your eyes, and you couldn’t help but lean down, pressing your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he kissed you back, slow and sweet and full of everything you both felt but hadn’t said until now.

When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes closing as you breathed him in. He gave you a gentle squeeze, his fingers threading through your hair. “You’re my favourite person,” he whispered, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “My favourite everything.”

You smiled, your heart feeling like it might just burst from how full it was. “You’re mine too,” you whispered back, your fingers brushing against his jaw. “My favourite everything.”

He sighed, a content sound that made your heart swell even more, and he gave you one last squeeze before settling back, his eyes closing. “Okay,” he mumbled, his voice already thick with sleep. “Now we can sleep. Together. Finally.”

You laughed softly, your head resting against his chest once more, your eyes growing heavy as his heartbeat lulled you towards sleep. "Merry Christmas, Mack," you whispered, your eyes closing.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his voice a quiet murmur in the darkness. "Merry Christmas, beautiful."

And as you lay there, wrapped up in his warmth, you knew—this was just the beginning. There’d be so many more nights like this, so many mornings, so much love. And you couldn’t wait for all of it.

[raeslibrary]

Dream Boy | Macklin Celebrini

"You've got my heart bursting at the seams, Maybe you're the boy from my dreams." *** Request: I had three. You guys really love Mack. This is two of them, I will write another one for the third because it was different: "PLZZZ DO MORE MACKLIN CELEBRINI I LOVED THE ONE U WROTE!! plz do one that’s kinda like cutey sleepover date night or like a cute little anniversary thing if you can ilyw!!" // "Please write more for macklin!! I love your writing xx"

Summary: Snowed in for the first time together

Word Count: 4.3k

Pairing: Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader

Notes:

I guess the reader is supposed to be seen as more experienced

also I have no idea where this takes place tbh but just roll with it

body pillow thing is an am34 reference but I so feel like mack does it too.

***

You tug at the hair on the nape of Macklin's neck, and the sound that escapes him is strangled, caught between surprise and need. He tries to stifle it, but you catch it, smiling against his lips. It makes something in your chest warm, knowing you can pull those kinds of noises out of him. His heart is beating so fast, like it's trying to match yours, and you can feel it through the ridiculous grandpa sweater he's wearing. The thing is soft under your fingertips, maybe a little scratchy from age, but the warmth it holds is all Macklin.

He feels so good against you—all nervous tension, shaky breaths, and the weight of his arms when they wrap around your waist, trying to pull you closer. His lips part as you deepen the kiss, and you feel his hesitation, like he's wondering if he should take it further. He doesn't have to. You push into him more, and his breath catches when you slip your hand up under his sweater, running your fingers along the waistband of his pants, barely brushing the skin there. You like the way his stomach flexes, like he can barely handle it but doesn’t want you to stop.

His hands find your hips, clumsy but earnest, and you can feel his fingers press into you, almost like he's trying to memorize how you feel against him. The dark room around you fades into nothing, the only light left coming in faint and gray through the window—a dying sunset, snowflakes slowly drifting past the glass. Everything is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft sigh from Macklin when you do something that pulls at the tension in him, makes him shiver under your touch.

You pull back a little, just enough to see his face. His cheeks are pink, lips slightly parted, and you feel his gaze flicker from your eyes to your mouth, like he’s waiting, needing you to take the lead. There's a nervousness there, sure, but beneath it, you see it—the raw want, the way he looks at you like he’s scared he’s dreaming and any second now he'll wake up. It makes you want to ruin him a little, to show him that this isn’t something he’s imagining. That you're right here, with him, wanting him just as badly.

You lean in, nipping at his bottom lip before trailing your kisses along his jaw. His head tilts back instinctively, a shaky exhale escaping him when you reach his throat. You can feel him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your lips, and it makes you smile. You let your hands wander, running over the lines of his stupidly cute sweater, feeling the muscles tense beneath the soft fabric. There’s something so endearing about him in this moment—the mix of dorky and nervous and impossibly sweet. You wouldn’t want anyone else here.

"You’re so fucking cute," you whisper against his skin, and you feel him shudder, his grip on your hips tightening.

"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no heat behind it, just a flushed sort of embarrassment. His ears are bright red, and you kiss just below his jaw again, feeling the way he goes practically boneless at the contact. You wonder if he even realizes how much he gives away when you touch him—how you can tell he’s trying so hard to keep up, to do this right, but all you really need is for him to be here, exactly like this.

You tug at his sweater, fingers brushing up under the hem, feeling the warmth of his skin. He makes another sound, this one lower, almost desperate, and you can’t help but smile against him. His hands slip under your shirt, fingers barely grazing your skin, like he’s still testing how far he can go without overstepping. You can feel his hesitation, the nerves thrumming just beneath his desire.

Just when you’re about to encourage him to go further, the sound of something shatters the bubble around you. It takes you a second to realize it's his phone vibrating on the coffee table, and he groans, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"Ignore it," you whisper, your voice rougher than you intend, but he hesitates. You can feel him weighing it, that innate sense of responsibility he can't quite shake. He finally pulls back, glancing at the screen with a frown.

"Weather alert," he mutters, and you both turn to look out the window. The snow that had been falling softly before is now heavy, thick flakes blurring everything beyond the glass. It's suddenly so much darker, the last of the sunlight gone, leaving just the blue-gray of twilight. You blink, realizing how long you must have been wrapped up in each other. 

Macklin blinks at his phone screen, his mouth opening like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out at first. You can almost hear his brain working, piecing together the situation—the snow piling up outside, the way the roads are probably getting worse by the minute. He frowns, biting his lip, and then he starts talking, words tumbling out in that adorably awkward way of his.

“I mean, uh, we could try to call a ride? Or I could, like, try to dig your car out, but the roads, um, they might be—” He pauses, looking at the window again, and you can tell he’s worrying, already trying to figure out every possible way to get you home safely. He’s always like this—so responsible, so careful, like he has to make sure everything is perfect for you. It’s sweet, in a way that makes your heart ache a little, even if sometimes you just want him to relax.

You watch him for a moment, the way his eyes flicker around the room, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s already listing off more options, but you reach out, putting a hand on his arm, and he blinks, looking at you.

“Mack,” you say softly, and his eyes meet yours, wide and a little uncertain. “I could just stay over.”

For a second, it’s like he doesn’t understand. His mouth opens, then closes, and you watch the blush start to creep up his neck, his eyes widening. “Stay?” he echoes, his voice a little higher than usual.

“Yeah,” you say, smiling at him. “I mean, it’s probably safer than trying to drive anywhere right now, right?”

He swallows, and you can see the way he’s trying to process it, his eyes flicking to the window, then back to you. “I… I guess,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, if you’re okay with it. I don’t—I mean, we haven’t—” He stops, the blush on his cheeks deepening, and you can’t help but smile at how flustered he is.

You know what he’s thinking about. You’ve tried to take things further before, but Macklin always pulls back, his face flushed and his breathing ragged, mumbling something about how he just loves kissing you and doesn’t want to rush anything. It’s endearing, really—the way he’s so careful, so sweet, like he’s scared of messing up or going too far. You love that about him, the way he’s always so focused on making sure you’re comfortable, even if it means he’s left a little worked up and embarrassed by the end of it.

“Mack,” you say softly, and he looks at you, his eyes wide and a little nervous. You reach up, brushing your fingers along his jaw, feeling the way he shivers at the contact. “It’s okay. I want to stay.”

He blinks, his lips parting, and you can see the way his shoulders relax just a little, the tension easing out of him. “Okay,” he says, his voice soft. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You smile, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, and you feel the way he melts into it, his hands coming up to rest on your waist. He’s still a little tense, like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself, but you can feel the way he’s trying, the way he’s slowly letting himself relax.

When you pull back, his cheeks are still flushed, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Um, I think I have some extra blankets,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “And, uh, pillows. If you want.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound soft and warm in the quiet room. “Mack, you don’t have to make me a bed on the couch,” you say, and his eyes widen, his blush deepening.

“Oh. Right. I mean, I just… I didn’t want to assume…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck, and you can see the way his ears are bright red, his eyes flicking away from yours.

“Hey,” you say, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. He looks at you, and you smile, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I want to stay with you. In your bed. If that’s okay.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. Then he nods, his lips pulling into a shy smile. “Okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. That’s… that’s okay.”

*** The air in Macklin’s room is warm, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a golden glow across the space. His room is simple but cozy, with a dark green comforter on the bed and a small pile of books stacked on the nightstand that you’re sure he hasn’t read. You run your fingers along the edge of the comforter as you wait, hearing the faint sound of water running in the bathroom down the hall.

You glance at the clothes Macklin left for you on the bed—a plain gray t-shirt and a pair of navy gym shorts. The shirt looks soft and well-worn, the kind of thing that’s probably his favorite to wear on lazy mornings. The shorts, on the other hand, are massive. You hold them up, laughing softly at just how oversized they are compared to you. Still, it’s endearing—just like everything else about Macklin.

You slip the shirt over your head first, the fabric falling against your skin with a faint scent of detergent and something distinctly him. It’s long enough to cover you mid-thigh, which makes the shorts feel unnecessary. You try them on anyway, but they’re loose and awkward, slipping low on your hips no matter how much you adjust them. After a moment of debating, you decide to ditch them entirely, leaving you in just your underwear and his t-shirt. It feels… nice, in a way you didn’t expect. Like you’re wrapped up in a piece of him.

You take a deep breath, smoothing the hem of the shirt over your thighs before padding down the hall. “Macklin?” you call softly, stopping just outside the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”

There’s a pause, followed by the muffled sound of him spitting into the sink. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice a little shaky. “Come in.”

You push the door open, stepping inside. He’s standing at the sink, a toothbrush in one hand, shirtless and wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants that hang low on his hips. His hair is slightly damp, curling at the edges from his shower. He glances up at you in the mirror, and the moment his eyes land on you, they widen.

He turns to face you fully, toothbrush frozen mid-air, his gaze flickering from your legs to the oversized shirt hanging loose on your frame. You see the exact moment his brain short-circuits, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red as his eyes dart away, like he’s embarrassed for looking too long. But his eyes keep wandering back, no matter how much he tries to resist.

“Hey,” you say softly, perching on the edge of the counter beside him. You tuck one leg under the other, your bare thigh brushing against the cool surface of the sink. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you, his mouth slightly open, looking utterly lovesick and completely baffled. His gaze drops to your legs again before snapping back to your face, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Macklin,” you tease, leaning closer to nudge his arm. “Toothbrush?”

“Uh…” He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to reboot himself. “Yeah. Yeah, um, it’s in the drawer.” He sets his toothbrush down with trembling hands, pulling open a small drawer beside the sink and fishing out a packaged toothbrush. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes, his ears blazing red.

“Thanks,” you say, unwrapping the toothbrush and running it under the faucet. He watches you in silence, his gaze darting between your face and your legs like he’s trying to be subtle and failing miserably. It’s adorable, the way he’s so clearly flustered but can’t seem to stop looking at you. His eyes flicker up to your face, then down to the oversized shirt again, and you can’t help but smile. It’s endearing how utterly disarmed he is by you in his clothes—like he’s never seen anything more captivating in his life. As you start brushing your teeth, you glance at him, noticing how he’s frozen in place, still standing right where he was. His hands are on the edge of the sink, gripping it like he needs the support.

“So,” you say around the toothbrush, your voice slightly muffled, “Have you ever been snowed in before?” You’re trying to keep the conversation light, but the way he’s looking at you—or trying not to look at you—makes it hard to focus. His gaze keeps drifting to your legs, then back to your face, like he’s worried you’ll catch him staring.

He blinks, your question pulling him back to reality. “Uh, yeah. A couple times,” he says, but his voice is distant, distracted. “Not like this, though. Not with…” His words trail off, and he clears his throat, his blush deepening.

“Not with what?” you prompt, raising an eyebrow at him as you rinse your toothbrush.

“Not with you,” he mumbles, so softly you almost miss it. His eyes dart to yours, then away again, his ears bright red. He’s doing that thing where he shifts his weight nervously from one foot to the other, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. It’s impossibly cute.

You finish rinsing and set the toothbrush down, your gaze softening as you watch him. “Mack,” you say gently, and he looks at you, wide-eyed, like he’s bracing himself for something.

But instead of teasing him, you reach out, resting your hand on his forearm. His skin is warm under your touch, and you feel the way he tenses for just a second before relaxing, leaning ever so slightly into your hand. “It’s just me,” you say, your voice quiet but reassuring. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

He swallows hard, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes searching yours. Then, without saying a word, he steps closer, his hands finding your hips as he moves to stand between your legs. His touch is hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure if this is okay, but when you don’t pull away, he relaxes, his fingers tightening slightly against you.

“You… you look really good in my shirt,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes drop to the fabric again, like he can’t help himself, and you see the way his cheeks flush even deeper.

You’re about to reply, but before you can, he leans in, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to your cheek. Then another, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. His hands slide up from your hips to your waist, and you feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric.

“Mack,” you say softly, your voice catching slightly as his lips brush against your jaw. He’s so close now, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the nervous energy radiating off him. But there’s something else there too—a quiet, unspoken need, like he’s been holding back for so long and finally can’t anymore.

“I just… I really like you,” he says suddenly, his voice shaky but earnest. His words tumble out in a rush, like he’s been holding them in and can’t keep them bottled up any longer. “Like, a lot. And I… I don’t know if I’m doing this right, but I just… I want you to know that.”

Your heart feels like it might burst at how sincere he is, how completely open and vulnerable he’s being. You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, and he leans into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment like he’s savoring it.

“Macklin,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “You’re doing everything right. I promise.”

He opens his eyes, and the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your breath catch. Then he’s kissing you, and it’s slow and sweet and so full of emotion that it makes your chest ache in the best way. His hands move to your lower back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the way he’s shaking just a little, like he’s overwhelmed but doesn’t want to stop.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the way his breath mingles with yours, warm and unsteady. “I really like you too,” you whisper, and you see the way his face lights up, his smile soft and a little shy.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice hopeful, and you nod, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

“Yeah,” you say, leaning in to kiss him again. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, his arms wrapping around you fully, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

For a moment, you’re sure he’s going to crush you. The breath whooshes out of your lungs as he holds you close, his face buried in the curve of your neck. He’s so warm, his body heat seeping through the oversized shirt you’re wearing, and you can feel the slight tremble in his hands where they press against your back.

“Mack,” you whisper, laughing softly. “I’m gonna suffocate if you keep squeezing me like this.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his cheeks still red but his expression so soft it makes your heart ache. “Sorry,” he mumbles, though his arms don’t loosen. “I just… I don’t want to let go yet.”

“You don’t have to,” you say, brushing a strand of damp hair away from his forehead. His skin is warm under your fingers, and the way he looks at you—like you hung the moon in the sky—makes your chest feel impossibly full. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles, shy and a little wobbly, before burying his face in your neck again. “You smell really nice,” he murmurs, his voice muffled but earnest. The words send a ripple of warmth through you, and you tighten your arms around his shoulders, letting your fingers play with the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading into nothing. The snow can keep falling, the night can stretch on forever, and you wouldn’t care as long as you have this—the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the way his breathing evens out as he relaxes against you, the warmth of his hands where they rest against your back.

Eventually, though, the pull of exhaustion starts to creep in, and you shift slightly, feeling the cool edge of the bathroom counter against your thigh. “Come on, Mack,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We should get to bed.”

He makes a noise of protest, low and almost pouty, tightening his grip on you. “I don’t want to,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh at how endearing he is, even when he’s being stubborn.

“You’re gonna fall asleep standing up if you keep this up,” you tease, but he just shakes his head, his face still hidden in your neck.

“Then I’ll just… hold you here,” he mumbles, his voice laced with sleepiness. “Forever.”

“Macklin,” you say, a little firmer this time, though there’s no real heat behind it. “You can hold me in bed. It’ll be more comfortable for both of us.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, and the reluctant pout on his face makes your heart squeeze. But then his expression shifts, something soft and determined settling in his eyes. Before you can say anything, his hands slide down to your thighs, and with an ease that catches you off guard, he lifts you off the counter.

“Mack!” you yelp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as your legs dangle for a moment before you hook them around his waist. He’s so steady, so solid beneath you, and the effortless strength he’s showing sends a little thrill through you.

Macklin holds you securely as he carries you down the hall, his steps careful but confident. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, and it’s adorable how he’s trying so hard to keep it together even though you’re sure he’s still a little flustered from earlier. His arms are warm and steady, and you let yourself relax into him, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to carry me, you know,” you murmur, though there’s no real complaint in your voice. In truth, you’re enjoying this more than you care to admit.

“I know,” he says, his voice soft but a little shy. “I just… I wanted to. Is that okay?”

You lift your head to look at him, and the earnestness in his expression makes your heart squeeze. “It’s more than okay,” you say, brushing your fingers lightly over his shoulder. “You’re pretty strong, huh?”

His cheeks flush, and he ducks his head slightly, his grip on you tightening just a little. “I mean, I guess? It’s not that big of a deal…”

You smile, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “It’s a big deal to me.”

Macklin glances at you, his eyes wide and a little dazed, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. But then he smiles, shy and sweet, and it’s enough to make your chest feel warm all over again.

The room is cozy, and your gaze drifts to the bed, where the dark green comforter looks invitingly soft. Macklin moves to pull back the covers, revealing… oh. A body pillow tucked against one side of the bed, its soft gray cover slightly wrinkled like it’s been well-loved. Your eyebrows lift in curiosity, and a mischievous grin spreads across your face.

“What’s this?” you ask, gesturing toward the pillow. Macklin freezes, his ears going bright red as his gaze darts to the offending object.

“It’s, uh… nothing,” he stammers, quickly turning away to fuss with the corner of the blanket. “Just, you know, a… pillow.”

“A body pillow,” you clarify, your tone teasing but gentle. “Mack, do you cuddle this thing when you sleep?”

“No!” he says, far too quickly, and the way his voice pitches higher gives him away completely. “I mean, maybe? I don’t… it’s not a big deal or anything. It’s just… there.”

Your smile softens as you step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s cute,” you say, your voice warm and sincere. “You like holding something while you sleep. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He glances at you, his blush deepening, but you can see the way his shoulders relax just a little. “It’s not… I mean, I just got used to it. When I’m on the road or, you know…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck again, and the vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart.

“Well,” you say softly, “if you need something to hold tonight, I’m right here.”

The smile that spreads across his face is so pure, so full of quiet joy, that it makes your chest ache in the best way. “Okay,” he says softly, his voice tinged with awe. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You climb into the bed first, settling against the pillows as Macklin hovers awkwardly for a moment, like he’s not sure where to put himself. You pat the space beside you, and he hesitates before sliding in, careful to leave just a little bit of space between you.

“Mack,” you say, your tone teasing but affectionate, “I’m not made of glass. Come here.”

He swallows, his blush returning, but he scoots closer, his arm slipping around your waist with a hesitance that makes your heart squeeze. When you rest your head against his chest, you can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s perfect,” you murmur, nuzzling closer.

For a while, the two of you just lay there, the quiet hum of the heater and the muffled sound of the snowstorm outside wrapping around you like a cocoon. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back, and you let out a contented sigh, your hand resting over his heart.

“You’re so good at this,” you say softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

“At what?” he asks, his voice tinged with confusion.

“At making me feel safe,” you reply, lifting your head to meet his gaze. The sincerity in your eyes makes his breath catch, and you see the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

“You… you make me feel safe too,” he admits, his voice barely audible. His hand tightens just slightly on your back, like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The relief and affection in his eyes is enough to melt you completely, and as he pulls you closer, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. 

In his arms with the snow blurring around you.

[raeslibrary]

Dial Tone 3 | Matt Rempe

- NHL, New York Rangers - x Reader

❪ FEM! ❫

───── ❝ description + disclaimer ❞ ─────

𖥻 Matthew Rempe x FEM!reader, in which a wrong number friendship is more than you'd hope for. OR he falls first, he falls hard, he's NYC's biggest enforcer.

𖥻 PART ONE HERE. PART TWO HERE. 4.2k words

back by popular demand <3 ty for all the nice messages and comments

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

Wednesday, May 29, 2024 Today, 9:57 PM MANHATTAN: I don’t know how else to convince you. What do you want me to say?

I read the message over and over as I made my way back to the hotel, my friends chatting around me. Their voices blurred into background noise as my thoughts tangled into a confused mess. It didn’t add up—none of it did. The tension between my heart and my head was unbearable.

By the time we got to the hotel, my friend tried to rope me into ordering late-night room service, but I waved her off, mumbling something about needing a shower. She gave me a curious glance but didn’t push.

The shower didn’t help. If anything, it made my thoughts louder, like the steam had cleared space for more doubts to crowd in. Wrapping a towel around myself, I padded over to the bed, plopped down, and grabbed my phone. I stared at Manhattan’s messages for what felt like the fiftieth time, gnawing on my thumbnail until it ached.

I didn’t want to believe him. But at the same time, there was something about his words—his tone, even through text—that kept me hesitating. He didn’t sound like a liar. He sounded genuinely… confused. Frustrated. Desperate, even.

Before I could overthink it any further, I tapped his contact and hit the FaceTime button. My heart pounded as it rang, each chime echoing louder in my ears. What was I even doing?

The screen shifted, and suddenly, he was there. A real, live version of him, staring back at me. His familiar sharp jawline, messy dark hair, and warm brown eyes that I’d seen countless times in photos. He looked tired, his face serious but soft with concern.

“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice lower than I expected, tinged with a nervous edge.

I froze, staring at him in disbelief. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.

“Say something,” he urged, his brow furrowing. “Please.”

“You’re…” I finally whispered, shaking my head. “You really look like him.”

“Because I am him,” he said, leaning closer to the camera. “I’m Matt. Everything I’ve told you, every message, it was me. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t using anyone else’s photos.”

I blinked, my mind racing. “But why—why wouldn’t you just say that? Why hide it?”

“I didn’t mean to hide it,” he said quickly, his words tumbling over each other. “When we first started talking, it wasn’t about… me being Matt Rempe. It was just about us. I liked that you didn’t know who I was. It made everything feel… normal. Real. And then it got harder to tell you as we got closer.”

I sat there, stunned, gripping my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “You should have told me,” I said, my voice trembling. “Do you know how confused I’ve been? How much this feels like some giant joke?”

“I know,” he said, his expression pained. “And I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I just… didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

“What we had?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly. “Do you even know how ridiculous this all sounds? You’re saying I’ve been texting you—a professional hockey player—for months and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“I was scared, okay?” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t want to mess things up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. My mind was a storm of disbelief, anger, and a flicker—just a flicker—of something else. Hope? No, that couldn’t be it.

“I don’t know what to believe,” I admitted finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Then let me prove it to you,” he said, his gaze steady, almost pleading. “Ask me anything. Anything you want to know. I’ll tell you the truth. No more hiding. I promise.”

I swallowed hard, my heart thundering in my chest. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Why should I trust you now?”

“Because,” he said softly, his eyes locking with mine through the screen, “I’ve never lied about how I feel about you.”

I stared at him through the screen, my emotions swirling. His words hung in the air, heavy but sincere. He wasn’t asking for my trust—he was begging for it, his honesty shining through despite everything.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how to just… move past it all. It feels so messy now.”

Matt nodded slowly, running a hand through his messy hair. “I get it,” he said softly. “I screwed up by not being honest from the start. But I’m here now, and I’m telling you everything. I don’t want to lose what we have. Even if that means we have to take a step back or… or whatever you need.”

I bit my lip, my mind racing. It wasn’t like I didn’t care about him—clearly, I did. That was part of why this felt so complicated. “I just… need to figure out how to trust you again,” I said quietly. “I want to, but it’s going to take time.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said immediately, his tone earnest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A small, tentative smile tugged at my lips. It wasn’t everything, but it was something—a start.

He seemed to relax slightly, his shoulders losing some of their tension. “Thank you,” he said simply. “For giving me a chance.”

I nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “Okay,” I said, a little more firmly this time. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

Matt smiled softly, the kind of smile that made it hard not to feel the warmth behind it. Then, as if realizing something mid-thought, he said, “You look really pretty, by the way.”

My cheeks flushed instantly. “What?” I stammered, caught completely off guard.

His eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I—uh—sorry. I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” he said quickly, a hint of color creeping into his cheeks too. “It just slipped out.”

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension between us easing just a little. “You really need to work on your timing,” I teased, shaking my head.

“Yeah,” he said with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably not my best move.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, the weight of everything still present but less overwhelming. Somehow, that small, awkward compliment had cracked through the heaviness, making things feel just a bit more normal.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I said finally, my voice soft but steady.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, his tone hopeful. “And… thanks. For real.”

I ended the call, setting my phone down on the bed beside me. My mind was still a mess, but for the first time in hours, I didn’t feel completely lost. We weren’t fixed, not by a long shot, but maybe, just maybe, we were on the path to figuring it out.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The next morning, I woke up feeling like my mind had run a marathon overnight. The emotional weight of everything still lingered, but there was a small sense of clarity cutting through the fog. Matt and I had talked, and while it hadn’t solved everything, it had opened the door for us to start moving forward—if I wanted to.

I stared at my phone, the FaceTime app still in my recent calls list. His face was fresh in my mind, the sincerity in his eyes as he told me he hadn’t lied. He’d seemed so genuine, so earnest, that it was hard to hold onto the anger I’d felt the night before. But trust wasn’t built in a single conversation, and I knew that forgiving him wasn’t the same as forgetting what had happened.

I dragged myself out of bed and got ready for the day, meeting my classmates for breakfast in the hotel’s bustling dining area. The chatter of everyone’s plans for the expo helped distract me for a while. My friend nudged me as we filled our plates.

“You seem more like yourself today,” she said, offering me a warm smile.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I think I just needed to sleep on some things.”

She gave me a curious look, clearly wanting to ask more, but she let it go. Instead, she launched into a story about a panel she wanted to attend later, and I let myself get swept up in her excitement, grateful for the reprieve.

Later that afternoon, as I wandered through the bustling expo floor with my classmates, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Matt.

Thursday, May 30, 2024 Today, 1:22 PM MATT: Hope you’re having a good day. No pressure to reply, just wanted to check in.

I stared at the message for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt. He was trying so hard to make things right, to give me space while still showing he cared. After a moment’s hesitation, I typed a quick reply.

ME: Thanks. It’s been a good day so far.

His response came almost instantly.

MATT: Good. You deserve that.

A small smile tugged at my lips, and for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe we could figure this out.

Here’s the continuation of the story from the morning setup:

The rest of the expo flew by in a blur of panels, exhibits, and conversations, but no matter how much I tried to immerse myself in the experience, my thoughts kept drifting back to Matt. The weight of everything between us lingered, a mix of uncertainty and cautious optimism.

By the time evening rolled around, our group gathered in the hotel lobby, buzzing with excitement about our plans to head out one last time before our flight the next morning. My friend looped her arm through mine as we headed toward the subway.

“This trip has been so much fun,” she said, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”

“Me neither,” I said, offering her a small smile.

She tilted her head, studying me. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve been a little… I don’t know, quieter than usual.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, not wanting to get into it. “Just tired, I guess.”

She didn’t push, but I could feel her concern as we navigated the crowded subway.

When we returned to the hotel later that evening, everyone scattered to their rooms to pack and get ready for the morning. I unlocked my door, stepping inside and letting out a long breath. The past few days had been such a whirlwind that it felt strange to finally have a moment to myself.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, my phone in hand. My conversation with Matt from earlier lingered in my mind, his words replaying over and over.

MATT: Good. You deserve that.

There was something so simple yet so sincere about it that I couldn’t shake the feeling it gave me.

After a while, I decided to FaceTime him again. I needed to see his face, to talk to him without the filter of a screen full of text.

When the call connected, he answered almost immediately, his expression a mix of surprise and relief.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm but cautious.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling shy.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we hadn’t said yet. Finally, I broke it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about… everything,” I admitted.

“And?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

“And I think I want to move past it,” I said. “I’m still not sure how to fully wrap my head around everything, but I know I trust you enough to try.”

His shoulders relaxed, and a soft smile crossed his face. “That’s all I could ask for. Thank you.”

I nodded, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

We talked for a little while longer, and slowly, the tension between us began to fade. At one point, he paused mid-sentence, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

“What?” I asked, tilting my head.

“You look really pretty,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

My cheeks flushed, and I ducked my head, a small laugh escaping me. “Matt…”

“Sorry,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make it weird. It just kind of slipped out.”

“It’s okay,” I said, smiling despite myself.

The silence stretched for a moment before I stood up, moving to the dresser to start packing my suitcase. I couldn’t afford to leave it until morning—not with the early flight looming.

“Hold on, I need to get some packing done,” I said, propping my phone on the nightstand so I could still see him.

“Packing?” he asked, his brows furrowing slightly.

“For the flight tomorrow,” I said, folding a shirt and placing it neatly in my bag. “This trip really flew by.”

“Oh,” he said softly, the weight in his tone catching my attention.

I glanced at the screen, catching the flicker of emotion in his eyes before he quickly looked away. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt.

“So… tell me about the NHL,” I said, trying to shift the mood. “What’s it like playing at that level? I mean, you’re on one of the biggest stages out there, right?”

He hesitated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s… surreal, I guess. Every game feels like a dream, but there’s a lot of pressure too. People are always watching, analyzing, expecting you to be at your best.”

“I can’t even imagine,” I said, shaking my head as I zipped up one compartment of my suitcase. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“Not really,” he admitted with a laugh. “But you learn how to focus on the game and tune everything else out. It’s the only way to stay sane.”

I nodded, reaching for another stack of clothes. “It must be tough, though. All that travel, the media, the fans…”

“It can be,” he said, his tone softening. “But it’s worth it. You know, for moments like that win last night—or even the little ones, like seeing a kid in the stands wearing your jersey.”

I smiled at that, imagining what it must be like to have such an impact on people.

As I worked through my packing, I noticed he was unusually quiet. When I glanced back at the screen, his expression was unreadable, his gaze distant.

“Matt?” I prompted gently.

He blinked, snapping back to the present. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how this was my chance to really meet you,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “And I blew it. You were here, in New York, and I didn’t even know until it was too late.”

I paused, the weight of his words settling over me. “It’s not like I made it easy,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I did kind of spring the whole surprise thing on you.”

“Still,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been talking to you for months, and then you were here, and I—” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I just wish I’d done things differently.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. The sincerity in his voice made my heart ache, but there was no undoing what had already happened.

“You’ll just have to make up for it next time,” I said softly, offering him a small smile.

His eyes met mine through the screen, and for a moment, the sadness faded, replaced by something warmer, something hopeful.

“Next time,” he echoed, his voice steady. “I’ll make sure of it.”

As I finished packing and we said our goodnights, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of his words lingering in the air. Maybe this trip hadn’t gone as planned, but there was still a chance—however small—to turn it into something meaningful.

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

The next morning, I woke up to the soft buzz of my phone alarm. My suitcase sat by the door, neatly packed and ready to go, but my heart felt heavy as I got dressed for the flight home. The trip had been a whirlwind, full of unexpected highs and lows, and I wasn’t sure how to feel about leaving it all behind.

At breakfast, my friend chatted animatedly about the highlights of the trip, her enthusiasm a welcome distraction. I nodded along, adding a comment here and there, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Matt—and the bittersweet regret that we hadn’t met in person.

As the bus pulled up to take us to the airport, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. A part of me thought about ignoring it, not ready to face whatever emotions his message might stir, but curiosity won out.

MATT: Hope your flight goes smoothly. Let me know when you get home safe, okay?

His words were simple, but they carried an unmistakable warmth that made my chest tighten.

ME: Thanks. I will.

I hit send and stared at the screen, debating whether to say more. Before I could decide, the bus lurched forward, and I slipped my phone back into my bag.

At the airport, the usual chaos of check-ins and security lines kept me distracted. My classmates joked about the trip, already planning to compare notes and photos when we got home.

It wasn’t until we were boarding the plane that I let myself pause. As I settled into my seat, I opened my messages again, scrolling through the thread with Matt. The FaceTime from last night lingered in my mind—the honesty in his voice, the look in his eyes when he said he didn’t want to lose me.

Taking a deep breath, I typed a quick message.

ME: I’m sorry we couldn’t meet this time.

I hesitated for a moment, then added:

ME: But I’m glad we talked.

I hit send and slipped my phone into airplane mode, unsure if I was ready to see his reply yet.

The flight home felt longer than usual, each mile bringing me closer to reality and further from the whirlwind that had been New York. By the time we landed, I felt a strange mix of relief and longing.

As soon as I turned my phone back on, his reply popped up:

MATT: Me too. This wasn’t how I wanted it to happen, but I’m glad you gave me a chance to explain.

A small smile tugged at my lips. Maybe things hadn’t gone perfectly, but they weren’t broken beyond repair. And maybe, just maybe, the next time I found myself in New York—or wherever life might take us—we’d finally get the chance to meet face to face.

As the bus rumbled along toward the airport, I let out a sigh, leaning my head against the window. The cityscape zipped by outside, its bustling energy already feeling like a distant memory. I turned slightly, catching snippets of a hushed conversation coming from the row ahead.

“Seriously, he was so hot!” one of my classmates whispered excitedly.

Her seatmate, a guy who sounded more bored than anything, let out a massive yawn. “DM him on Instagram or something, I dunno.”

I couldn’t help but smirk at his nonchalant response, but my curiosity was piqued. Peering discreetly through the small gap between the seats, I caught sight of her phone. She was scrolling through photos from the hockey game, her finger pausing as she zoomed in on a close-up shot of Matt mid-game, his determined expression and jersey number 73 clearly visible.

“I don’t even know his name, idiot,” she muttered, sounding genuinely frustrated.

A chuckle slipped out before I could stop myself. Both of them turned to look at me, their expressions a mix of surprise and curiosity.

I met their gazes with a small smile and said “Matthew Rempe.”

The girl blinked in shock, her phone still clutched in her hand. “Wait, you know his name?”

“Yep,” I replied, leaning back in my seat and pretending to focus on the passing buildings again, my grin widening as I felt their stunned stares linger on me for a moment longer.

The city faded further behind us, but a small part of me couldn’t help feeling like it wasn’t quite done with me yet.

The bus continued its steady rumble toward the airport, the familiar hum of the wheels against the pavement a comforting background noise to the awkward silence that had settled around me. I could feel the weight of my classmates’ stares, their curiosity palpable. The girl who had been talking about Matt was still looking at me, trying to process what I’d just said.

“You know him?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more in awe than disbelief.

“Yeah,” I said casually, trying to hide the rush of emotions that were swirling inside me. “He's, uh, kind of a big deal in hockey. I mean, not just in New York, either.”

She looked down at her phone again, scanning the pictures. Her seatmate, who had barely seemed interested before, now leaned forward.

“Wait a minute,” he said, suddenly more engaged. “You’re saying you know the guy in the picture, like for real?”

I raise an eyebrow “What? No, I’m friends with a bunch of the hockey guys. I just know when players are famous. This guy’s like a huge fighter, gets kicked out of games all the time. I just happen to recognise him from the news.”

“What news?” the girl asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“He’s just one of those guys that pops up in highlights a lot, you know? The big hits, the fights—stuff like that gets shared everywhere.” I shrugged, keeping my tone casual.

“Wait,” the guy next to her said, leaning in slightly. “You follow hockey? Like, actually follow it?”

I hesitated, suddenly aware that I’d said too much. “Not really,” I lied, hoping to downplay it. “I’ve just… been around it enough to pick up some things.”

“Been around it how?” the girl asked, still skeptical but clearly intrigued.

“Uh, my cousin’s super into it,” I said quickly, grasping for an explanation that wouldn’t sound suspicious. “He drags me to games and talks about it nonstop, so I end up knowing more than I care to admit.”

The girl nodded slowly, seeming to buy the story. “Huh. That makes sense, I guess. Still, it’s kind of impressive that you recognized him so fast.”

“Yeah,” the guy added, giving me a curious look. “Most people wouldn’t even know who he is, let alone the fact that he’s a fighter.”

I shrugged again, trying to brush it off. “Like I said, highlights. Plus, the hockey world isn’t that big. You hear names and start connecting the dots.”

The two of them exchanged a glance but didn’t push the conversation any further. I could feel the tension in my shoulders ease as their curiosity shifted elsewhere.

Filled with the usual chatter about flights, plans for when we got home, and last-minute souvenirs people wished they’d bought. I stayed mostly quiet, I pulled out my phone, unable to resist texting Matt about the interaction.

ME: So, a girl on this bus thinks you're hot.

His reply came almost immediately.

MATT: Is it you? 😉

I rolled my eyes, biting back a laugh as I typed a response.

ME: No, not me.

A pause, then his next text popped up.

MATT: Oh 😑

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, earning a few curious looks from my classmates. Covering my mouth, I quickly typed another message.

ME: Don’t look so disappointed. You’ve got plenty of admirers, apparently. MATT: Yeah, but only one that matters.

I stared at the screen, my smile softening. Despite everything, Matt had a way of making me feel like the center of his world, even from miles away.

ME: Smooth, Rempe. MATT: Just honest.

I shook my head, the thought of him sitting wherever he was, probably grinning at his phone too, was enough to make my heart feel lighter.

MATT: I don’t know what’s weirder, you not calling me Manhattan… or the fact that I’m still calling you San Diego.

I snorted, earning a glance from my friend across the aisle, which I quickly waved off.

ME: Well, you are Matt now. Guess I need to adjust. MATT: Adjust? You’re acting like this is a big change. ME: It kind of is! You went from a mystery nickname to being an actual recognisable person. That’s a lot. MATT: Fair. But for the record, you’ll always be San Diego to me. It suits you.

I rolled my eyes, feeling the familiar warmth creep into my chest that his texts always seemed to bring.

ME: What does that even mean? MATT: It means you’re sunny, laid-back, and somehow manage to leave me speechless half the time.

My cheeks burned, and I shook my head at his unabashed flirting.

ME: You’re impossible. MATT: And yet, you’re still texting me. ME: …Point taken. ME: I guess Manhattan suits you too then. Big, flashy, kind of impossible to ignore. MATT: So... do I get to know your real identity yet, Batman?

───── ❝ ❞ ─────

to be continued... hehehe

[raeslibrary]

𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝔂𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓼

𝙽𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖: 𝕌𝕟𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕

𝙳𝙸𝙻𝙵!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

2K <- mostly smut

warnings: age gap, swearing, older!rafe, drinking, reader is a senior in college, choking, unprotected p in v, kissing, handjob, cum play, spit kink, bathtub sex, changing positions, soft!rafe

📖 based on an ask from @starkeysprincess : ooo ok ok for kinkmas what about college!reader who babysits single dilf!rafe’s kids & she’s stressed cause of finals coming up (totally not self indulgent hehe) and he helps her destress 🩷

Masterlist

Reader’s POV:

You sit cross-legged on Rafe’s plush leather couch: textbooks, sticky notes, pens, and crumpled flashcards littered on the marble coffee table. You blink fast, widening your eyes the next moment, trying to stay awake and on task, willing your eyes to stay open.

Your eyes flicker to the baby monitor, watching Mr. Cameron’s daughter, Winnie, fast asleep. The camera pans over to the next bed, Rory doing the same. Throwing your head back, you breathe deeply, soaking in that little win. At least I have the kids under control.

The week before winter break was always brutal, but this semester felt next to impossible between tests and papers. Five finals in three days…

You tear your planner out of your backpack, jotting down a new study schedule, feeling the pen tremble in your hand—watching the ink scribble and stray from the regular pattern.

I haven’t slept well in days… My stomach has been in knots, my muscles aching, and my head pounding. This week can’t end soon enough.

Shit. Your phone glows with a new notification, but the time catches your eye. Midnight… I still have a couple of hours left, at least. You pull your laptop, open the essay that you have been working on, and check the page count. “Fifteen pages… Twenty-page minimum… What the hell,” you whisper, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

A lump forms in the back of your throat. You swallow hard, refusing to let the tears burning in your eyes spill over. It’s just school. It’s only school… Don’t break down. Not here… Not in his house.

The front door clicks open, jarring you from your thoughts. Your body freezes, fingers quickly lifting to your waterline to clear any tears that dare break. Rafe Cameron… Kook King and Kildare royalty. The man who somehow manages to be intimidating, yet incredibly charming. He’s devastatingly handsome… Fuck, he’s so hot.

Your pulse quickens as you hear his designer loafers shuffle down the hall, echoing through the foyer. Mr. Cameron darkens the doorway a moment later, loosening his tie with one hand and checking his phone with the other.

His toffee-colored hair is tousled— not as sleek as when he left. His large biceps are hugged with a crisp white button-down shirt; suit pants snug enough to show you just how fit he is. “Y/n,” he greets you warmly, lighting up at the sight of you. “How were they?”

"They were great," you manage to say, voice wavering slightly with nerves. “Uhh-Umm… They fell asleep right on time. Rory’s jammies are on backward. He said, ‘The buttons push on his tummy.’ I tried, I swear,” you laugh lightly.

“I know you did,” he smiles as he nods and scratches his five o’clock shadow. His gaze lingers a little longer than usual. “What about you? Are you okay? You look…" he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “… a little stressed. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way. You look beautiful, just stressed.”

Your cheeks warm up at his compliment and his attention; Rafe’s focus never falters. Yours does as your heart flips, your gaze taking refuge in the mess before you to ease the tension, embarrassment quickly filling its place. “Just finals,” you say with a weak laugh. “Five exams in three days. I still have to drive back to campus. I need a shower… And, I have to study… a lot, a lot.”

Rafe’s eyebrows pinch together—his muscular arms cross over his strong chest, the man leaning casually into the doorframe. “You goin’ all the way back to campus?”

You bite your lip and nod. “Yeah, I’ll be alright… I babysit for the Thorntons on a date night and always drive back super late…”

He shrugs his shoulders, looking back at you. "You don't have to," he responds. "Drive back, that is. You can stay here if you’d like if you’re more of a morning person. You can stay in one of the guest bedrooms, watch TV, study, and shower. Or, you can just sleep… Fuck, you look like you’ve been workin’ way, way too hard.”

Your lashes flutter at his offer. Stay the night? Here? You replay to his sweet words again. This place was luxurious… Rivaling any resort on Figure Eight—but this was Rafe Cameron’s house.

“I don’t want to impose,” you babble, catching him waiting for your answer.

”You wouldn’t be,” he tilts his head slightly as a smile plays on his pretty lips. “Seriously, I insist.”

Your shoulders unwind, the stress you were feeling lifting slightly just knowing that you could spend that extra time studying instead of driving; you could spend the night in a cozy bed instead of your cramped apartment. "I really appreciate it, Mr. Cameron,” you breathe.

“Please… Call me Rafe,” he encourages as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, heading toward the sink. ”Go on,” he drawls. “S’gettin’ late. There are two rooms at the end of the hall. You can pick whichever one you’d like.”

You gather your things and head upstairs, your heart still racing. Reaching the end of the hall, you look both ways; each room equally stunning. You glance back at the first option, catching a glimpse of a large bathtub in the mirror.

Shutting the door, you discard your belongings on the bed and quickly undress. You stroll over to the tub, running a bath, adding a heavy spoon of lavender-scented bath salts. As soon as it hits the water, the smell swirls with the steam, wafting around you. You sink into the bubbles, letting out a sigh of pure bliss.

Your body relaxes for the first time in days, melting into the tub.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

”Y/n?” Rafe calls for you from behind the door, his voice husky and deep. “Do you need anything to eat? I should have asked earlier. I apologize.”

Your heart pounds in your chest just knowing he’s outside the door. “I’m fine. Thank you,” you respond sweetly, tucking your lip between your teeth, a part of you wishing you would have said ‘yes’ so he would’ve come back.

”A drink?” He asks. “Wine?”

Your cheeks burn from your giddy smile at the offer. “Wine sounds great. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, there’s another knock. Rafe cracks open the door, his large hand wrapped around the glass, setting it gently on the marble counter, his handsome face still hidden behind the door.

“You can come in,” you call. The door moves fast, then slow, creaking open. Rafe steps inside with a bottle of red wine in hand. Maybe he was hoping for this all along? Perhaps he was just going to set it down on the nightstand?

Rafe walks over, his steps smooth and deliberate, resting the glass in your hand. You lift it to your lips, smiling before sipping, relishing the taste for a moment before letting out a dreamy ‘thank you.’

“You work too hard,” he says softly as he walks away, leaning back into the counter. He looks back at you; genuine concern painted all over his face as well as a glow of admiration.

Your lips draw to the side, nodding in reply, but your mind is clouded with Rafe’s praise so that you can think of a reply.

“Feels good?” He asks, and you nod, your wide, doll-like eyes drawn to the devastatingly handsome man. “You like that?” He asks as he steps closer, gesturing to the bath.

“Yeah,” you smile as you look up at him.

“You can stay over anytime you’d like, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” you whisper as you tilt toward him. “I’d like that.”

Rafe leans down, lowering himself eye-level with you, his beautiful blue eyes dancing at the waterline, your gorgeous breasts half-hidden under the suds. “You should take more breaks, princess. “It’d be good for you-” Acting before your mind, you grab his shirt and tie, tugging him closer, his lips finding yours for a deep kiss. Your heart races as he deepens the exchange, pulling you closer, causing the water to slosh out of the tub onto his white shirt.

You gasp in surprise, looking down at his muscular body, the white linen clinging to his skin. You race for his buttons; and Rafe for his tie between messy kisses and panting breaths. Your eyes widen as he takes off more and more clothes, tossing them messily to the floor; the air charged between the two of you sparks flying when your lips meet again.

”This okay, princess?” He pants hungrily between kisses.

“Yeah,” you mumble, sucking on his tongue before swirling yours.

“What do you need from me, baby? Tell me what you need.”

“You… Just you, Rafe,” you whimper, feeling as he smiles against your lips. Your fingers stroke the underside of his thick cock, making him moan into his mouth; his breaths choppy as you wrap your fingers around him, rubbing with the cadence of your kiss. Your fingertips ghost over his swollen tip, making him seethe through his teeth before biting your lip.

“M’gonna make you feel good, sweetheart. Yeah? I’m gonna help you relax. But you need to tell me what you want from me” he groans as your other hand cups his balls, rolling slowly.

His abs muscles flex as you toy with his cock, the older man bucking into your hand as he bites his lip. Your eyes widen at the sight of him—finding yourself at a complete loss for words seeing him like this.

Rafe’s fingers tighten on the tub's edge, knuckles turning white. The blood in his cock starts to pump harder as he moves closer and closer to his climax.

The blues of his eyes start to fall, lids growing heavy as his breathing grows deeper. “Let me see your face, pretty,” Rafe pants, cupping your chin with one hand, fisting his dick with the next. You open your mouth, not sure where he wants it, body buzzing from the low rumbles of his moans and praise. “Fuck,” the word falls from his lips as you feel his warm cum land in ropes on your cheeks, lips, and tongue. “Look at you… Shit,” he groans.

Rafe doesn’t loosen his hold, moving closer instead, gliding his warm tongue along your skin, cleaning up your face, keeping your lips popped open with his grasp, but you wouldn’t dare close it. He spits in your mouth; his climax landing on your tongue. “Swallow it, baby,” he whispers against your lips, gentle yet commanding, sending chills down your spine.

Before you can’t think, Rafe moves you through the water, resting you on his lap to face him, chest to chest. Your hands rest on his broad body, the two of you breathing rapidly together. Rafe reaches for you, wrapping his big arms around your waist—lips latching onto the sensitive spot on your neck.

“Fuck me, Rafe…” Those are the only three words he needed to hear, pulling you exactly where he wants you again. You hold your breath, swathing your arms around his neck, nails clawing into his massive shoulders as you bury yourself in his neck, whimpering as you take every inch.

“Just like that… Just like that, princess,” Rafe huffs, tossing his heavy head back at the feeling of you. You rest your hand on your stomach, feeling him deep. “And look at you takin’ it all, baby,” he drawls as he takes his turn nestling himself in you, taking a hold of your hips to urge you to rock against him.

Water starts to move around you, crashing against the back of the bath; rolling over the edge. "That's a good girl,” he moans as you tighten your walls around him, moving at a slightly quicker pace.

Rafe raises his hand, wrapping his ringed fingers around your throat, squeezing before pulling you to his lips. The two of you start moving with each other as the pressure builds inside, just seconds away from coming undone in each other's arms.

”Bounce for me,” he mumbles as his gaze falls just like before, eyes stealing glances as your plush tits move, soaked in soapy water.

Rafe hands sneak up your back, cupping the tops of your shoulders, shifting himself on top. You cry out in pleasure, voice bouncing off the walls of the bathroom as he fucks his dick deep.

”Cum for me,” he whispers, and you do. Your perfect pussy fluttering around his throbbing dick as he empties himself deep, filling your cunt with his cum. Your body becomes one with the water and him, lips mirroring his as you come down from your highs together.

“Two more nights, princess…” He pants between passionate kisses. “You’re comin’ back here tomorrow night… N’we’re doing this again. Promise me… I just want to take care of you…”

You smile against his lips, living in the afterglow of your pleasure. “I promise.”

tags: @loserboysandlithium @rafesthroatbaby @kisses4angels @watchmerora @babygorewhore @buckybarnessweetheart @anamiad00msday @littlelamy @namelesslosers @cades-outsider @romaescapes @starkeysprincess @oxpogues4lifexo @unrealmirrorball @sleepiibunniiii @gri959 @rafesgiirl @daryldixon83 @akobx @hyperfixationgirl @lhhlver @rrafeswhore @slut-4-gojo @blair-bears-blog @loveesiren

[raeslibrary]

Be Good

Nico Hischier x Reader

Summary: 3.6k of just. long hair Nico smut. very little plot honestly. sorry in advance this is a lot. @theemporium & I have been spiraling over long hair nico for days and this is what I came up with

Warnings: oh boy. sexual content 18+, minors dni!, hair pulling, oral sex fem receiving, mild spanking (?), unprotected sex, overstimulation, I think that’s it but let me know if I missed anything?

When Nico nearly tackles you in a hug the second he walks in the door of your apartment, the first thing you notice is his hair. Realistically, his hair hasn’t grown that much since you last saw him. It’s only been a few days. But it is long, longer than normal, longer than he likes it to be, and it’s been a bit since you've been able to run your hands through it.

“It’s so long,” you say, twisting the strands between your fingers.

He groans into the crook of your neck. “I know. I have an appointment to get it cut tomorrow.”

You let out a whine and throw your head back dramatically. “Why?”

He just laughs this time around. “Because it’s long. And annoying. And the boys are chirping me about it.”

“I don’t care what the boys think,” you grumble, as he pulls his head from the crook of your neck. “Don't you care more what I think?”

He sighs, cupping your face in his hands. You love the look he gives you- so full of amusement and care and sweetness. He’s missed you, too. You know it without him even saying it.

“Of course I do,” he says, leaning close until the words wash over your cheek. He brushes his lips there, and you let your eyes flutter closed. “I care the most about you, always.”

Then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and full of everything you’re already feeling. You part your lips for him, happily, easily. His hands slide up to hold your waist, fingers pressing into you softly, twisting the fabric of his t-shirt that you’re wearing. When his tongue slips into your mouth, you start to melt. He backs you up against the wall, and you place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as he hitches one of your legs up around his waist. You’re only in one of his t-shirts and a pair of underwear. He’s so, so close, right there, when he’s been so far away and it’s almost overwhelming. You swear when you thread your fingers into his hair and pull, it’s just because you’re trying to hold on. Nothing more.

Nico knows, though. He groans loudly into your lips, and the kiss gets messy, fast. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth when you give another pull, and white hot desire rolls down your spine. When you let out a soft whine, he pulls away and starts mouthing at your jaw. He’s breathing heavily, chest heaving against yours. His eyes are dark when you finally open yours.

He drops your leg from around his waist, and then taps the side of your thigh lightly. “Bedroom.”

You blink back at him, lips parted, heart racing. Your fingers are still wrapped up in his hair, and you don’t really want to let go. He raises his brows and swats at your ass this time, and you yelp.

“Bedroom,” he repeats, in a firm tone.

You take it more seriously this time and start scurrying towards the bedroom. He’s hot on your heels, hands grabbing at your hips. You giggle as he pulls at you, almost like he’s trying to keep you from going where he told you to. You take his hands in yours, trying to pry them off, trying desperately to make it to the bedroom. When you stumble up to the bed, he lets you fall onto it- you land face first and roll over onto your back, scrambling up the mattress as you laugh. He pulls his shirt over his head, and your breath hitches at the sight of him, at the wide expanse of his chest and shoulders.

He crawls up after you. Your breaths are heavy again. He props himself over you, one arm planted next to your head. His hair hangs in dark tendrils over his forehead, and his chain glitters on his neck. You swallow, trying desperately to steady yourself. It’s not working very well. Your heart thuds in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, something you’re pretty sure isn’t English, and then he’s kissing you again. It’s more frantic, now, like he needs it. Like you need it. You place one hand on his chest and slip the other into his hair again. His hair, god, the hair- it’s long enough to twist your fingers in, long enough to let the strands slip against your skin. You sigh into the kiss, and he groans again, his chest vibrating against yours.

“Please don’t cut it,” you whine, and he lets out a huff against your lips. “It’s so nice long. Please-“

“Shh,” he says, pressing his lips to your jaw. “It’s okay, baby.”

He draws a line of kisses down your jaw and neck. You squirm underneath him, your skin already feeling boiling hot. When he nips at your neck, you tug on his hair harshly, and he hisses, pinching your hip.

“Please-“ you choke out, staring up at the ceiling.

“Behave,” he mutters. “I’ll give you what you need. Just be good for me.”

You whimper and squeeze your hands so tight in his hair, you’re afraid your knuckles will lock up. He makes a disapproving noise and lifts his head from your neck. He looks at you through hooded eyes, lips red and puffy already, and you know you’re in for it.

“Hands above your head,” he says, and you swear tears start to fill your eyes.

“No, please, I’ll be-“

“I know you will,” he says, sweeter this time. He drags his lower lip against your collarbone and blinks up at you. “Put them above your head anyways, though.”

You whine, but you do as you’re told, knowing better than to keep trying to argue. He reaches up with one hand and helps you settle yours against the pillow, squeezing your wrists lightly with his long fingers. Your face is burning up, along with the rest of you.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your skin and sighing.

He pushes your shirt up until it’s bunched around your chest, revealing your breasts and torso to him. You’re staring down at him, taking heaving breaths, utterly entranced with the absolutely destroyed look on his face. He seems out of breath, too, and his eyes are only half open. He presses a kiss to your stomach, just above your navel, and you sigh and kick your feet, feeling restless.

He rumbles out a laugh against your skin. “Do I need to tie you down, baby?”

You squeeze your hands around the pillow and sigh. “Nico, please.”

He drags his lips across your skin, pressing soft kisses to untouched places. Each touch sends sparks up your spine and butterflies swirling in your stomach. He uses one hand to keep himself propped up over you, and the other sweeps up and down your body, tracing lines and designs and squeezing at your skin. You’re burning up. He’s smiling about it, like he just knows. His chain hangs from his neck and brushes against your skin with every movement. Cold metal meets heated skin, and it makes you shiver.

He draws delicate patterns on your skin with his lips, stopping to nip at your collarbone or suck a hickey into the skin of your stomach. When he wraps his lips around your nipple, you cry out, the heat of his mouth enveloping your every sense. His other hand paws at your other breast, and you arch your back. He pinches your nipple in warning. As he starts to drag his mouth downward, leaving bruises along the way, you bury your hands in the feather pillow beneath your head and start to bargain.

“Nico,” you mumble. He doesn’t look up, but you feel him hum against your hip. “Please. Just. I’ll be good-“

“Keep them there,” he says, firmly, and you shiver.

God, he’s so close to exactly where you want him. You squeeze your eyes shut. Like if you don’t look, maybe he’ll do what you want.

“I won’t pull too hard,” you say. “Promise. I’ll be gentle.”

He moves lower, pressing a kiss to the crease of your hip. Then he brushes his lips against the soft skin of your inner thigh. Sparks shoot out across your whole body. If you could just grab his hair, you could lead him right to where you need him, where you’re aching for him, but he knows that. Your panties must be soaked by now.

“It’s not about pulling too hard,” he mumbles. “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

You whine, high pitched and breathy, pulling another chuckle out of him. It would be humiliating if it wasn’t so hot, if you didn’t know how much he truly cares for you. He runs a finger along the seam of your underwear, then presses his thumb against your core, against the wet spot there. He groans, then, and latches his lips onto the skin of your inner thigh, sucking harshly. You yelp, but you keep your hands above your head and your legs mostly still.

“Good girl,” he says into your skin, as he pulls your panties to the side. You buzz with a mixture of pride and pleasure and frustration. “Be good for me and give me just one, just like this, okay? Keep your hands above your head for just one-“ he cuts himself off with a soft sigh. When you look down at him, his eyes are locked between your legs, and your skin grows hot all over again. “Fuck, baby. Just gimme one, and then you can touch, promise. Just-“

In a matter of seconds, he drags your panties down your legs, hooks your knees over his shoulders, wraps his arms around your legs to hold you in place, and dives in.

Your whole body arches off the bed as he buries his face between your legs, but you keep your hands firmly wrapped in the pillowcase. He doesn’t bother with teasing. His fingers dig into your thighs to hold you close as he licks a flat stripe up the center of you, and you do your best not to kick your legs. It only devolves from there. When he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks harshly, you keep your hands wrapped firmly in the pillowcase. When he groans against you, the vibrations rattling your every bone, you keep your hands wrapped firmly in the pillowcase. When he moves lower, tongue slipping inside and nose brushing against your clit, you keep your hands wrapped firmly in the pillowcase. When he slips a finger into you, alongside his tongue, you-

You give up. It’s barreling down on you, and when you sneak a peek at him, all you see are his nearly closed eyes, flushed cheeks, and his hair, curling in sweat soaked tendrils over his forehead. The need to touch and pull and hold takes over, and before you know it, your fingers are buried in his mess of dark hair. When you pull, he lets out a loud, rumbling moan. You’re right on the edge, your whole body buzzing with it, and for just a moment you’re worried he’s going to stop. He told you to keep your hands above your head, and you didn’t listen and he’s going to-

He crooks his fingers in just the perfect way, wraps his lips around your clit, and it hits you so hard you see stars. You’re sure this must hurt- the way you pull his hair so tightly, trying to hold onto some last shred of sanity as he works you through it. Waves of pleasure roll through you, and he-He’s talking, between swipes of his tongue and messy open mouth kisses against you.

“That’s it- there you go, just let it out-“ you realize, then, that you’re gasping for air, muscles twisted up and legs shaking. “Does that feel good, schatz? Mm, I know, I know-“

You’re babbling something, incoherent, as he rubs his cheek against your thigh, stubble burning against your skin.

He sighs. “Breathe, baby. Mm-“

His thumb brushes against your core, where two of his fingers are still buried deep, and you yelp, tugging on his hair again. He laughs. You keep your hands wrapped firmly in his hair. When he starts up again before your breaths have settled, with soft little licks that set your nerves on fire, you try to use your hands to pull him away.

“Come on, baby,” he mumbles, using the arm still wrapped around your legs to pull you close. “You didn’t think you’d get away with it that easy, did you?”

You take in a wobbly breath, going to slip your hands from his hair. “Nico, I-“

“You can keep your hands there,” he says. Your eyes flicker down, and your gaze meets his, dark and almost menacing, and you know you’ve made a grave mistake. “Keep your hands in my hair. Go ahead and try and pull me away, if you want.”

You whine. He grins- you can feel it, against you, and you can see it in his eyes. There are tears in your own eyes, threatening to spill over your lashes. He crooks his fingers inside of you again, and you cry out and try desperately to pull him away. It’s no use. You know the safe word, you know if you really asked him to stop he would. He knows it, too, and he raises a brow expectantly.

“Be a good girl, like I said,” he says, closing his eyes. “And gimme another.”

He settles in, and he works you up to a peak again. And then again, and again, and again. You lose count of the orgasms, lose focus, lose your sanity, really. It turns into a blur of pleasure and overstimulation. He’s so good, and he knows it, knows all the ways to take you apart at every seam. You’re on fire, your fingers cramp up in his hair, and he doesn’t let up. In a brief moment of clarity, you cry out.

“Nico,” you beg, gasping for air, on the comedown yet again. “Nico, please, need you. Need-“

He presses a kiss to your clit, and your whole body shakes. “What do you need, baby? M’right here.”

You whine. “Fuck me, please, I- I need it, I-“

You don’t realize there are tears streaming down your face until he unwinds his arm from around your leg and cups your cheek in his hand. Your lower lip wobbles, and he pouts at you in return. His touch is soft, quite the contrast from the grip of your hands in his hair, or the hold he’s had on you for God knows how long now. He leans up towards you, and when your legs drop to the bed, they shake. He hums proudly, and you squint up at him in what you hope is a menacing fashion.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek. “Don’t glare at me.”

You loop your hands around the back of his neck as he props himself up above you, hands next to your head. He gives you a moment to catch your breath. His eyes dart to your heaving chest, and you smile. You roll his chain underneath your fingers, against his skin, and laugh lightly at the way he shivers at the feeling.

“You sure you can take it?” He asks, smirking.

You slap his shoulder blade lightly and then pinch his neck. “Nico, if you don’t put your dick in me in the next-“

He cuts you off with a kiss, one that feels bruising and bright and strangely tender, in the middle of all of this. Then he tugs at your lower lip with his teeth and you whine, loudly, arching your hips against his. He drags his lips against your face, laughing under his breath.

“You are such a brat, you know that?” He asks.

“But you love me,” you mumble.

“I do,” he says. He kisses your cheek, and then pulls back to look you in the eyes. “Hands above your head.”

You frown immediately, shaking your head. “No! Please, no, just-“

“Just for a bit. Just to start,” he says, voice low and rumbling. “If you pull my hair while I try and do this, it’s gonna be over way too soon.”

You blink at him, and then you laugh, throwing your head back, and throw your hands to the pillow like they’re drawn there magnetically. That’s why he told you not to pull his hair- he likes it too much. He laughs, too, burying his face in your neck like he’s trying to muffle it, his stubble definitely leaving beard burn there. There’s something so sweet about it. He’s taken you apart bit by bit and now he’s here, laughing against you. It’s your favorite thing about him, the way he loves you so intensely and also so lightly. Softly.

Though there’s nothing soft about it when he slips his cock into you with a groan, and you respond with a noise of your own. The stretch is so overwhelmingly good that your breath gets caught in your chest. He presses his lips against your neck and cups your face in his hand, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he splits you open. Waves of pleasure roll out over your whole body. You’re already on edge. You think he might be, too, just from the way he breathes, slowly and carefully. Steady.

“Feel so good,” he murmurs, nose brushing against your jaw.

The words send a shiver down your spine, and you clench around him, involuntarily. He makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat and rolls his hips. You want, so desperately, to reach out and twist your fingers into his hair. You don’t, though. You want this more. Want him, and the way he rocks his hips against yours, setting a steady, unforgiving pace. You want the way his hand digs into the pillow next to your head, like he’s holding on for dear life, too. You want his soft groans, his heavy breaths, and your noises to match them. You’ve never wanted anything more.

Your next orgasm sneaks up on you devastatingly fast. You should’ve known it wouldn’t take long- you’re over sensitive and so turned on and it’s him, always him, and he’s just so good. He knows it too- that he’s good and that you’re close. He pulls his face from your neck to look at you, and his hand fumbles for yours. You’re burning up from the inside out again.

“Hold on, baby, hold it-“ he says, voice low and choked.

You go to wrap your fingers in his, but he’s tugging your hand towards his head, and- oh. You take the hint eagerly, and you sink your fingers into the sweat soaked tendrils once again. When you give a tentative pull, he makes a blissed out sort of noise. He wraps your other hand in his and keeps it pinned above your head, and then his lips meet yours in a messy kiss.

When you fall apart, waves of pleasure crashing over you and taking you out, he follows suit, burying himself deep inside of you with a loud, low groan, pressing himself right up against that perfect spot that has your legs shaking. You lose your grip on his hair and on reality, too. You melt into the bed, one hand still pinned above your head, and bask in the feeling of it. He collapses against you, chest heaving in time with yours.

Eventually, he drags himself away and slips out of you, and you whine and try to pull him back. He insists, though, and soon you’re in the bathroom, and he’s cleaning you up. You blink blearily up at him, and he cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead, both your cheeks, the tip of your nose. There are tears welling in your eyes again, but he brushes them away. You let him carry you back to bed. He does so happily.

He crawls up over you and lays down carefully with his head on your chest. He may be big, but he loves to be held like this, and you love the weight of him on top of you, especially on nights like these. It’s grounding. His chain is pinned between the two of you, the metal biting into your skin, but you really don’t mind. You drag your fingers against his scalp.

“You owe me a head rub,” he mumbles into your chest.

“Shut up, you liked it,” you tease.

“Of course I did,” he agrees with a nod. He shuffles around and buries himself closer, one hand coming up to sweep your hair from your face. “But you can still give me a head rub.”

You laugh, but you do it anyway. He lets out a groan as you press your fingertips into his scalp, and you kiss the top of his head, gently, too. You rub behind his ears, over the part of his hair, and press firmly against the spot his forehead always seems to be the most tense. He melts further and further into you, and as his breathing slows, you know he’s about to fall asleep.

“You know I love you, right?” He says, quietly.

You reach over and turn off the bedside lamp. “Does this mean you’ll cancel your haircut tomorrow?”

He rumbles out a laugh and kisses your collarbone. “Baby, it’s not like I’m going to shave it. You’ll still be able to play with it.”

You groan unhappily. “Fine. Whatever.” You pause, and then sigh. “I love you too.”

You feel him smile against your skin. You twist a lock of his hair around your finger while you still can. You and Nico both know that when he comes back from the barber shop tomorrow, you’ll run your hands through his shorter hair and tell him how good it looks, and how handsome he is, over and over until his cheeks are stained red. He’s right- you really are just being a brat.

In the morning, though, when he shuts off the alarm and doesn’t bother to climb out of bed, he ends up missing his haircut appointment. You’re not sure if it’s on purpose or not. You just know you’re definitely not complaining.