smdnai

[smdnai]

the big oopsie ⎜a.matthews + m.knies

pairings: auston matthews x afab!reader ⎜ matthew knies x afab!reader ⎜ genre: romance ⎜accidental pregnancy ⎜heavy angst ⎜ please read trigger warnings if you have any triggers relating to pregnancy ⎜ warnings: accidental pregnancy ⎜auston is much stressed ⎜ lots of crying ⎜ heavy making out ⎜dry humping? ⎜ descriptions of miscarriage ⎜ fighting ⎜ matthew knies is here to save the day ⎜ mentions of protection breaking ⎜ mentions of abortion ⎜ synopsis: two little red lines is all it takes to make your situation-ship a little more complicated. word count: 10.8k authors note:  I had some requests for some auston matthews so I hope this suffices - it doesn't really have any smut and is honestly mainly just sad. sorry.

(unedited)

“This isn’t supposed to happen.” You whisper to yourself as you sit on the closed lid of your toilet, staring down at the plastic stick in your hand. You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be in this situation, shouldn’t feel like your entire world has just been flipped upside down over two little red lines staring back at you.

But here you are.

The world doesn’t stop turning just because you want it to, and the pregnancy test in your hand isn’t going to change no matter how long you sit here, willing it to be something different. You swallow hard, your throat dry as the realisation settles deep in your bones.

You’re pregnant.

And there’s only one person who could be the father.

Auston.

Your stomach churns at the thought, not because the idea of him being the father is unbearable, but because you have no idea how he’s going to react. Auston has always been closed off, even with you. Even in the quiet moments after sex when most people would find themselves wrapped in lazy conversation, he’s always kept a part of himself locked away. Not to say he didn’t take care of you, but there was always something that you knew he kept locked up in that head of his. You knew what this was when you started it—no strings, no emotions, just an arrangement between two people who found comfort in each other’s bodies.

But here you are. 

You let out a shaky breath as you slide off the closed toilet to brace against the cold tiles of your bathroom floor, pulling your knees up to your chest as you press your cheek into your pants, glaring at the test as you blink rapidly at the tears gathering. 

You think back to that night, the way his hands felt on your skin, the way he murmured your name against your throat as he moved inside you. 

“You’re so perfect.” Auston had whispered against your skin, the creak of your bed filling the room as you pant, your legs hooking around his waist. 

It had been reckless - as most of your nights together were -  but neither of you had noticed when the condom had torn. Well you had noticed, just maybe a little too late. You remember the way he swore under his breath afterward, sitting up on his knees as he glanced down at the small tear in the latex, a furrow between his brows as he pulled you close, but neither of you had lingered on it.

“We can get you a plan B pill in the morning.” He mumbled into your hair - he did get you the pill - clearly it didn’t work the way you hoped, didn’t help you ignore the problem like you usually would. 

Now, you don’t have the luxury of ignoring things anymore.

You take a deep breath, setting the test down beside you as you rub at your temples. There’s no avoiding this conversation. No pushing it off or pretending like everything is fine. You’re going to have to tell him.

And that terrifies you.

“We can do this.” You say quietly into your bathroom - the ‘we’ is this situation is unknown - you shake your head quickly after, placing your phone back on the ground. “Who am I kidding, he’s just become captain of his team, everyone’s looking to him to finally bring a win back to the leafs, he doesn’t care about this.” You grumble, feeling the agitation rise inside of you as you go back and forth between calling him and not calling him. By the time you work up the courage to call him, your hands are trembling. You hear the phone ring once, twice, three times before he picks up, his voice hushed as he whispers into the phone. 

“Yeah?”

Your throat tightens. “Hey.”

There’s a pause, and a rustle as the sound of his teammates in the background gets quieter. “You good?”

No. Not even close.

“I need to talk to you,” you say, gripping the edge of the counter like it’ll keep you steady. “Can you come over?”

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet exhale. “I’m kinda in the middle of something right now - can you come to me?”

Your teeth catch your bottom lip as your head falls back against the bathroom wall, your knees pressed up against you chest as you look down at the test one more time, holding your hand over your phone as you pull it away from your ear, “Kinda in the middle of something.” You mock with a deepened voice as the test on the floor glares back up at you  - letting out a long sigh before agreeing. “Okay, where do you want to meet?”

“Just come to the rink - I’ll tell security to let you through.” He says quickly, not waiting long for a response before hanging up with a quick ‘see you soon.’ 

Two little red lines.

And everything is about to change.

+

+

You pull you car into the parking spot about an hour after getting off the phone with Auston, you’re hands white with effort as you try to relax your grip on the steering wheel - the sound of your phone dinging from in your bag finally dragging your attention away from the brick wall in front of you. 

Matty 😈: hey, auston said you were on your way to the rink  - want me to save you a double choc chip cookie? 

Matty 😈: are you ignoring me? 

Matty 😈:  fine no cookie for you

Matty 😈:  seriously are you ignoring me? 

Matty 😈:  this is just rude - I thought we were friends 

You read through your missed messages smiling at the photo that comes through, the large brunette hockey player you had met last year at Auston’s birthday party taking a huge bite of arguably the best thing they serve at the ford performance centre - your smile drops as quickly as it arrives though, the reason you’re here burning a hole in the bottom of your purse, wrapped tightly in a zip lock bag. 

You took another three tests before coming - each confirming the exhaustingly bright red lines the original test had - the undeniable truth looking you right in the face. 

“Let’s get this over with.” You sigh, tucking your phone back in your bag before slinging it over your shoulder and sliding out of the car - the security guard giving you a tight smile as he buzzes you into the building, the sign in form ready for you at the front desk. You take the visitor tag from the guard, sticking it to your shirt before he directs you to the locker rooms where he assumed Auston would be waiting. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart as you walk down the long hallway of the Ford Performance Centre. The familiar sound of skates scraping the ice, the scent of cold concrete mixed with the faint smell of sweaty gear, should comfort you. After all, you’ve been here plenty of times before, each visit more casual than the last. But tonight? It feels like you're walking into an entirely different world, one where everything is about to change.

You pause at the door to the locker room, your fingers nervously adjusting the strap of your purse. The small plastic bag with the pregnancy test tucked inside feels like it weighs a ton, even though it's hidden away. 

Another deep breath. 

You’ve made it this far. You can do this. You only need to survive this conversation, and then... well, you’ll figure out the rest. As you step forward, the sound of footsteps in the distance catches your attention, and you freeze. When you turn the corner, you spot him— well not him but him —Matthew.

He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, staring down at his phone, completely unaware of your approach. His trademark smirk curls on his lips as he looks up and catches sight of you, the usual playful glint in his blue eyes.

"Hey, you," Matthew greets, pushing off the doorframe with a fluid motion. His towering frame fills the hallway, but despite his size, his voice is warm and easy, laced with that signature mischievousness. "Auston said you'd be coming by. What took you so long? I was about to assume you were stuck in traffic... or maybe just avoiding me."

You can't help but smile at the teasing. Matthew always knew how to lighten the mood, even when things felt impossible. But today? His usual charm isn’t enough to soothe the nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin.

"Traffic, yeah," you say, attempting a light laugh, though it comes out sounding more like a strained cough. "Something like that."

Matthew arches an eyebrow, his grin widening as he steps closer. "Yeah? Something tells me it’s not just traffic, though. You look like you’ve seen a ghost." His tone shifts, becoming more observant as he glances at you. "What’s going on?"

You swallow thickly. Of course, Matthew notices. He has an uncanny ability to see right through you. He doesn’t even need to try, and yet here you are, trying to keep your mask on.

"I’m fine," you say, trying to brush it off, but the words feel weak even to your own ears.

"Uh-huh," he hums, not buying it for a second. "Fine, huh? And I’m totally not gonna notice that you’re clutching your purse like it’s a life raft." He glances at the bag hanging loosely over your shoulder, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Come on, don’t do that. You’re making me worry. You know I can’t resist when you go all mysterious on me."

You force another smile, shaking your head. "I’m serious, Matty, everything’s fine."

"Everything’s fine?" He chuckles, his voice full of incredulity. "You sure about that? I mean, I don’t want to be that guy, but you’re looking a little pale, and I’m pretty sure your hands are shaking. Come on, spill. Did Auston finally push you over the edge with his constant brooding? I know that’s what would do it for me."

You snort at his attempt to lighten the mood, but it only makes the lump in your throat bigger. “Ooh, are you finally breaking up with him cause you know I’m the better option?” He jokes, Matthew is trying, in his own way, but he has no idea what’s coming. No idea how much this conversation is going to change things, not just for you, but for everyone involved.

“It’s hard to break up with someone you aren’t dating.” You whisper glaring to the floor, clearing your throat before looking back up at Matthew, plastering a new more determined smile on your face.  "I’m okay, really," you repeat, feeling like a broken record. But the more you try to convince him, the more you feel like you’re lying to both him and yourself. Matthew isn’t buying it. He steps forward, dropping his playful façade for a moment, the concern creeping back into his features. 

"No, you’re not okay. I know you too well, and right now, you're barely holding it together. What’s going on?"

Before you can respond, you hear the distinct sound of heavy steps hitting the floor, the rhythm of them familiar. The tension in the air shifts. Matthew looks at you, his eyes narrowing for a brief moment, almost like he’s seeing through the layers you’ve built to keep everything in place. “Did he hurt you?” Matthew keeps his voice barely audible, all signs of humour gone from his face as you shake your head quickly. Auston emerges at the end of the hallway, his broad form instantly recognisable. He walks with purpose, his usual confident stride, but as soon as his eyes meet yours, his expression shifts just slightly—a flicker of hesitation.

Matthew notices it too, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, speak of the devil," he mutters under his breath, his voice dripping with that trademark sarcasm you’ve come to expect from him.

Auston’s gaze shifts from Matthew to you, his brows furrowing, and you can feel his attention on you like a weight pressing down on your chest. "You okay?" he asks, his tone clipped. There’s a slight edge to it, like he’s already preparing himself for whatever it is you’re about to say, but it’s buried beneath layers of indifference.

Matthew quirks an eyebrow at the question, clearly not impressed. "I was just asking her the same thing," he quips, turning to you with a raised eyebrow, his voice now tinged with playful accusation. "Something’s off, right? Come on, don’t make me drag it out of you." You open your mouth to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. There’s so much you need to say, so much you’ve been holding back, but when Auston steps closer, you can feel the weight of it all crashing down.

"Everything okay?" Auston repeats, his voice lower this time, softer, like he’s trying to coax you out of the shell you’ve locked yourself inside. You can tell he’s sensing the shift in the air, the tension that’s thickening around you, you watch as Auston raises his hands, reaching for you before deciding better of it and letting them fall back to his side. You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s like the words are stuck behind an invisible wall. Matthew’s gaze flicks between the two of you, and for the briefest second, his playful smile falters. There’s a look in his eyes, an instinctive understanding that something’s really is not right. He looks back at you, no longer playful, but protective.

“Seriously, what’s going on? You’re starting to scare me.” Matthew asks again, quieter this time, as he looks straight into your eyes. His voice is gentle now, lacking the usual teasing edge, replaced with something that feels a little too serious for your liking. "You don’t have to tell me, but—"

"I’m pregnant," you blurt, your voice almost a whisper, barely audible against the hum of the arena, your hand slapping over your mouth, but it’s too late. The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, raw and trembling, and for a moment, you feel as if the entire world has stopped. Auston’s reaction is immediate. He freezes, his eyes wide, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his carefully crafted façade. His jaw tightens, and he takes a small step back, as if your words have physically pushed him away.

Matthew’s eyes widen too, but then there’s a strange kind of understanding. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks between you and Auston, his expression unreadable. You can tell he’s trying to process it, trying to figure out how to navigate the situation.

"Shit," Matthew mutters, his voice barely above a whisper as he looks down at the floor. It’s clear the reality of what you just said is sinking in. “I um.. should leave you guys to it.” He mumbles - taking a step back before hesitating. 

Auston finally speaks, his voice low, almost mechanical. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.” he says, the words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. You want to say something, anything, but all you can do is stand there, rooted in place, waiting for Auston’s response. Matthew looks at you one last time, his gaze softening with a quiet sympathy, before turning away, giving you both space to process.

“Are you sure?” Auston questions, your hands automatically digging into your purse pulling out the stack of tests in the ziplock bag, handing them over so Auston can take his turn to examine them. “Pretty sure - I guess we won’t fully know until I see the doctor but I think it’s pretty likely.” You let Auston take his time, letting everything sink in as you stand there awkwardly, arms crossing over your chest any kind of protection better then standing out in the open like this. 

“I know this is a lot to take in but we need to talk about what were both expecting in the situation.” You say, trying to stay as calm as you can as you watch the seven stages of grief flicker of Auston’s face. 

“I… I can’t—” Auston’s words get stuck in the back of his throat as he hands the tests back to you, running his hands over his face as he shakes his head. “I don’t have time for this.” He says softly, the words slapping you across the face. Your breath catches in your throat, the sting of his words hitting you harder than you expected. You don’t know what response you were hoping for, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Auston runs a hand through his hair, his frustration evident in the tense lines of his jaw, the way his shoulders seem to draw in on themselves. He looks like he wants to say more, but instead, he just exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear a thought before it takes root. Your fingers tighten around the plastic bag in your hands, the crinkle of it impossibly loud in the silence between you. The weight of his words settles in your stomach like lead.

“You don’t have time for this?” you echo, your voice eerily calm, but inside, everything feels like it’s unraveling.

He doesn’t respond immediately, just presses his lips together in a thin line before turning his gaze away from you, as if looking at you directly is too much.

“You had time to fuck me,” you say, the bitterness in your tone undeniable, your hands trembling at your sides, “and look where that got us.” Auston flinches, just barely, but you see it. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, like he wants to say something—something other than what he just did—but he doesn’t. He stays rooted to the spot, silent, frozen in place like this is some nightmare he’s trying to wake up from. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the hurt bubbling beneath your skin threatening to spill over, but you force yourself to take a breath.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts, but you shake your head, cutting him off before he can attempt to backtrack.

“No, you did,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “You meant every word.”

Silence stretches between you like an abyss, and for the first time since you stepped into the arena, you realize just how cold it really is. The chill bites at your exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the ice settling deep in your bones.

Auston drags a hand down his face, sighing deeply, before finally looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something flickering behind his eyes, something you can’t quite decipher.

“I just—” He exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

You stare at him, trying to swallow down the lump forming in your throat. “I expect you to act like a goddamn adult,” you snap. “I expect you to acknowledge that this is happening instead of pretending like you can just ignore it.”

His jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring as he takes a step back, like he needs the distance between you to think clearly. “This was never supposed to happen,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but you hear it anyway, and it sets something off inside you.

“Oh, really? Because I totally planned this,” you bite out, sarcasm lacing your words. “I thought, ‘hey, you know what would make my life really great? Getting pregnant by a guy who can’t even be bothered to have a conversation about it.’”

His eyes snap to yours, anger flickering beneath the surface, but you don’t back down. If he wants to be mad, fine. You can be mad too.

“This isn’t just about you, Auston,” you continue, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “You don’t get to decide that you ‘don’t have time for this’ just because it’s inconvenient for you. Because guess what? It’s not exactly convenient for me either.”

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in the wall he’s been trying so hard to keep up. His lips part, but whatever he was going to say never makes it out, because before he can, Matthew’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Everything okay out here?” You both turn to see him standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his broad chest, an unreadable expression on his face. You don’t know how much he heard, but from the way his eyes flick between you and Auston, you’d guess it was enough.

Auston exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck before muttering, “Dude, this doesn’t have anything to do with you.” Matthew rolls his eyes at his captains words, turning his gaze to you as you let out what feels like your millionth sigh of the day. 

“It’s fine, Matty.” Matthew doesn’t look convinced. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer, like he’s waiting for you to say something more, to confirm or deny whatever he’s thinking. But you don’t. You’re too exhausted to even attempt to explain.

Auston steps back, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his eyes avoiding yours. “I need time to think,” he mutters.

A dry, humourless laugh escapes you. “Take all the time you need, Auston. But this isn’t going away.” You turn on your heel before he can respond, before he can say something else that might break you even further, and walk away without looking back.

Matthew falls into step beside you, quiet for a few beats before finally speaking. “Where are we going?” You nod quickly to the security guard as you stomp your way over to your car, finally turning to face Matthew as you reach the hunk of metal. 

“We aren’t going anywhere.” You say quickly, letting out a shaky breath as swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m going home to book a doctors appointment and then I’m going to crawl into bed and try to pretend like none of this has happened, while that goddamn oaf takes his time pulling his big boy pants on.” You hiss, Matthew’s small smile returning at the fire in your eyes, his arms circling around you and tugging you in for a tight hug, his chin finding a spot of the top of your head as he hands stroke up and down your back. 

“It’s okay to be upset.” He whispers, his soft smile sitting on his face as your body crumbles against his, soft soothing words falling out of his mouth as you let out a choked sob. “You’re going to be okay - if he’s not going to be here, then I will.” Matthew whispers as he presses a soft kiss against your hair. 

Matthew lets you cry for what feels like eternity before he tucks you into the passenger seat of your own car, his large body sliding into the drivers side as he taps your address into the GPS. “You really don’t have to drive me home.” You says softly, your cheeks still red and eyes swollen from you tears. 

Matthew looks at you with a raise of his eyebrows before backing out of the parking spot, his hand finding your knee as he gives it a quick squeeze. “I don’t have to.” He agrees, “But I want to — who else is going to take care of you.” He hums, his hand squeezing your leg one more time before retreating back to his own lap - letting you spend the drive staring out the window, your phone buzzing in your bag constantly as you ignore call after call from Auston. 

+

+

Auston knows he said all the wrong things. 

Auston knows that it’s boyfriend 101 to support your girlfriend in her time of need - to give up your own panic to make sure she doesn’t have any. 

But Auston isn’t your boyfriend and his panic had settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he watched you walk away from him. He should go after you. He knows that. But his feet feel like they’ve been cemented to the ground, weighted down by the things he didn’t say. The things he should have said. Auston runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he glances toward the door you disappeared through. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a staccato of regret and frustration.

He replays the conversation in his head, the sharp edges of his words cutting deeper now that you’re gone. He hadn’t meant to be cruel. He hadn’t meant to push you away. But he did—just like he always does. And now? Now, he’s stuck in the aftermath, watching the space you left behind like it might somehow tell him how to fix this.

The panic is still there, simmering under his skin, curling in his stomach. He’s never been good at this—at knowing what to say, at making things right before they go so horribly wrong.

But he can’t let this be it.

So Auston moves.

His legs feel heavy, his pulse unsteady, but he moves. Through the door, down the hallway, searching for you like he’s scared you might slip through his fingers entirely if he doesn’t find you now.

Because maybe you’re not his to lose.

And maybe this baby is what you both need to realise how much you need each other. 

Baby. 

You were going to have a baby — his baby. 

Auston pauses his searching, leaning over to brace his hands on his knees as he lets out a groan - the bile raising in the back of throat as one of his teammates comes up behind him to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you’re not looking too good, cap.” Mitch’s voice was unmistakable as Auston lets out another groan. 

“I need to go.” He says quickly, shaking off Mitch’s hand as he pats his pockets, his keys tucked deeply into one and his phone in the other. Auston ignores Mitch’s protests as he taps on the screen of his phone pressing it to his ear as he waits for the rings to turn into your soft voice. 

It never does. 

Auston rings again. 

And again.

And again. 

Nothing. 

Auston knows he should give you space — let you breathe like you were going to let him. 

But this can’t be how he lets you walk away. 

+

+

“Matthew I seriously think this is too much food.” You coo as you look at the bags of take out he stacks on your kitchen counter - his eyes lighting up with joy at the sight of the food.  

“No such thing.” He frowns, pulling each item out of its bag before laying it out on the counter and taking stock of his order, “And besides what if there’s something that makes you feel sick? Or something you can’t eat? I really should’ve checked what pregnant people are allowed to eat before ordering.” He sighs, the amount of food suddenly overwhelming as you roll your eyes tucking your throw blanket tighter around yourself as you shuffle back over to the couch, flopping on the plush seat as your T.V continues to play the fantastic reality show Matthew had insisted you watch. 

“I’ll take the cheese pizza.” You interrupt Matthew’s spiralling as he looks at the google search results for ‘what do pregnant people need to avoid?’ Matthew nods sliding a few pieces on a plate before delivering it over to you on the couch taking his own seat with the remaining slices on his lap. 

Auston’s words echo in your mind, a relentless loop of his dismissal, his coldness, his inability to understand. The ache inside you hasn’t dulled since that moment, and with every bite of pizza, you can feel it growing, gnawing at your insides. Matthew’s presence is a comforting balm for your soul, but the emptiness left by Auston’s rejection is harder to shake.

Matthew’s quiet chuckles bring you back to the present as he teases you about the reality show, his laughter light and easy, a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling in your chest. You force a smile, trying to match his easygoing mood, but it feels thin, like a flimsy mask over the raw hurt still festering inside.

"Hey, you really don’t have to hang out with me because you feel bad,” you joke weakly, taking another bite of pizza to drown out the thoughts that are threatening to spill over. But Matthew doesn’t seem fooled by the attempt. His eyes soften, and his hand, resting on the arm of the couch, inches closer to yours, the warmth of his touch offering some measure of comfort, even though it’s not the touch you really need.

“Who said I was here cause I feel bad?”  he says with a teasing smile, but his voice has a certain gentleness to it that tells you he’s more concerned than he lets on. “Maybe this is me finally taking my chance to put a wedge between you and Auston so I can have you all to myself.” Matthew chuckles at his own words and you nod silently, grateful for his lightheartedness, but your mind drifts back to Auston again. His absence, his words—everything feels so wrong. If you could just speak to him, explain how much this meant to you, how much it hurt when he brushed you aside so easily, maybe you could find some kind of resolution. But every time you think about facing him, the thought of his indifference fills you with dread.

A soft beep from your phone interrupts the silence, and you glance at it. Another call from Auston. The number of missed calls from him is starting to pile up, each one a reminder of how far apart you both are now. You stare at the screen for a long moment, debating whether to pick up or not. You know that every conversation with him right now will only hurt more, but there’s this part of you, deep down, that still wants to hear his voice, to feel like there’s a chance of reconciliation.

Before you can make a decision, Matthew speaks again, his voice more serious this time. "You know he’s not giving up on you, right?" You don’t have the energy to respond right away, so you just look at Matthew, his expression soft but determined. He’s been your rock through this, always there when you needed someone.

"I’m not trying to start something," Matthew continues, "but I just want to make sure you’re okay. If you want to answer him, then do it. But don't let him off the hook too easily. You deserve more than what he gave you earlier." You know he’s right. But still, a part of you wants to believe that Auston could change, that he could find the right words to make it better, to make you feel like everything’s going to be okay. The other part of you wants to slam the door shut, leave him in the past, and never look back.

"How do you always know what to say?" you ask softly, unable to hold back a tired laugh. Matthew shrugs, his smile small but genuine.

"I guess I just know you." His words are simple, but they’re enough to make the tension in your chest loosen, just a little.

You exhale slowly, sinking deeper into the couch as the TV drones on in the background. Matthew’s words linger in the air, and for the first time today, you let yourself feel a bit of peace. Maybe it’s not the peace you were hoping for, the one that comes with Auston’s apology, but for now, it’s enough.

The next few hours pass in a blur of television and food, and though you still feel the weight of Auston’s absence, it’s easier to breathe. You don’t have to solve everything in a single night. You don’t have to be strong all the time.

When Matthew finally leaves, after a quiet conversation and a long hug, you feel the solitude of your apartment settle around you like a thick blanket. The house is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. You place your dishes in the sink as the loud knock sounds through your apartment, your head tilting at the sound as you glance at the clock on your microwave. 

2am. 

Who on earth would be knocking on your door at two in the morning? Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the evening still pressing down on you. When you reach the door, you hesitate, fingers hovering over the handle. Your phone is still on the couch, too far to grab quickly if you need it, but something deep in your gut tells you exactly who is on the other side.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, before unlocking the door and pulling it open just enough to see who it is.

Auston.

He’s standing there, his dark hoodie pulled over his head, his face cast in shadows from the dim lighting in the hallway. His eyes are wild, desperate, and for the first time tonight, he looks as broken as you feel.

“You’re ignoring my calls.” His voice is rough, uneven, like he’s been running or like he’s spent the last few hours drowning in his own thoughts.

You cross your arms over your chest, gripping the fabric of your sweatshirt tightly. “Figured that was the point, since you ‘don’t have time for this.’” The bitterness in your voice is unmistakable, and Auston flinches like you physically struck him.

“I didn’t mean that.” He steps closer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he’s trying to ground himself. “I didn’t mean any of it.”

You let out a breath, exhaustion weighing heavy in your bones. “Then why did you say it?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks away, staring at the floor like it holds the answers he’s searching for. “Because I was scared,” he admits, voice raw. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I didn’t know how to handle it, and I reacted the only way I know how—to push people away before they can leave me first.”

His words crack something inside you, but you force yourself to stand firm. “I wasn’t going to leave you, Auston. I told you because I thought—” Your voice wavers, the pain seeping through. “I thought maybe we could figure this out together.”

“I want to,” he says quickly, stepping forward again, his hands twitching like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. “I know I don’t deserve another chance after what I said, but I need you to know I don’t want to run from this. I don’t want to run from you.”

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head, trying to process everything. “You don’t get to just show up in the middle of the night and expect everything to be okay.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know, and I don’t expect that. I just—” He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just need you to know that I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence between you stretches, heavy and uncertain. You want to believe him, you do, but the wounds are still fresh, still aching.

After a long moment, you sigh, stepping back just enough to widen the door. “Come in.”

Auston’s eyes snap up to meet yours, surprised, hopeful. He hesitates only a second before stepping inside, his presence filling the space as you shut the door behind him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next, and you sigh, moving past him toward the kitchen.

“Do you want some tea?” you ask, your voice softer now, less sharp around the edges.

Auston nods, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

As you move around the kitchen, boiling water and pulling down mugs, you feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting. You’re not sure where this leaves you, if you can forgive him or if things will ever be the same again. But for now, at least, he’s here.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s a start.

He shifts, exhaling slowly. “How are you feeling?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the handle of the kettle. The question is simple, but the answer is anything but. Finally, you sigh. “Tired. Confused.” You glance at him. “Still angry.”

He nods, absorbing your words like they’re a verdict he already expected. “I get that. I deserve that.” You pour the hot water into the mugs, watching the tea steep, the swirling colours mirroring your tangled emotions. 

“I don’t know what happens next, Auston.” You brace against the counter, your shoulders dropping forwards as your hair falls into your face. You take a deep breath before rolling your shoulders back and continuing to make the tea - dumping the tea bags in the garbage before carrying the mugs over to the coffee table, calming your seat on the edge of the couch as Auston moves to join you. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” You whisper before taking a long sip of your tea, willing the hot liquid to burn away all the anxiety bubbling in your chest. 

“It wasn’t.” Auston agrees as he makes himself comfortable on your couch, his eyes tracking each of your movements as he sips his tea. “But it is and we need to think about all our options.” He adds, his lips tipping up at the corners as you snort into your cup, sending an amused glance his way. 

“What options do we have, Auston?” You start off with a small chuckle but the expression on his face makes you pause, a shocked gasp leaving you. “You want to get rid of it?” You slowly leans forwards to place you mug on the table, your brows furrowing as you stare down the man next to you, his eyes widening as he shakes his head. 

“I’m not saying that what I want, I’m just saying it’s an option if that’s what you wanted.” He explains, throwing his hands up in defence, “This is your choice, whatever you want to do is what we’ll do.”You stare at Auston, searching his face for any hint of deception, any sign that he’s saying what he thinks you want to hear rather than the truth. His eyes remain locked onto yours, unwavering, and there’s something about the raw honesty in his gaze that makes your breath hitch.

“Do you mean that?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight behind your words is undeniable.

“Every word,” Auston replies immediately, his voice rough with emotion. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt you, and I might not deserve another chance, but I swear to you, I’m here. For you. For—” He stops short, your body moving quickly as you lean forward—your hands pulling his face toward you as you latch your lips to his. The kiss is feverish, fuelled by anger, longing, and desperation, your hands tangling into his hair as he lets out a muffled groan against your lips. His hands twitch against your waist, hesitant, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you yet.

You answer for him by swinging a leg over his lap, settling atop him as your mouths continue to move in frantic unison. Auston gasps against your lips, his grip tightening around your waist as he finally allows himself to touch you, fingers pressing into the curve of your hips. You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself back, afraid of pushing too far, too fast. But you don’t want him to hold back—not tonight.

You grind down against him, slowly at first, testing, teasing, feeling the way his breath stutters as his fingers dig in harder, a strangled groan slipping past his lips. His head falls back against the couch, and you take the opportunity to kiss down his jaw, your lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of his neck. He curses softly, his grip tightening as he bucks up instinctively, seeking more of your warmth, your touch, your everything.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice strained, his hands sliding up your sides before stopping just beneath the hem of your shirt, his thumbs brushing against the soft skin there. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His desperation is palpable, and it makes something heady and powerful coil in your stomach. You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze, watching the way his pupils are blown wide with want. His lips are kiss-swollen, his breathing ragged, and you feel the thrill of knowing you did that to him, that despite everything, he still wants you—needs you. You roll your hips against him again, and his head drops forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as another rough groan leaves his lips. “You’re killing me,” he mutters, voice thick with need.

For a moment, you revel in the way he’s unraveling beneath you, in the way he’s clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. But then, just as quickly as the fire ignited, reality crashes down around you.

“We should stop.” You whisper, looking into his eyes with a sheepish smile, “This is what got us into this mess in the first place.” You let out a soft laugh as you slide off his lap, not noticing the way Auston’s body chases after yours, rising to his feet as you rise to yours. 

“Do you think I could stay tonight?” He asks slowly, your head immediately nodding, “No funny business.” He promises, his lips spreading into another grin as he leans down at captures your lips one more time, slow and steady, his hands reaching up to brush your hair away from your neck. “Sorry, I just needed one more.” 

+

+

The cramping starts as a dull ache, a whisper of discomfort that you initially brush off. You’re curled up on the couch, Matthew beside you, flipping through channels aimlessly. It’s been two weeks since Auston showed up at your door, two weeks of tentative peace, of whispered reassurances and hesitant touches that still carried the weight of his fear and your uncertainty.

It’s not perfect, not even close. But it’s something.

Then the ache sharpens.

You shift, sucking in a slow breath, a hand instinctively pressing against your lower stomach. Matthew glances over from his spot on the couch, his phone in front of his face as he watches a movie through TikTok, catching the movement. “You okay?” he asks, brows drawing together.

You nod, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, just...cramps, I think.”

Matthew frowns, eyes flicking down to your stomach. “Is that normal?” You open your mouth to answer, to dismiss his concern, but the pain lances through you then, sudden and sharp, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers clutch the fabric of your sweater, your body curling in on itself as a strangled gasp escapes you.

Matthew’s already moving. “Hey, hey,” he says, shifting closer, his hand landing gently on your back. “Talk to me.” You try, but another wave of pain crashes into you, and this time, it’s accompanied by a terrifying warmth between your legs. You look down, breath hitching as you see it—the small dot of stark crimson staining your sweatpants. 

A sob rips from your throat. “Matty something’s wrong.”

Matthew follows your gaze, and his entire body goes rigid. “Shit,” he breathes. Then, more forcefully, “Shit, okay, we need to go. Come on.”

He doesn’t hesitate, you teeth trapping your lip at the panic that sinks in. Your doctor had said that a bit of spotting was normal, but this felt wrong. 

Everything felt wrong. 

 Matthew is scooping you into his arms before you can protest, his grip firm but gentle, his voice steady despite the panic flickering behind his eyes. You cling to him, the pain rolling through you in unbearable waves, fear clawing at your throat.

“Auston,” you whisper weakly. “We need to—”

Matthew’s jaw clenches as he carries you to his car. “I called him earlier. I think he’s still at practice. I’ll get you to the hospital first, then I’ll call again.”

The drive is a blur of pain and fear and Matthew’s voice grounding you through it all - his hand steady on your thigh as he drives your through town like a goddamn maniac. 

“Matthew I know this is probably an emergency, but if you could get me to the hospital alive that would be great.” You hiss, your hand gripping his wrist as he swerves between the traffic a cacophony of honks following behind him.

By the time you get to the ER, your world is a haze of fluorescent lights and Matthew’s warm hands pressed against your back as he walks you into the ER, his voice low as he whispers to the nurse at the front desk. “Hi, my friend here might be having a miscarriage.” The nurse glances at him blankly as she types on her computer nodding slowly. 

“And what are your symptoms?” She questions, just as you curl into yourself again the cramping making you let out a frustrated groan. 

“She started cramping really bad and the bleeding was slow at first but it seems to be speeding up.” Matthew notes for you, his jacket tied around your waist the hide the dark red stain on the back of your pants. 

“Sir if you could let her answer the questions, that would be great.” The nurses replies, not noticing the way Matthew rolls his eyes, his brows furrowing into a frown. 

“What he said, please it really hurts.” You hiss, standing up remotely straight as Matthew rubs soft circles against your back. 

“Okay, if you don’t mind taking a seat a nurse will come get you once there is availability.” She says shooting you a surprisingly soft smile, the empathy written across her face as you nod, moving towards the waiting room before Matthew stops you, his hand holding you steady in front of him as he leans closer to the nurse. 

“Did you not hear a word we said?” He snaps, “She’s in a lot of pain and is bleeding - she thinks she’s having a goddamn miscarriage and you asking her to take a seat.” He lets out a laugh of disbelief as the words tumble from his mouth, his head shaking as he looks down at the nurse one more time. “Find her space and a doctor.” 

The nurse huffs at his firm words, rolling her eyes as she stands from her chair, her eyes shooting down to your pants as she glances over the desk, her eyes widening a little as she glances up at you. “Hold on, baby we’re getting help.” Matthew whispers pressing a soft kiss to your hair as you lean against him. You hear Matthew arguing with the nurse, demanding they hurry, that you’re bleeding too much, that something isn’t right. His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained panic.

You barely remember getting whisked out the back, Matthew keeping your hand tightly grasped in his as the nurses work around you - the doctor placing the ultrasound probe on your stomach, before shooting the nurse a small grimace. 

“How far along are we?” The doctor asks softly. 

“13 weeks, I think.” 

“Okay, we’re just going to run a few test - it’s best if you rest for now.” The doctor says carefully, ushering Matthew out of the room with a nod of his head. 

“I’ll be right back, don’t close your eyes for too long.” He mumbles, lifting your hand to press a featherlight kiss against your knuckles before following the doctor out of the room. 

Matthew should know better than to expect you to listen. 

+

+

You wake to a dull, hollow ache. The weight of an IV in your arm. The sterile scent of antiseptic and too-clean sheets. Your head feels foggy, your limbs heavy. For a moment, you forget why you’re here.

And then you remember.

The baby. 

The blood. 

The pain.

Your throat tightens as you glance around the room, sitting up quickly in your bed to take in your surroundings a little more. There’s movement beside you. A hand slipping into yours. 

Warm, solid, grounding.

Matthew.

 You turn your head slowly, blinking through the haze of grief and pain. He’s sitting in a chair beside your bed, his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced through yours like he’s afraid to let go. His eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. He looks wrecked.

“The baby?” You know you shouldn’t bother asking - the doctors face was enough to go by, but you can’t help yourself - the sadistic part needing to hear someone say it out loud before you can let it sink deeper into the pit of your stomach. Matthew doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head slowly. 

“They, um— The doctor said they’ve got the bleeding under control but they’re worried about more internal issues so they want to keep you for observation. “Matthew starts to explain slowly - “They think the pregnancy was something called an ectopic pregnancy and the baby wasn’t viable.” Matthew repeats the words just as you assumed to doctor had told them to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice raw. “I should’ve made them speak to you but they thought I was the—”

“You were here,” you whisper, squeezing his hand weakly. “That’s all that matters.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and for a long moment, neither of you speak. The weight of the loss sits heavy between you, a silent, unbearable thing.

Then, the door swings open.

Auston.

His eyes find yours instantly, widening with something akin to panic as he steps into the room. “Jesus,” he breathes. “I came as soon as I—”

He stops short when he sees Matthew’s hand in yours.

Matthew doesn’t move.

 Doesn’t let go.

Auston’s gaze darkens. “Can we talk?”

Matthew rises slowly, but he doesn’t step away. His stance is protective, shoulders squared. “Now you want to talk?” His voice is dangerously calm. “Where the fuck were you? You were just supposed to be back from practice hours ago.”

Auston’s jaw tightens. “I had a thing,  I didn’t—”

“You didn’t pick up.” Matthew’s voice sharpens, the tension in the room coiling tight. “I called. I left messages. She was bleeding out in my fucking car, Auston.”

“Matthew.” You whisper quietly, giving his hand a squeeze to try and reign in his frustrations. 

Auston’s face pales, his gaze flicking to you, filled with something unreadable. “I didn’t know—”

“That’s the problem,” Matthew cuts in, stepping closer. “You should have been with her in the first place.”

Auston bristles, stepping forward to meet him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I wanted this to happen?”

“I think,” Matthew says, voice deadly quiet, “that she needed you, and you weren’t there, again.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Auston’s fists clench at his sides, his breathing ragged. He looks at you, at the tears slipping silently down your cheeks, at the devastation etched into every inch of your face. And something in him breaks.

“I fucked up,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “I know I did.”

Matthew scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s the understatement of the fucking century.” Auston ignores him. He steps closer to you, hesitating before reaching for your hand, but you don’t move. You don’t know if you can.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You swallow thickly, your heart aching with the weight of it all. “You shouldn’t be sorry - it’s not your fault.” You can feel Matthew’s hand squeeze against your again, the anger rolling off him in waves. 

Auston flinches like you physically struck him. “I know, but he’s right, I should’ve come home straight after practice.” Matthew watches you carefully, his expression unreadable, but his hand gripping yours, ready to catch you if you fall.

The silence stretches between the three of you, thick and suffocating. Auston is still staring at you, his eyes dark with regret, with guilt, with something you don’t have the energy to decipher.

Matthew’s thumb strokes slow, reassuring circles on the back of your hand, the warmth of his skin grounding you, keeping you tethered to something tangible when everything else feels like it’s unraveling.

“I fucked up.” Auston says again, softer this time. 

Matthew scoffs beside you, shifting on his feet, his fingers tightening around yours. “No shit.”

Auston’s gaze flicks toward him, sharp with frustration. “I know you’re pissed—”

“Pissed doesn’t even fucking cover it,” Matthew snaps, his voice low but brimming with anger. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Do you know how fucking scared she was?”

Auston flinches, his shoulders stiffening. “I—”

“She was crying in the car, in so much pain she could barely breathe,” Matthew barrels on, voice shaking now. “And you didn’t answer your fucking phone. I had to sit in that waiting room, not knowing if she was gonna be okay, if she—” His voice catches, and he stops, dragging a hand over his face. “And where the fuck were you, Auston?”

You exhale shakily, your free hand pressing against your stomach. There’s nothing left inside you but hollow, aching loss. “Matt,” you murmur, tugging his hand gently.

His eyes snap down to you immediately, the fury in them softening the second he sees your face. His thumb brushes over your knuckles again, soothing in a way that makes something shift in your chest. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice quieter now, gentler. “I just—” He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “It’s not my place.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Matthew had been here. Every step of the way. Holding you together, keeping you steady while your world cracked apart at the seams.

You shift slightly, wincing as the movement sends a dull ache through your abdomen. Matthew notices instantly, his free hand coming up to adjust your pillows, supporting you without a second thought. Auston watches, his expression carefully blank.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I think I just need to rest.”

Matthew nods, stepping back slightly but not letting go of your hand. Auston, however, hesitates, looking like he wants to say something, do something—fix something that can’t be fixed.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he finally says, his voice strained. “If you—if you want me to.”

You don’t know how to answer that. You nod faintly, looking away, and Auston takes that as his cue to leave. The door clicks softly shut behind him, leaving you alone with Matthew in the dim, sterile quiet of the hospital room.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The weight of everything lingers in the air between you.

Matthew sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You should get some sleep.”

You nod, but your grip on his hand tightens slightly. “Stay?”

His eyes soften. “Yeah. Of course.” He doesn’t even hesitate. He just lowers the railing on the side of the hospital bed and carefully, gently, climbs in beside you, manoeuvring around the wires and IV with practiced ease. His arms come around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his body a steady, solid warmth against yours. You exhale slowly, your body relaxing for the first time in hours.

Matthew presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I got you,” he murmurs.

And for the first time all night, you believe it.

+

+

The first two weeks after leaving the hospital had been torture — Auston has come back once the next day, sitting silently in the corner of the room when Matthew went to get lunch, only moving to grab something you needed, but for the most part he just sat, and watched. 

He said nothing, his had used up all the apologies he could give, he knew pushing would make things worse so he just said nothing — waiting for you to give him the time you thought he deserved. 

He was there when you were discharged, walking you into your apartment and sitting by your kitchen counter until Matthew came to keep you company, silently slipping out of your house without a word - his tiredness showing more then it ever had before. 

It had been two weeks since you had seen him last. 

The weight of Matthew’s presence beside you is comforting, a steady anchor in the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. His arm remains slung across the back of the couch, his knee brushing against yours as the TV drones on in the background. You should be paying attention, should be letting the ridiculous antics of reality show contestants pull you into distraction, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

On Auston.

On what you’ve lost.

And on the way Matthew’s presence, solid and unwavering, should be enough to make you feel whole again—but it isn’t — it’s making you miss the brown eyed hockey player even more then you ever thought possible.

You shift slightly, turning your head to find Matthew already watching you, his blue eyes softer than usual, filled with something you don’t quite have the courage to name. His gaze flickers down to your lips for a split second before he quickly looks away, clearing his throat.

“Have you heard from him?” 

“Not really — he’s been calling to check in but I haven’t really answered. You say sheepishly, Matthew nodding slowly, his hands loosening on his phone as he places it besides him, turning his body more towards you. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks, his voice quiet but insistent.

You swallow, shaking your head. “Not really.” He studies you for a moment, then nods, like he understands. He always understands.

“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting closer, the warmth of his body radiating against yours. “Then we won’t talk.”

You don’t know who moves first, whether it’s him or you. 

You’re pretty sure it’s you. 

But suddenly, the space between you disappears, his hand finding your cheek as he tilts your face toward his. His breath fans against your lips, warm and familiar, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself lean into it.

His lips meet yours softly at first, tentative, as if giving you space to pull away. When you don’t, he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair as he shifts, his body pressing against yours in a way that feels undeniably right.

But as quickly as the warmth spreads through you, it dissipates, cold realisation creeping in like a slow-moving fog.

It doesn’t feel the same.

You pull back sharply, breathless, your heart hammering against your ribs. Matthew’s brow furrows, his expression shifting from dazed to concerned in an instant.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

“I started it.” You shake your head, as you slip away from him, any explanation failing you. 

Because how do you explain that the kiss was nice—good, even—but it wasn’t Auston? That no matter how much you want to move forward, and how much you hate feeling like you’re leading Matthew on, your heart is still tethered to someone else?

“I—I need to go,” you murmur, scrambling to your feet.

Matthew blinks, his concern deepening as he watches you gather your things with shaking hands. “Wait, hold on—”

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, voice thick with emotion as you back toward the door. “I just— I have to go.”

Matthew stands, his hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he should. “Where?” He asks the question, but you can see in his face that he already knows the answer, the tension in his body growing as he follows you to your front door. 

You hesitate, biting your lip before confirming, “Auston’s.”

His face tightens for a split second before he nods, the fight leaving his posture. “Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know, Matty.” You breathe, taking a few steps forwards to push up on your tippy toes as press a soft kiss against his cheek, “Please don’t hate me.”

Matthew closes his eyes for a moment, taking in a long, deep breaths before nodding softly, the acceptance of the situation washing over him - “Drive safe.” He says. 

You nod, offering him one last fleeting look before slipping out the door and into the night. The what could have been slipping into the night with you - the possibility of everything Matthew could’ve offered you left behind in your apartment. 

The drive to Auston’s is a blur, your hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that your knuckles ache. Every thought, every fear, every unresolved emotion crashes into you all at once, leaving you breathless. By the time you pull up outside his house, the reality of what you’re doing starts to sink in.

It’s late.

You shouldn’t be here.

And yet, you find yourself stepping out of the car, the chilled night air biting at your skin. Each step feels heavier than the last as you approach his front door, your pulse pounding in your ears. You knock once, twice, before the door swings open, revealing a very surprised and very exhausted-looking Auston.

His hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his hoodie is slightly rumpled, as if he’s been pacing the house for hours. His brown eyes widen when he sees you, and for a moment, he just stares, like he’s not sure if you’re real.

“Hey,” he finally says, voice hoarse, rough like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

“Hey,” you breathe out, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. He steps aside, wordlessly inviting you in. The silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things left unsaid. You walk past him, the scent of him—clean laundry and something distinctly Auston—wrapping around you like a cruel reminder of everything you’ve been trying to forget.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” he says after a beat, his voice careful, measured.

You turn to face him, hugging your arms around yourself. “I know.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks away, exhaling sharply. “Is it because of him?”

Your stomach twists. “It’s not about Matthew.”

Auston lets out a hollow laugh, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that makes your breath catch. “Really? Because it sure as hell seems like it.”

“Auston—” He steps forward, his hands clenching at his sides. 

“I saw the way he looks at you. I know what he wants. And now you’re here, after ignoring me for days—what am I supposed to think?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “That I’m here because I want to be with you.”

He flinches slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Then why does it feel like you’re here to break up with me?”

Your breath catches, anger flickering across your face. “It’s kind of hard to break up with someone you aren’t even dating.” You snap, running your hands through your hair as the words you had said only a few weeks ago ring into the silent room, your shoulder’s slumping forwards as you lock your eyes with Auston’s.  

“I kissed Matthew.” You say softly, waiting for Auston’s spit fire words to slice through your but all the leaves him is an empty laugh. 

“Of course you did — so you are breaking up with me?” He spits out, his arms crossing against his chest as his eyes soften the tiredness pulling you apart. 

“It didn’t feel right.” 

“What didn’t?” 

“The kiss.” You explain, “It didn’t feel right because it wasn’t with you.” You watch as Auston’s eyebrows raise, the disbelief clear in his body language mimicking the hundreds of emotions flashing over his face, his arms falling from their tense posture to dangle by his sides. 

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Then, softer this time, Auston murmurs, “I don’t know what to do.”  “I’ve never wanted to hold onto something this tight before and I’m so scared I’m going to lose you cause I didn’t realise how much I needed you until now.”

You take a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you. “You’re not losing me, Auston,” you step forwards keeping his eyes locked with yours as you continue. “But I can’t stay if you’re not going to let me in.” 

His eyes search yours, desperate and uncertain. “Promise me.” He pauses, “Promise me you’ll stay, and you can have every part of me — everything is yours to keep.”

You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “I promise.”

Auston exhales, like he’s finally letting go of the weight he’s been carrying. And when he pulls you against him, holding you close like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers, you let him—because, for once, you both need this.

[smdnai]

kayladeidra on tiktok

[smdnai]

Missing the Stache sm rn 😔

Collection time!

[smdnai]

February 11, 2025 | 📸: Minas Panagiotakis

[smdnai]

BARKING he’s the definition of dilf 😵‍💫😵‍💫

thinking about how sid would short circuit if his younger gf called him daddy. shed do it as a joke, maybe he tells her to throw on a sweatshirt when shes leaving bc its cold and shes like okay daddy. he stands there dumbfounded.

sidney is waiting by the door, keys in hand, when he glances over at you, still standing by the coat rack, jacket untouched.

"you gonna grab that, or are you planning on freezing to death?" he teases, nodding toward the jacket. "throw it on, we’re gonna be late."

without thinking, without hesitation, you shoot back, "okay, daddy."

silence.

absolute, deafening silence.

when you look up, sidney is frozen, one foot halfway in front of the other, mouth slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. his grip on the keys tightens, knuckles going white. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he just saw a ghost.

slowly, you raise an eyebrow. "you good?"

he blinks once. Twice. "did you just—"

"what?" you ask, playing innocent, even as a grin tugs at your lips.

"you know what," he says, voice slightly rougher than before, like he’s still computing what just happened. "don't— don’t say stuff like that."

"why not?" you tilt your head, biting back a laugh. "does it make you feel old?"

he scoffs, finally regaining some of his composure, though the tips of his ears betray him—faintly pink, standing out against his skin. "no. just— just get your jacket on."

but when you step closer, resting a hand on his chest, you can feel the way his heart is pounding beneath your palm.

"you're blushing."

"i'm not."

"you so are."

he exhales sharply, tilting his head back as if searching for patience from the ceiling. then, before you can get another word in, he’s tugging your jacket off the hook himself and helping you into it—forcefully, like he needs to regain some sense of control.

"there. now let’s go. before you start saying things that are gonna ruin me."

you laugh, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping outside. sidney follows, still slightly dazed, still gripping his keys too tightly, and definitely, definitely thinking about that for the rest of the night.

[smdnai]

Congrats 🫶🙂‍↕️ best writer on here 💓💓

one for the fkn history books

literally ama. get to know me. all ONE THOUSAND of you!

[smdnai]

I need him in me rn 😭😭

yeah kells is absolutely the type to have like 3 kids under 4 just bc he cant keep off his wife and that’s the type of shit that fans r like “clayton get OFF OF HER DAMN!!!!” but nah he’s having 6. full keller hockey team. but like if u have twins he’s lowkey disappointed bc thats one less time he gets to knock u up. i need him so bad

content warning for light breeding stuff and non-explicit sex

they’re calling you a “baby factory” again.

clayton just laughs when he sees the headlines, scrolling through twitter with one arm around your shoulders, the other hand bouncing your four-month-old daughter on his knee. her chubby fist is stuffed in her mouth, drool pooling on his sleeve, but he doesn’t care. he’s too busy grinning at some meme of himself photoshopped onto a construction worker, hard hat labeled “fertilization department.”

— another one, kells? — bro get off her damn 😭 — this man is trying to build his own full-ass hockey line

he loves it. absolutely eats it up.

"they act like i’m not being responsible," he snickers, turning his phone for you to see. "like, i provide for my family. my kids are taken care of. i just happen to enjoy putting them in you."

you groan, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. "jesus christ."

he drops a kiss to your hair, smug as ever. "what? it’s true."

"clayton, get off her, damn!"

the tweet was plastered all over your timeline before you even had the chance to announce baby number four yourself. the comments were just as bad. — learn to pull out. PLEASE. — my guy, let her breathe. — another one???? again????

another one. yeah. again.

your hand rested over the barely-there swell of your stomach, rolling your lips together to fight the smile threatening to spread across your face. because, yeah, it was crazy. you already had three kids under four, and now here you were, pregnant again, just seven months after your last. but was it really your fault? not when your husband looked at you like that, not when his hands were always on you, not when every time you weren’t pregnant, clayton was on a goddamn mission to fix it.

he saw the post over your shoulder, arms sliding around your waist as he nuzzled into your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“they act like i don’t want six.”

you snorted, shaking your head. “clay—”

“no, really.” his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, his hands splaying over your belly. “three down. three to go.”

your body shivered at the way he said it, warm, possessive, already thinking about the next one before this one was even halfway cooked.

the first time it happened, it wasn't on purpose.

you’re still in the honeymoon phase, tangled up in each other every chance you get, and you’re definitely not thinking about kids yet. but clayton’s rich, reckless, cocky as hell, and you’re just as bad, because neither of you even hesitate to ditch the condoms after a few weeks.

“you still on the pill?” he asks one night, his breath warm against your jaw.

you aren’t. you tell him that, expecting at least a moment of hesitation. instead, he just hums, shifting his hips, sinking in deeper.

“yeah?” he groans, gripping your thighs tighter, his thrusts suddenly sharper, more insistent. “guess we’ll see what happens then, huh?”

what happens is two pink lines a couple months later.

he’s thrilled. beyond thrilled. doesn’t even pretend to be shocked, just grins, kisses you breathless, and starts talking about baby names like it’s already set in stone.

and maybe it is, because that baby? just the first of many.

by the time the third comes around, the media starts catching on.

your second is barely a year old when the first “pregnancy rumors” start. clayton’s fans have been speculating, counting months, connecting dots. then you show up to one of his games in an oversized coat in the middle of spring, and that’s all it takes.

clayton keller’s wife rumored to be expecting baby #3—just 15 months after baby #2!

when you confirm it, the internet loses its mind.

his teammates chirp him about it constantly.

“jesus, kells,” one of them says in the locker room after practice. “you ever let her out of bed?”

clayton just shrugs, smug as ever, tugging his jersey off. “why would i?”

when the twins happen, he’s conflicted.

not because he’s not excited—god, he’s so fucking excited. two babies. at once. double the chubby cheeks, double the giggles, double the tiny little fingers wrapping around his.

but that’s also one less time he gets to knock you up.

“guess this means we only need one more, huh?” you tease, resting against his chest, his hands cradling your belly.

he frowns. actually frowns.

“nah,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. “still gonna need six.”

you laugh, expecting him to be joking, but he’s dead serious. his fingers trail lower, teasing along your hip, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous whisper.

“gonna have to make up for this one.”

six kids is a lot.

the house is chaos, toys scattered everywhere, your bed rarely empty because at least one of them always sneaks in at night. you barely have a second to yourself, constantly bouncing between bottles and tantrums and little voices calling “mommy!” every five seconds.

but then clayton gets home, sweeps in like he owns the place(because he does), scoops the kids up one by one and smothers them in kisses.

and when the house finally goes quiet, when you’re curled up in his lap on the couch, exhausted and already dozing off, he just smirks, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs,

“you want one more?”

[smdnai]

not the person that asked about leafs players but omg i agree with u about austons mustache. that man is so sexy i need to sit on his face 😵‍💫

hey yeah so i just, yup. yup. yup.

[smdnai]

They way he just smiles YAAAA I NEED HIM SO BADD ITS INSANE

Nylander getting booed in Montreal 😂

[smdnai]

Rereading this for the millionth time I’m so obsessed

loml - clayton keller

“You lowdown boy,

You standup guy,

Holy Ghost, you told me I’m

The love of your life.”

summary: when clayton finds out he has to move to utah, something snaps.

word count: 2.9k

pairing: toxic ? ck9 x fem!reader

warnings: some slight manipulation, gaslighting

notes:

this may or not make you extremely upset!

in my massive crush on clayton keller era!

^ happy early birthday king

i’ve also been craving writing some angst and something extremely tragic

self insert because this is how i would react if i was forced to move to utah

^ no offense... it just seems like Alberta but worse.

this is also something i might write a sequel for, so lmk if you’d want that

or send me a request for a different trope with him while I’m still on this kick

I’d also like to dedicate this to the word “fuck” because I used it way too much.

gif creds - imgonnaeditstuff

his hair... hair of all time. absolutely beautiful kells pls never cut it. ***

“Fuck!”

“Oh no, oh fuck no no! Fucking hell no!” Your boyfriend exclaims from outside, causing you to drop the knife you were using to chop some garlic and run out to the pool area, where you knew he was.

His bare back faces you, muscles tensing as he faces out toward the fence, his feet dangling in the water. He holds his phone up to his ear, running a hand through his wet hair as you approach him, “Clay, are you okay? What happened?” You urge him, crouching down so he’s able to see you. 

Clayton’s expression is a scowl, furrowing his brows as he stares out into the distance in pure disbelief. His eyes don’t soften at all when he meets your gaze, instead waving you off, “Shhh, shut the fuck up for a second.” He hisses, his eyes zeroing back in on nothing in particular.

You’re in a state of disbelief because one, why is he talking to you like that? You haven’t done anything much to probe him, and two, what’s going on for him to be talking to you like that? 

You purse your lips, taking a deep breath as you listen to his demand and stand back up. “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later.” Clayton murmurs, setting down his phone on the damp concrete beside him. He immediately facepalms, running his hands through his hair once again, followed by him balling his hand into a fist and hitting it against the ground on the other side of him. “Fuck!”

“You wanna tell me what’s going on now?” You say, crossing your arms. Clayton turns his head, and rolls his eyes at you, pondering his thoughts for a few moments before letting out an extended groan and turning his head back. “It’s fucking happening, babe, I’m moving to fuckin’ Utah.”

Oh. Oh. When he first heard of the possibility of the Coyotes being moved and told you, you both laughed. How could you not? It was such a ridiculous concept — moving from a great hockey market when they’d inevitably get a new arena soon, right? They wouldn’t be doomed to play at Arizona State forever.

Well, it turns out that the new arena management was thinking, was the Delta Center. In Salt Lake City. 

And that was reality right now.

You watch as Clayton’s chest heaves, his breaths shallow and rapid. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the pool area, its rays glinting off the surface of the water, creating a fragmented reflection of his tense form.

The tension in the air is palpable, almost suffocating. You can feel the rough concrete beneath your bare feet, tiny grains digging into your skin, grounding you in his moment of disbelief and anger. "Utah," you repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. "You’re moving to Utah."

Clayton doesn't turn to face you. His gaze is fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the fence, as if staring hard enough might change the reality unfolding before him. His jaw is set, his muscles rippled under the strain of his frustration, body taut like a bowstring ready to snap. The deep tan of his skin is darker from the time he'd spent outdoors, contrasting sharply with the red flush of anger now rising up his neck. You watch as a bead of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, disappearing into the damp mess of his hair.

He finally turns to face you, and you saw the anger simmering in his eyes. “Me? I’m moving? You mean us?” He questions, his voice ever so shaky underneath the suppressed rage you’re sure he’s feeling.

The silence stretches between you, a taut line ready to snap. The gentle rustling of palm leaves, the distant hum of traffic, and the rhythmic lapping of water against the pool’s edge do little to soften the edges of your growing anxiety. The world around you remains indifferent, carrying on as if nothing has changed, while your reality shifts on its axis.

“Clayton,” you finally say, your voice barely more than a whisper, yet it feels like it shatters the stillness. “You know I can’t just go with you. We have to talk about this.”

Clayton's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as your words sink in. The muscles in his neck flex, veins prominent against his sun-kissed skin. He stands abruptly, the force sending ripples through the pool, and begins to pace along the edge, his footsteps echoing the tension between you. The sharp scent of chlorine mingles with the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass, creating a heady, disorienting mix.

He paces back and forth, his breaths coming out in harsh bursts. Each step he takes feels like a statement, a physical manifestation of the turmoil inside him. You watch him, arms still crossed, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Clayton,” you begin, but he cuts you off with a harsh laugh, the sound devoid of humor. It’s a laugh that slices through the air, making your skin prickle.

“You know what?” he says, his voice low and shaky. “I should have seen this coming. Should’ve known you’d find a reason not to come with me.” His words are like daggers, each one striking a different nerve.

You inhale sharply, the scent of chlorine mingling in a way that turns your stomach. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’ve built a life here, my job, our friends...”

“Our friends?” he interrupts, eyes flashing. “Or is it just your life you’re worried about? Your job, your comfort zone? What about me? This is my career, my dream. Don’t you understand that?”

You flinch as his words hit home, each one a reminder of the predicament. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows that stretch like fingers across the pool area, adding a surreal quality to the argument. You can feel the sweat on your back, sticking your shirt to your skin, the heat of the day not helping the heat of the moment. “I do understand, but this affects us both!” you counter, your voice rising with your frustration. “You’re asking me to uproot my entire life without even considering how I feel about it.”

He stops pacing, his back to you, and for a moment, you think he might ignore you. But then he turns slowly, his eyes meeting yours. They're dark, intense, filled with a blend of anger and hurt that cuts through you like a knife. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you. I need you with me. Isn’t that what people who love each other do? They make sacrifices?”

The word “sacrifices” hangs heavily in the air, a bitter reminder of what’s at stake. Your throat tightens, and you struggle to find the words for a moment. The world around you feels distant, the neighborhood sounds muted as if submerged underwater.

“Sacrifices go both ways,” you finally manage to say, your voice breaking. “I’ve supported you through everything, but I have dreams too, Clay. And they fucking matter, even if they aren’t wrapped up in a hockey jersey.”

Clayton paces again, his movements jerky and erratic, like a caged animal searching for an escape. His breath comes in ragged bursts, each exhale a testament to the struggle raging within him. He stops suddenly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity, the lines of his face etched deep with frustration and pain. “You’re making this about you,” he spits out, his voice low but charged with a raw, electric energy. “You’re being so fucking dramatic, self centred and so focused on your little world that you can’t see past it.”

The accusation hits you like a physical blow, the force of it driving the air from your lungs. The taste of salt lingers on your lips, a remnant of the tears you refuse to let fall. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm, each beat a desperate plea for understanding, for reconciliation. The silence stretches taut between you, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to breathe. The world around you seems to blur, the colors of the sunset merging into a hazy smear. It’s as if you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath your feet, and you’re desperately trying to grasp onto something, anything, to stop the fall.

But the only thing falling is your tears.

As the tears spill over, Clayton’s expression shifts, a flicker of regret flashing across his features. He steps closer, reaching out as if to wipe them away, but then hesitates, his hand hovering in the space between you. The distance feels both vast and minuscule, a chasm created by his words, yet easily bridged by a single step.

“Baby, please don’t cry,” he finally mutters, his voice cracking as he takes the step, pulling you into his chest, “I didn’t mean that, I swear.”

You bury your face in his bare chest for a moment, feeling the dampness of his skin and the faint, comforting scent of his cologne. But just as quickly, you rip yourself away to meet his gaze, the tears flowing freely now, “No—fuck, you can’t do this.” You snap.

Clayton's eyes widen, caught off guard by the sudden force of your words. He takes a step back, his hands dropping to his sides, fingers twitching as if they want to reach out but don’t know how. The tension in his face eases slightly, replaced by a mix of confusion and frustration. He opens his mouth, struggling to find the right words, but you cut him off, your voice steady despite the tears.

"You can't just say things like that and then try to take them back," you continue, your voice growing stronger. "You can't just make me feel like I'm being selfish when all I've done is support you. 

“You know I didn’t mean it, babe,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, a heavy sense of desperation in it. His eyes search yours, trying to understand the depth of your pain. “I’m just trying to keep us together. Isn’t that what you want? You’re the love of my life. That’s what you want me to say, right? I’ll say it a million times over for you.”

Your voice, though shaky, carries a steely resolve as you look Clayton square in the eyes. "Clay, love isn't about... this. It's about finding a way to support each other, even when it's hard. This—" you gesture to the space between you, "—this isn't support. It's an ultimatum. I could be the love of your life, but you could be the loss of mine.”

Clayton's face contorts, multiple emotions running past him. He runs a hand through his hair again, a gesture that now seems more like an attempt to ground himself in the midst of this emotional whirlwind. "I'm not giving you an ultimatum," he protests, but the crack in his voice betrays the doubt seeping into his own words. "I'm just... fuck, I don’t want to lose you. I can't lose you."

You stand there, looking at him, heart breaking at the sight of his desperation. Despite the hurt, you can't ignore the sincerity in his eyes. But you also can't ignore the heavy weight of his words, the impossible choice he's forcing on you. Every fiber of your being wants to hold on, but you know deep down, that holding on might just tear you both apart.

Without a word, you turn and walk away, each step feeling heavier than the last. You can taste the salt of your tears as you make your way back into the house, his house, the backyard fading behind you. You can hear Clayton calling your name, but you don't stop. You can't. Not this time.

***

With nowhere else to go, you find yourself in Clayton’s bed that night without having finished cooking dinner or talking to him since he got the phone call. 

You couldn’t even imagine eating. Or looking at his face, nonetheless. When the door creaked open, you knew it was inevitable, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t try to ignore him.

Clayton enters the room, the dim light casting shadows on his tired face. He moves quietly, almost hesitantly, as if unsure of his place in the space he once considered safe. The bed creaks softly as he sits on the edge, and he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently touches your shoulder. The contact is soft, tentative, like he's afraid you'll pull away.

"Baby," he whispers, his voice raspy. "Please, can we talk?"

You don’t respond, your body curled up under the covers, facing away from him as you try to blink away tears that blur your vision. The silence stretches out, a noticeable barrier between you. Clayton shifts closer, lying down beside you, his warmth seeping through the sheets. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into him. The familiarity of his touch is both comforting and painful, a reminder of what you stand to lose, which causes you to jerk away.

"Please, just let me hold you," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. "I want to be close to you, to know you’re still here with me."

Clayton’s always been a touchy guy, whether that be just wanting to cuddle or… other things, and today was no different. It was always the same thing, you’d argue, and he’d leave you alone for a few hours, only to come back and apologize, proclaim his love, and kiss it better.

Rinse, repeat.

You feel a lump forming in your throat, tears threatening to spill over once more. Part of you is intoxicated by the way he fits against you and wants to turn around, to bury your face in his chest, and let him hold you, to forget about the argument and the pain, if only for a little while. But another part of you, the part that still stings from his words, his actions, resists. It's a tug-of-war between your heart and your head, between the love you feel for him and the hurt he caused. The hurt he seems to keep causing.

"Please," he repeats, his voice barely more than a whisper, "Don’t shut me out, I need you. I need to feel you against me, love."

You take a deep breath, the ache in your chest expanding with each inhalation. The tension in your body slowly starts to melt away as you allow yourself to lean back into his embrace. Clayton pulls you closer, his grip firm but gentle, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “That’s it, pretty baby,” he mumbles. 

Clayton tightens his grip, his arms wrapping around you protectively, as if trying to shield you both from the harsh realities outside this small cocoon. Like he always used to say, he’d be your protector.

As if he wasn’t the one who caused all the hurt in the first place. 

He shoves his face into your hair, inhaling deeply as if to anchor you, your scent to memory, and you feel the tremor in his breath. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice cracking. "I'm so fucking sorry for everything I said earlier. I know I've been a dick. I know I've hurt you, but I can't stand the thought of losing you. You're everything to me.”

His words are a balm to the raw wound in your heart, but they also bring a fresh wave of tears. You want to believe him, to listen to that other side of you, and let go of the pain and anger, but the memory of his past blatant gaslighting lingers, a constant dark shadow over the love you share. You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, but the tears slip out anyway, wetting the pillow beneath your cheek. You don't turn to face him, but your hand reaches up, finding his where it rests on your waist. Your fingers intertwine with his, a small but significant gesture that says more than words could.

Sensing your distress, Clayton tightens his hold on you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as he squeezes your hand. "I love you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I love you so much. Please don’t cry, baby. I can't stand it when you cry."

"Clay," you begin, your voice choked from the tears. "This isn't fair."

Clayton exhales a shaky breath, and you feel the tension in his body ease just a little. He shifts closer, his front pressed firmly against your back, as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. His arm tightens his grip around your waist as if by sheer force he can keep the world from pulling you apart. "I know it’s not. I'm so fucking scared," he confesses, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Scared of leaving, scared of what this means for us. I don't want to go to Utah without you. I don't want to go anywhere without you. We can talk to my agent, figure out if there's any flexibility, anything. I just... I don't want to lose you, not like this.”

Clayton’s desperate confession hangs in the air, heavy with raw emotion. The words feel like a fragile lifeline, a tentative reach across the chasm that's opened between you. You squeeze your eyes shut once again, letting his warmth envelop you, and for a moment, it’s as if the world outside doesn't exist.

It’s just you and him, and you don't even know if you can call him the love of your life anymore. All you know is that you'll always mourn how your relationship used to be — and how no matter what, you'll always end up back in his bed, tangled up in his sheets with him, in a web of pain.

A fucked-up love affair.

[smdnai]

GOING INSANE I NEED HIM 😵‍💫

oh say can you see | s. crosby

rating: explicit, mdni

wordcount: 10.9k

warnings: unspecified age gap, morally dubious relationship (babysitter/dilf,) heavy smut, unedited (so if there's places where there should be dividers and there aren't pls just pretend there are)

notes: ty @bardownbitch for helping me turn this from a thought to an ask to a fic !!!! 10,993 words of me being h word for sid

The morning was the only solace that Sidney Crosby’s hectic life allowed him.

In the moments when sunlight was just barely beginning to filter through his gray curtains, there was no team to manage, no ex-wife to bicker with, no son to wrangle into his school clothes and into his car seat. 

There was just the sweet, warm morning light, the low hum of the central heating, fresh-smelling linens. Bliss. In these moments, Sidney could just relax, revel in the time spent lingering between sleep and wakefulness, resting comfortably between the sheets and closing his eyes-

“Daddy?” A small voice jolted Sidney out of his rest and relaxation, eyes shooting open as the door of his bedroom door flew open and the sound of small feet pattering against the hardwood floors drifted in the morning air. “We haf’ta get ready for school, Daddy.”

A deep exasperated sigh left the man’s lungs as he rolled over, facing his son’s sweet, innocent face. Sidney knew the boy didn’t deserve the pointy end of his father’s exasperation as he examined the boy’s features. Features that looked eerily similar to his own. The same kind, brown eyes, which crinkled when he laughed, the same smile, the same soft outline of his face. 

“Alright, Jakey,” Sidney groaned, mustering a smile for his son’s sake as he began to sit up. “Why don’t you go get your clothes ready, and I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Jacob grinned, running away from the side of the bed, skipping down the hall to his room to pick out his clothes for the day, small giggles bubbling from him as he did. A stark contrast to his son, Sidney sighed once more, running his hands over his face exasperatedly as he leaned against the headboard. Thoughts ran rampant behind his closed eyes, bringing up a hundred things he should have been doing at that moment as Sidney reached for his phone. 

A string of notifications burned against his brown eyes as the phone clicked on, some from the NHL app, a plethora of emails, but only one stood out to him. A text from the very person he both dreaded and looked forward to hearing from.

Your name lit up the top of the notification bar, followed by the usual, sickly-sweet tone you used with him when you’d speak to him and text him. 

Sidney’s thoughts wandered as he sat in his bed, eyes drifting closed once more and blood rushing to his loins. You’d stayed late for him last night after picking his son up from school and had fallen asleep, waiting on the couch, waiting for him. Jake had already been put to sleep, snoring soundly in the comfort of his race-car-shaped twin bed, smiling softly at the lingering sound of your soft voice reading him his favorite bedtime story. 

It had been much later than 11, much later than you feasibly should have been staying at his house, and he felt another gush of freshly-woken blood make its way down to his lower half, at the knowledge that you did almost anything he asked of you. Probably would do anything. For a moment, Sidney had contemplated picking you up and laying you in the guest room, contemplated letting himself revel in the feeling of you waking up in his house. He was tired and his judgment was still good (thankfully) as he resisted the urge to keep you with him as long as he could and woke you with the gentle crinkle of his brown eyes and the soft, gravelly whisper slipping from his lips. 

Sidney’s ex-wife crossed his mind briefly. How she’d never waited up on the couch for him to get home from anything, heading straight to bed, leaving the house empty and dark for him to come home to. Sidney shook her from his head, desperately, feeling the intricate fantasy he’d built for himself melt away at the thought of her.

You wouldn’t do that to him. You didn’t do that to him. Sometimes he liked to imagine that you were his wife, that you’d fallen asleep on the couch, waiting to greet him at the door with a kiss and a breathy whisper of his name when his lips would eventually find their way to your neck as he’d push you to your shared bedroom. But that was beside the point. He recalled how he’d shaken you awake gently, a warm, calloused hand lingering on your shoulder as he’d pulled you from your sleep. Sidney muttered a quiet fuck as he recalled how your bleary doe eyes had stared up at him, eyelashes droopy with sleep and lips slightly agape and plump. 

It wasn’t hard for Sidney to go from there. Imagine you on your knees in front of him, looking up at him with that same goddamn face, mouth full of his cock, spit running down your chin as you struggled to take him. You’d be so sweet about it, too, Sidney imagined. You would ask nicely in that fucking voice that he swore you know drove him closer and closer to the edge with each passing conversation. Ask nicely, he imagined he would tell you, hand caressing your supple cheek, staring down at you with glazed-over eyes. Please, Mr. Crosby, may I please suck your cock? His hand drifted to the rapidly rising tent in his boxers, eyes squeezing shut, a gravelly sigh drifting from his lips. 

A loud rap upon his bedroom door tore Sidney from his fantasy. The door opened promptly, and the man let his head fall limply against his headboard in exasperation, eyes closed. The small boy bounded into the room enthusiastically, already dressed and, evidently,  enthusiastically waiting for his father to make him breakfast. 

“Daddy!” Jake grinned, and Sidney couldn’t help but feel a pull at the edge of his lips at the vigor that his son mustered this early in the morning. “I got dressed already.”

“I see that buddy,” Sidney sighed, clambering out of bed and ruffling his son’s hair. “Go wait at the table, I’ll make you breakfast in a minute.”

He, again, watched the small boy nod, almost skipping out of the room to wait at the table. Letting his eyes scan over the text from you once more before closing his phone, Sidney sighed for what seemed like the 100th time that morning alone, feeling the tension in his lap dissipate and wishing that he had a kid who dreaded going to school every morning like every other child in the known universe. 

Sidney’s mornings, post-lazing in bed, were mundane. Brush his teeth, wash his face. Pick out another black suit that looked eerily similar to the one before that, and the one before that, get dressed. Walk out to the kitchen to make his son breakfast, something like Eggo waffles or some sugary cereal that Sidney had long since stopped trying to stop himself from eating. Drive Jake to school, and smile politely at the other parents in the drop-off line. 

There was almost nothing special about his days anymore. Almost. As Sidney finished his morning routine and walked to the kitchen to put his son’s waffles in the toaster, he looked down at his still-unopened phone once more, the white letters that made up your name teasing him from the notification banner. 

Hi Mr. Crosby! Do you still need me to sit for Jake tonight? :)

Sidney looked to his small son, kicking his feet in a seat at their ornate dining room table, a clueless smile on his face as his father gazed over him, guilt bubbling in the pit of his belly. 

He knew it was wrong. Sidney knew that he was technically your employer, he knew that he was much older and that you were still in college, that he shouldn’t have thought about you in the way that he did, but you made it so damn easy. With your sweet little smiles and those damn skirts, how you’d let him pour you a glass of wine despite the fact that both of you knew you were still a couple of months away from turning 21 made it so easy to just imagine how it’d be if he’d just push it a little bit further. 

Letting a deep, pent-up breath out of his lungs, Sidney typed out a quick, formal response, just like he always did, putting his phone face-down on the counter and hoping the stress of the day would tear you from his thoughts. Just like he always did. 

The sky had long since turned dark by the time Sidney pulled out of the arena’s parking lot, shoulders slumped behind the wheel of his recognizable Range Rover. 

An odd, exhilarating mix of excitement and dread pooled in his gut at the familiar path to his lavish home played out behind the front window. Sidney vaguely registered it when Geno’s house and his eyes flickered after the passing brownstone as he passed. 

He thought about how pissed Anna would be if she found out what Sidney thought of the babysitter she’d introduced him to. Geno didn’t even know about it (though for different reasons - though both of their respective hockey careers had ended, Sidney couldn’t imagine the kinds of chirps he’d get for wanting to fuck the living daylights of out a college girl as bad as he did.) 

Sidney recalled the first time he’d met you. 

At the time, he’d been desperate. His wife has just walked out on him with nothing more than a flip of her hair and a hand on the shoulder of her tennis coach. Sidney had never realized how fucking hard it had been to raise a child on his own, especially with the GM position he’d been promoted to a couple of years before. Taking care of Jake just got harder and harder. His temper got shorter, his sleeping hours got shorter, and tens of empty coffee cups littered the once-clean house. His schedule no longer left room for him to head out to bars and pick up whatever hot girl threw herself at him like during his glory days.

Anna had been the one to refer you to him after a teacher of Jake’s had recommended getting a sitter. He vaguely remembered her going on and on about how good you were with Nikita, how sweet you were to take time out of your busy schedule at college to babysit. 

Sidney didn’t see the harm. He didn’t see the fucking issue with paying a college girl significantly less than any other sitter would charge to prance around his house with his baby for a while, put Jake to bed, and laze around or do some homework, or some other shit. 

The issue came with meeting you. From the moment you’d stepped your foot inside his threshold, Sidney had known that somehow, someway, Anna had managed to put another strain on his willpower. 

When he first met you, the summer was just beginning to show its pretty face. The day had been unusually hot, as if the sun had finally roused from a harsh Pittsburgh winter and was all too happy to show the whole city it was back. And at first, Sidney refused to let his eyes wander. The idea of the face of the NHL, the spitting picture of Canadian hockey’s good boy image lusting after a college-aged babysitter was… too much, even for him to imagine. 

So, for most of the interview he’d scheduled with you, Sidney managed to keep his eyes off where your flouncy, white little skirt rode up a little too high as you sat in one of his expensive dining room chairs, giving him a sweet, innocent smile and letting your manicured hand drift a little too close to his as you handed him your resumé. (He’d let himself take a good, long stare at your ass as you walked down the driveway to your car, leaning against the doorway in a cashmere sweater that looked a little too good on him. A man can only stand so much, of course, and Sidney was no exception.) 

The sight of your car in the driveway as he pulled in made his stomach tighten in a way that Sidney hadn’t felt in years. Too often did he feel like a fucking teenager in your presence, palms clammy and a watchful eye on you as you pranced around his spacious house, skirt lifting with every passing step. 

And as he walked to the door, Sidney’s bag felt heavy in his hand, cutting into his hand. They’d lost their callouses, in the recent years - no longer used to the feeling of a hockey stick in them, grown soft from months of picking Jake up and cooking mac-and-cheese dinners. 

In the window that faced the dining room, Sidney could see you, wandering around the spacious house absentmindedly, picking the toys that Jake had scattered about the house after school. A familiar, funny feeling crackled in his belly, the odd, strong desire to have you. For as wrong as he felt, despite the guilt he would surely feel later in the night, long after Jake was asleep and after you’d left, Sidney felt oddly domestic coming home to the sight of his babysitter picking up his son’s toys.

He shook his head, bit his tongue, and walked to the front door, praying you’d have some chapters or some shit to catch up on (sometimes, when you’d talk about your college studies, it’d make Sidney feel even older. The greys in his hair seemed all too obvious to him as he glanced at himself in the mirror in the living room, mourning the loss of his own college experience as you rambled on about a shitty professor or something like that.) 

“Oh, hi, Mr. Crosby!” You greeted, sweet, almost disgustingly so, the kind of sweet you know will turn your teeth to mush but can’t bring yourself to care about, leaning over the kitchen island to look at him. 

Mr. Crosby. It’d ring in his head later that night, he damn well knew it, when even all the neighbor’s lights were turned off, a hand fisted in the billion-thread count sheets that lined his bed and eyes screwed shut. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Sidney muttered, hanging his coat and throwing his bag somewhere indiscriminate in the living room, sauntering toward the kitchen. “How many times have I told you to call me Sidney? You don’t have to treat me like your boss.”

Lie. Though he masked it with a chuckle, Sidney’s pants tightened ever so slightly at the title.  

“Right. Sorry.” You grinned awkwardly, tilting back on your heels and opening the fridge. “I made Jake some pasta for his dinner. I could heat you up some.”

“It’s fine, Y/N, you should probably get home.” Sidney’s hand touched yours, ever so slightly as he took the cold pan from your hand, setting it on the stove for you, brown eyes glimmering in the obnoxiously white light bulb's light as they bored into you. “It’s late. I don’t want you walking back to your apartment too late at night.”

You wet your lip, pink tongue darting out to wet them, masking the urge to bite your lip with an airy giggle (you were sure your boss was starting to figure out why you gave him that awkward, light little laugh every time he said something that made your panties embarrassingly wet. You were also sure he wouldn’t care, even if he did find out, because God knows he’d never go for his babysitter. But a girl could dream.)

“Yeah,” You smiled, shoving your computer, notebook, and the countless pens and highlighters you’d scattered around the kitchen island through the course of the night. “Probably. I have a big final tomorrow, so.”

You trailed off, picking at your nails as you slung your bag over your shoulder, eyes darting between Sidney and your feet.

“You could have taken the night off, Y/N,” Sidney said, a concerned look straining his features. “I’d rather just come home early than you take time out of your studying-”

“No! No, it’s fine, really,” You interjected, mentally cursing yourself for sounding so fucking desperate. “I feel pretty good about it. Besides, I love sitting for you.”

For you. The words repeated, dauntingly, in Sidney’s head as he looked at you, turning them over and over in his head. Not for Jake, not for ‘you guys,’ just you. 

“Um, alright,” Sidney muttered, eyes trained intently on the pan of pasta before him, simmering above the gas flame. “Just let me know if you need time off. It’s not too much of a hassle.”

By the time he looked up, you were already in the threshold of the kitchen, standing awkwardly, like a child who’d snuck out of where their friends were playing to where the adults were mingling at a party. 

“Thank you, M-” You stopped yourself, took a breath, quietly, subtly. Tried desperately to calm yourself down so you didn’t look like so much of an insecure little kid, compared to him. “Sidney. Good night.”

“Good night, Y/N.” Sidney spoke, watching you back away from him, your short, seemingly hurried steps. “Please text me when you get home. I want to know that you’re safe.”

“Will do.” You smiled, that soft, sweet smile, that he could imagine himself waking up to every morning, tender under the duvet, without the prying eyes of nosey neighbors or the stress of college exams. But you turned on your heel and walked away from him, hips swaying ever so slightly, just like you were supposed to.

And there was something that burned in the pit of your stomach as you heard the door click shut behind you, the kind of something you know will follow you into the night like a ghost. 

You'd been a greedy girl since birth.

Your parents had long attested to the fact that no one else at school could eat the sweets you'd been packed for school, that your toys were for no one but you, how you'd demanded nothing but their full attention at all times.

The time would eventually come that you'd want something you absolutely couldn't have.

In your teenage years, you'd refrained from your best friends' boyfriends and their older brothers, hot neighbors, and fathers of family friends. You brought your good track record to college, even in the most pressing of situations (you had barely kept that perfect track record when the hot T.A. for your Modern English Lit kept throwing you bedroom eyes as he stapled forms for your professor.)

By your senior year, you were under the impression that you'd keep your good behavior up until graduation. Find a nice, sensible job, and a nice, sensible partner to settle down with, maybe a couple of kids and a dog or something thrown in the white-picket mix.

And you knew that Anna had meant well by referring you to a family friend, but God, had she fucked you over.

Because there was something so blissful about wanting something so wrong to want. Something so beautiful about stealing glances at Sidney as you’d pack your things to go, something sickly and poetic about knowing the feeling of his eyes on your back, knowing his touch in passing seconds you were sure he’d forget, but you’d keep buried in your stomach for the rest of the month, savoring in the feeling. 

Granted, you were doing everything in your power to rid yourself of your schoolgirl crush. And for the first couple of months - you were sure it’d pass. Your infatuation with Sidney was just another crush that would leave your yearning body in a matter of weeks. 

So, for weeks, you lived like that. Pushed that ‘little crush’ to the back of your mind and brushed the mutual awkwardness off as something that happened all the time, that you’d warm up to each other at the end of the first month and all would be well and good. (Though you were a greedy girl through and through, you learned through the time you’d spent sitting for Sidney that you were also an idealistic girl.)

For weeks, weeks upon torturous weeks, you endured the ever-tightening coil in your tummy, ignored the shake that would arise in your hands when Sidney would brush you by accident, the weakness in your knees when he’d wear that damn sweater you were convinced he knew looked a little too good on him.

Driving home, you were able to block the sounds of your racing thoughts out of your head with whatever overproduced trashy pop song was on the radio. You couldn’t remember what it was. You didn’t want to. All you did was play your conversation with Sidney over and over and over and over again in your head. 

The lyrics of the songs droned on in the background, and everything, the sound, the air, the thoughts lingering in your mind and in the deep, hidden part of yourself seemed trapped inside your small, beat-up little car.

You barely heard your roommate as she greeted you, mumbling a quick, easy response - something like ‘I’m tired,’ or ‘rough day.’ She gave you a look, one of those horrible, knowing looks, one of those looks where you knew she’d pry about it once you were out of bed, eyes squinted in sly satisfaction as she watched you trudge to your room, knowing exactly who had you so shaken up. 

“Rough night with Jake?” She grinned like a cat, watching as you stopped in your doorway, arms crossed smugly as she leaned against the kitchen island. 

“Ha-ha, Therese.” You sighed, throwing your things on one side of the couch and plopping down on the other, leaning back to look at her.

“Jesus,” She laughed, eyes narrowed at the cup of tea in her hand as she walked over to you. “Can’t fucking believe how hung up you are over this guy.”

“‘S not funny!” Your response came out half-laugh, half-squeal, a smile tugging at your cheeks, toppling over as she clambered next to you on the couch.

“It most definitely is.” Therese spoke, a joking lilt in her voice, masking a deeper understanding of your hopelessness, your infatuation with a man you could never have.

Jokes did only so much to help. She’d catch you, on occasion, staring at whatever images Google had pulled up of your boss, ears filled with a random interview in his youth. She saw the flush in your cheeks when you returned home from Sidney’s house, something ever so slightly darker than something the blistering cold outside could bring to your cheeks.

“C’mon,” She leaned over, almost crushing you in an embrace, an understanding presence engulfing you as you laid there, desperate and wanting for the forbidden fruit. It was silent for a good moment - not a sound but the two of you breathing and your still-pounding heart in your ears. “Oh, you know what?”

You peeled up at the excited tone her voice took, sitting back up and watching her scroll through her phone for a moment, before holding it protectively to her chest.

“So, you know that guy in American Poetry?” You furrowed your eyebrow at this. “Oh, my God, you know him. Sort of tall, blond-ish. Hot. Big Dickinson fan?”

You ahh-ed, nodding enthusiastically. 

“So anyway, the other day he comes up to me and he’s like ‘so, does Y/N have a partner or anything?’”

Your eyebrows furrow again, and you struggle to stay quiet, knowing how much Therese hates being interrupted when she’s telling a story. 

“I tell him no because obviously, I can’t tell him about the hopeless infatuation you have with this washed-up hockey dude-“

“He’s not washed up, Therese, oh, my God,” 

She rolled her eyes at this, only continuing with her story.

“So he pauses for a sec, and then asks me if you’d be interested in going on a date with anyone.”

The air in the room stilled. And though such a small, arbitrary thing, especially for a freshman in college, the paraphrased question seemed so heavy.

Because, for the first time since you’d started babysitting for Sidney Crosby, the prospect of a distraction from your crush arose.

“You’re kidding.” Was all you could respond, picking at your cuticles in thought. 

“Nope. So, I’m pretty damn sure he’s gonna ask you out next time you see him.” Therese grinned like a cat, white teeth bared in the dim light of your dorm’s living room. 

“Oh, stop looking so dejected, ‘cause you’re starting to bum me out.” She ran her hand over your arm, and through your hoodie, you could feel her comforting presence. “Look. I know you don’t exactly know how to move about this whole crush situation, and I know that look in your eyes. I promise, you’re not losing any chances with Sidney, or whatever his name is, if you go on this date.”

Her words hung in the air like a terrifying mobile, suggesting something good.

There was something so tiring about being the ghost of someone you could never have - clinging to his every word, hoping and fucking praying that Sidney would finally look at you the way you wanted him to.

And with that sweet, sickly feeling came a hard, sharp emptiness, a jab in the pit of your belly that you couldn’t quite shake. Every time Sidney would ask you to sit because he had a date, because he and his friends were staying out at the bar for a while after work, there grew another prick in your side.

Though you knew that this guy wouldn’t quite ease the pain, he was a placeholder, and that was good enough. 

The next night, as Sidney’s car pulled into the driveway, headlights blaring in the windows, you felt nervousness bubble in your stomach. The weekend loomed over your mind like a hawk on the hunt while you watched the shadowy figure of a man you knew all too well walk to the front door, your head whipping back to your computer to fake like you weren’t just staring at your boss. 

“Homework?” You heard echo through the silent house - the gravely, almost hoarse voice that plagued your every thought. 

“Oh, hey, Mr-,” You caught yourself, closing your computer and throwing Sidney a sheepish smile. “Sidney. Sorry. Yeah, another final paper. ‘S not due for another couple ‘a days but y’know, I’d also like to sleep sometime this week.”

He laughed, at that, ever so slightly. Self-satisfaction coursed through your veins at the thought that Sidney found your stupid little college jokes funny, that you could draw that sweet, tinkling song from him. 

“Good girl.”

You paused, for a moment, staring blankly at the stickers on your computer, picking once more at your cuticles. You must have looked like a fucking idiot, sitting there, stunned over the innocent little quip that Sidney had shot at you. 

“I try.” You finally mustered, after what must have esteemed like forever, looking at Sidney in a way that made him feel like he hung the fucking stars, eyes big and blown and pretty, eyelashes fluttering. 

“You do a good enough job,” The brunette man said, passingly, casually, like he didn’t realize the very sexual nature you’d taken his comment as. His voice carried past him as he walked with his back to you to the kitchen, objecting to confront the nature of his words. 

“What do you mean, sir?” You asked, carefully venturing into the new territory Sidney seemed to have laid before you, voice lilted somewhere innocent, sweet. 

He gulped and tilted his head forward. Felt glad for once that the giant, obnoxious wall between the open kitchen and dining room was there, so you couldn’t see him drop his head, chin to his chest and breath heavy. 

You were in the kitchen, then. Sometimes Sidney wondered if you intentionally walked quietly in order to catch him in moments like those - caught between the fiery throes of desire and the rationale of any well-adjusted man in his late 30s. 

He caught something in your eyes - a teasing, knowing glint in them that he’d never seen before. Like you knew what you did to him, knew the power you held over him in some odd, taboo way. 

“I mean,” Sidney sighed. There was a moment of hesitation because he knew, he knew that he absolutely should not have been having the conversation that he was with his babysitter, that there was a line that he’d set for himself in the proverbial sand, things he felt would go too far. He continued anyway. “You are a good girl. I think so.”

“Really?” It didn’t sound sexy, your words didn’t come off coquettish and teasing like you’d meant them to. The question sounded desperate, frantic for affection, for approval from Sidney. 

He raised his eyes, tracing over your body (you’d worn one of those damn baby-tops, whatever the trend was called. He felt old, sometimes, the way he’d scorn your young trends for drawing his eyes to your tits a little more than he’d like you noticing.) They landed at your lips. He noticed the way they looked more pink than usual - bitten and almost red and perfectly kissable and God, if he could just-

“Of course,” Sidney spoke before he could stop himself, the words slipping from his lips like they wanted to come out. “You’re such a good girl. You know that.”

He heard the breath you let out from across the kitchen island, heard the tiny pulse of a moan in it, and fucking felt his pants get tighter. 

“Thank you, Sidney,” You smiled, awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, looking up at him from a downturned head. “Really.”

“Y’don’t have to thank me for telling you the truth,” Sidney made his way to where you were standing, slowly and surely, getting a little more in your space than would be more than inappropriate under any other standards (of course, nothing about your interaction had been normal - from the moment Sidney had walked in, the tension between you had been fucking palpable.) “You’re really such a big help around here. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

He said nothing as he took your hand in his, a small smile tugging at his plump lips as he watched your eyes flutter shut at the feeling of his thumb running curled over the soft skin of your hand.

“Don’t know what I would do without you. I should be thanking you.”

You opened your eyes once more, biting your lip, in a nervous, aroused stupor, licking your lip to soothe the bite you’d put in it. You watched as his gaze flitted to your lips again, then back to your hooded, glassy eyes, and felt something drop in you as he stepped away - the horror of feeling something empty once more inside you. 

“You should probably get home, Y/N. It’s late. I don’t like you walking back to your apartment in the dark.” Sidney muttered, pulling away and handing you your bag from the chair you’d set it on.

Something mean, bratty sprouted in you at his sudden change in behavior. Your eyebrows furrowed as Sidney avoided your gaze, staring at the watch that glistened on his wrist like a tiny star, pretending to be incredibly interested in the time. But you would be damned if you’d let him write your interaction as a lapse in judgment, as his mind being blurry and impulse control after a long hard day at work. You’d make him think about what he wanted, stare it right in the goddamn eyes if you could help it. 

“Yeah, I should be heading out. Long day of testing ahead,” You feigned a laugh, slinging your bag over your shoulder as innocently as possible. Sidney’s eyes drew from his hands looking up at you to say goodbye. “Oh, and I meant to ask you. I think I’m gonna have to take Friday night off.”

Sidney nodded, nonchalantly, and you almost winced at the non-reaction you were drawing. Quickly, you bid him a good night, and one more self-satisfied smile grew on your cheeks as you heard him call out to you.

“Can I ask why you’re taking the night off?” Sidney stared after you, a faraway look in his eyes. You smiled, sweet, innocent, and turned back to him momentarily. 

“I have a date with this guy from one of my lectures.” 

As deadly silence filled the ordinarily comfortable air in Sidney’s house, you, once more, told him good night, turned on your heel, and sauntered out of the door with a smug, bratty smile lining your features.

There was nothing worse than waiting for Sidney. An ordinary Wednesday  night felt like days as he laid in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and thinking of you which happened to be the exact thing he expected to be doing that night - just for an entirely different reason. He’d expected to be kept up, plagued with guilt over the fact that he’d practically jumped over his axiomatic line in the sand. 

That Wednesday  night, he was kept up with whoever the fuck the little college boy you were going out with was. 

As the hours on the clock passed, Sidney tossed and turned under his sheets, an odd, visceral possessiveness taking his mind by storm. Who the fuck was this kid to take you out? Who the fuck were you to act so fucking bratty to him? 

Though you’d tried so, so hard to hide it (almost hard enough to be cute, but that was beside the point,) Sidney saw the cruel glint in your smile as you turned away from him, the cocky sway in your hips as he sat, dumbfounded, at the kitchen island, knew the brattiness in your eyes. 

Sidney also knew that his resolve was close to snapping. And though you’d had interactions that’d toed his imaginary line, something about that warm, summer-y Wednesday night made him want to tear you apart. Maybe it was something about the prospect of losing you - the proximity to you moving on from your painfully obvious crush after countless fruitless efforts to seduce Sidney, how you might fuck whoever this boy was in the backseat of his hand-me-down, banged-up car, sweaty and uncomfortably sticky, probably ending with a cum stain on one fo your pretty little skirts, a split bill, and you not finishing. 

That was what got him. You could go on as many dates as you wanted to, and let as many peers and classmates take you to cheap diners by campus as you’d please. But there was something so fucking infuriating about the prospect of you settling. Settling for clammy hands roaming nowhere near where you needed them, some little college dickhead finishing and pulling out, messy and sloppy, without letting you even get close to cumming. 

Sidney knew that you’d definitely imagined him, with your fingers or some tiny bullet vibrator pressed, filthy and sticky, down the front of your panties.

And the one fucking thing Sidney could be one-hundred percent sure of, was that he could do a hell of a lot better at making those sweet dreams come to life than any college boy could even dream of. 

Something about his patience ran thin. Something about the night, something about your little top and how he swore he could see the outline of a lacy bra through it, something about how the neighbors were loud and partying on a Wednesday night drew him closer and closer to the edge. 

Sleep escaped Sidney.

He kept picturing you, bent over some shitty dorm table with trash swept to the ground, walking unexcitedly to the filthy bedroom of some bumbling frat kid, how you’d look so much better under him instead of some stupid college kid. His hand drifted to his boxers for what seemed like the hundredth time since he’d met you.

The next morning, though unbearably tired and with dark circles the color of a black eye, life in your absence. Thursdays you usually didn’t sit for Sidney - something about tutoring, graduation credits, getting on the dean’s list, all the college things he’d missed out on in his youth. The house always felt empty those nights. Your presence brought light to the home that it hadn’t had in years, Sidney thought. It was nothing, of course, he told himself, something about your soft hands on his and the sweet smell of you in the home made him miss you. 

You, of course, with all the sweetness and courtesy in the world, still texted with one of your little smiley faces, reminding him if there really was an emergency, you could drive over and sit for Jake. 

Sidney, of course, responded curtly. There was normalcy that he didn’t want to resign to in texting you as you texted him, something that made you feel significantly more like a girlfriend than a babysitter. Maybe it was intentional, he thought. You seemed to understand and know exactly what you wanted to be to him. 

By Friday afternoon, Sidney was (again) reminded of how much he hated waiting. Waiting for your text, for your call, for a fucking Hail Mary that maybe, he’d arrive at Jake’s school, the teacher would tell him that his lovely, young babysitter had picked Jake up already. Had she mentioned how pretty you were to him yet? He’d wait and let her ramble, let his mind turn over comments about how much Jake needed a presence like yours in his life (in times like those, Sidney thought you felt like his wife. Maybe Jake needed a step-mom. Maybe he needed a wife. Maybe he needed someone to come home to and press a kiss to the temple of and fuck into the mattress and promise to give more babies to.)

Alas, he arrived at the school and there was Jake, bright and happy and sweet in the little overalls you’d gotten him for Christmas, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Where’s Y/N?” The boy asked, making Sidney look in the rearview at the child’s nonchalant look, gaze trained on a squirrel just outside the window.

“She’s not gonna babysit you today, buddy,” Sidney replied, and there was an odd pang in his chest at the sentence, at the prospect of you not being there for him when he got home. “She’ll be here tomorrow night to sit, though.” 

“Oh,” Jake sounded horribly dejected, like he’d just been told a favorite friend couldn’t come over. “OK.” 

The rest of the car ride stayed silent, clean pop radio droning quietly, comfortably in the dull air of the Range Rover.

And the rest of the night went on normally. Jake rambled about kickball in the schoolyard and maybe something about girls and cooties. Sidney wasn’t really paying attention. He nodded, smiled, laughed when he felt appropriate, all while keeping his eyes trained on the clock. 

Sidney wondered absentmindedly where your date had taken you. He wondered presently why he was thinking about you absentmindedly, and why he was going over all the expensive restaurants he could take you to in his head, singling out which you’d like the atmosphere of, which you’d think were stuffy, or tacky, or both. 

Around 7, halfway through the family movie Jake had chosen for the night, and maybe 25 minutes after Jake had fallen asleep on his father’s shoulder, Sidney wondered if you were leaving dinner yet. He hoped you were. He hoped, selfishly, that you were having a shitty time, and that you’d try to cut the dinner as short as possible. 

When the clock neared 8, long after Sidney had moved Jake to his race-car bed, after he’d carelessly pressed the shuffle button on Netflix and sitting through whatever documentary it’s chosen for him, Sidney wondered if your date had tried to kiss you or not, briefly. His mind ran amok after this, wondering what you’d feel like to kiss, whether your lips would taste like that lipgloss you were always putting on or like the strawberry chapstick you always left at his house. 

The hours came and passed quickly, like that. It was 11, soon after that, and Sidney began to picture undressing you, as he drifted to a blank, dreamless sleep. He missed the summer. He missed seeing you in the pool with Jake, in the sweetest, most skimpy little bikinis he’d ever seen. Sidney missed you, he thought vaguely, just before sleep took him. 

The night was inky dark, almost prophetic, as Sidney drive home. Not a star to be seen, clouds covering every sliver of visible light. It was late, later than he usually got home. The neighbor’s lights has long since been turned out, only dark windows and porch lights lining the street as Sidney pulled into the driveway. 

He saw your car in the driveway and sighed. He knew you saw him in the driveway, head tilted back, neck bared, as if an invitation, as Sidney thought over what the fuck to do.

He could, of course, do the mature thing - walk into his house, give you a curt, polite smile, make polite small talk, and send you home. Something deeper, a flame somewhere he couldn’t place urged him to walk into the house, press you against the kitchen island and fuck you until your brain melted out of your ears. 

Sidney caught a glimpse of you, in the window, as you walked to the kitchen, and sat down in one of his barstools in a way he swore you knew made your skirts ride up just right. 

You were smiling at something on your phone, typing almost frantically and the cord finally broke in Sidney. The fucking idea that you would be texting whatever little shit you went out with in his house, while you knew he watched drove him insane. All of the pressure that had been building between the two of you for the past months, all the lingering touches and ‘innocent’ comments finally burst into flames.

The car door slammed shut, and Sidney watched you jump, eyes wide something like a doe in headlights. Sidney stalled to the door, key in the lock and door swinging open before he could even process what he was doing. 

“Oh, hi, Sidney.” You spoke, waving, tender, at him as he walked toward you, brown eyes burning something furious.

“Hey, Y/N,” Sidney was in your personal space before you knew, leaning against the kitchen island. 

He looked so fucking good, you thought. Arms crossed, practically popping out of the too-tight sweater he donned, and brows furrowed handsomely. Your eyes widened to look up at him, lips parted. 

Something, something, maybe the same heat that Sidney felt spread in his abdomen, burned the inside of you, told you that finally, finally, you were gonna get somewhere with Sidney. 

“How was your date?” Sidney asked, breaking the sticky silence, voice proverbially gravelly and hoarse, umber eyes narrowed down at you. 

You breathed out at the way he looked at you, opened your mouth, almost like a fish out of water, and said nothing. The silence was heavy with hot tension, stuffy with unspoken words and unholy fantasies that were, at last, drifting out, one by one. 

“C’mon,” Sidney teased, leaning down into your space even more. You felt heat, hotter than you thought you’d ever felt, and probably would feel for the rest of your fucking life, rise to your cheeks. His voice was still soft, and you knew it was to avoid waking Jake up, and still, you knew the smirk that played at his lips, and despite yourself, despite your best judgement, you spoke. 

“It was great, we had a lot of fun.”  

Lie. The guy you’d gone out with was so fucking stupid you were amazed he’d even gotten into the college you were going to. His eyes would not stop flickering down to your tits, gaze locked on them. 

Another bout of painful silence filled the air. Sidney leaned back from you for a moment, then pulled away completely, walking to the fridge to retrieve one of his disgusting health drinks.

Your gaze remained trained on your hands in your lap, though you felt Sidney’s gaze burning into your face from where he stood across from you.

“Did you fuck him?”

“Excuse me?” You responded immediately, eyes back on him, wide as saucers full of milk, mouth slightly agape, You didn’t miss how his eyes moved to your mouth, how they traced over the pinkness of your tongue, the edges of your teeth, like Sidney was drawing a map of exactly how to fuck your mouth most effectively.

“You heard me,” He paused, for a moment, almost savoring in your reactions. “Did you fuck him?” 

You thought over your options for a moment. You didn’t fuck the guy you’d gone out with - though he’d made his best attempts. You wanted to tell him the truth - that you didn’t, because you were his, that you couldn’t even imagine fucking a man other than him, though he’d never so much as touched anywhere highter than your elbow. However, you knew the line in the sand that both of you had drawn was long since swiped away. And you could imagine, you could imagine how much better Sidney would fuck you if he was riled up. 

You told another lie. 

“Yeah,” You responded, meeting his gaze with that same bratty glint Sidney had seen in your eyes two days before.

“Don’t lie to me,” He said, almost immediately, completely confident as he took another swig of his drink.

“‘M not lying,” You mumbled, the words playing on your lips as you stared him down, lips parted and breath falling heavy out of your lips. You were left feeling fucking naked, as Sidney scrutinized your every move. 

“I know you’re lying. I know because I saw that fucking look in your eyes when you told me you had a date,” He took a step closer, “Because you have that same,” Another step, “Bratty look on your little face as Wednesday night.” Another strip closed the distance, and Sidney was right back in your space once more. 

“But even if you weren’t acting like such a little brat,” He stared you down (for a moment, you imagined how it must feel to be a hockey player on the opposing team as Sidney, because God, he had you crumbling under him without so much as a touch.) “I would know you’re lying about fucking whatever college boy you went out with because I know for a fact that you would never wanna fuck anyone but me.”

You were frozen in your seat, mouth open, panting like a dog, panties already sticking to you like glue as you shifted under your boss’ unrelenting gaze, eyes hooded with lust. 

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, darling girl,” Your knees went weak, even as you sat. “And I want the truth this time. Did you fuck the boy you went out with?” 

“No, Sid, I didn’t,” The words burst out of you in a rush, like they wanted to be out. “I didn’t fuck ‘im.” 

“Good girl.” Sidney smiled, something hidden behind it that you couldn’t quite place, that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to care about because all your one-track mind was on was wether or not he was gonna fuck you. 

“Face the island and bend over.” 

You scrambled to push yourself into the position he had told you to, skirt pooling around your hips as you sat, head slightly raised above Sidney’s as he wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you to the very edge. And he kissed you.

And it felt so beautiful, so perfect. And it sounded so corny after the fact, but the first kiss of many you shared that night was everything you had ever dreamed of with Sidney. Even though your head was bent awkwardly to the side, even though it was disgusting and full of spit and teeth and desperation, it was everything you had ever wanted. 

“Fuckin’ slut,” Sidney muttered in your ear, groping your ass under your skirt before pressing a firm slap to it. You heard his laugh, his pretty laugh, as you squeaked at the sensation, jolting forward. “You have no fucking idea what you do to me. No idea.” 

“Tell me,” You whispered, soft, breathy, sounding like much like an angel would. “Quiet, ‘cause Jake’s asleep.” 

Sidney laughed again as he turned you around, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips as he kissed you again, unzipping your skirt and letting it fall to the floor. His movements felt desperate, rushed, fucking starved as he tore your clothes off, landing haphazardly in the kitchen, like a depraved shrine to all the things that weren’t supposed to be happening. 

“These fuckin’ skirts. ‘Gonna take ‘em away from you after this.” He took a step back, looked you over in your tiny shorts, groaned like he couldn’t believe what he saw, what was happening. “Make me so hard. You wouldn’t believe.”

“‘S exactly why I buy ‘em,” You mumbled, mouth still messy and melded to his, still kissing and sharing spit as Sidney rugged at your shirt desperately, tongue rolling over the back of your teeth. 

“We don’t have long,” He mumbled against your lips, words almost incoherent as he pulled his shirt over his head. “Don’t want the little brat upstairs waking up.”

You allowed yourself to laugh - the soft, twinkling sound a harsh contrast to the messy, rushed hands across bodies and kisses on lips. A sticky, heavy warmth left you as Sidney pulled away, eyes boring into yours. The aie around you seemed to still, just a little, and his hands stilled at their stop on your half-naked hips.

You took the opportunity to let your eyes wander for a bit. He’d put on weight since his retirement, and, though the dad bod was not in full effect, you savored in the little softnesses that you found in the formerly harsh lines of his body. His face was scratchy with stubble as you ran your hands along it, watching intently as the man before you sighed and leaned into your touch, moving his hands along your hips in a gentle motion. You let Sidney pull you back in with a soft sigh at the loss of your small, tender moment - vaguely felt your lips connect again as you ran your nails down his back, a gentle reminder of what was to come. 

“God, the things I wanna do to you, baby. Fuck,” Your shirt was off, then, and Sidney wasted no time unclasping your bra, cupping your breasts with his hands instantaneously. The flesh was soft in his hands, heavy enough to feel the weight in his hands and drawing a little moan from you as he closed his hands about them. “You’re perfect. Fuck, I’ve waited so long for this.” 

“Mm,” You hummed into his neck, laving your tongue over his collarbone, over the smooth skin there as he ran his fingers over your nipples experimentally, eyes wide open and watching intently for a reaction from you. “Me too.”

Sidney’s hands drifted to the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down, hooking your lacy white panties with them, leaving you naked on his kitchen island. As he moved on, you were momentarily reminded of how little time you had - at any moment your time together could be cut short by tiny footsteps down the stairs and an awkward, longing goodbye as you disappeared into the dark night, seated uncomfortably in a shitty 2000-something Corrola. 

“Look at you,” He spoke, his voice cutting through the thoughtfu silence as he ran his hands down your hips while his thumbs reached in, in to your pussy, spreading you apart to take a curious look. Sidney gave you a stern look as you tried to close your legs in shyness, leaning down and blowing lightly on your clit and watching you squirm with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “‘M ‘gonna fucking destroy you.” 

“I thought you said we didn’t have long,” You teased, spreading your legs wider, ever so slightly, but enough for him to feel, to hold tangible in his calloused hands and examine as he stared into you with a type of intent you’d never seen in person before. 

“All things come in their due time, baby,” You savored in the way the pet name rolled off Sidney’s lips so easily, and you wondered briefly if, after this, after the admissions murmured between desperate, longing kisses and touches of sticky-sweet skin had passed, if they’d still come so easily. “C’mon, open up a little more, wanna taste you,”

You gave him a look (spreading your legs nonetheless. You’d do anything he asked, you thought,) and it pulled another laugh from him as he knelt before you like a man before the altar, resting his hands on your hips like the body and blood. 

“Just real quick,” Sidney murmered against your thigh, more to convince himself than you, as he pressed a gentle, scratchy kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your eyes were closed - in anticipation, in fear, in arousal - the feeling of his breath on your pussy causing you to lift your hips. Sidney’s hands pushed you back down, gently, wordlessly, as he brought his lips to your core. 

You shuddered at the first kiss he pressed to your swollen clit, laving his tongue over the bud as you laid back fully on the counter and gasped. Sidney’s tongue must have been magic, you thought, hips rising and falling wantonly with every wave of pleasure he pushed you through, hand falling to his head, wrapping around his brown curls, the feeling of gel still lingering on your fingers. 

His thumbs remained on the lips of your pussy, keeping you spread for him to do as he pleased, no matter how much you squirmed. Your legs tensed around Sidney’s head as he drew your clip into his mouth, sucking gently at you, and in the back of his mind, though he knew he couldn’t give himself too much credit, Sidney was proud to be drawing such dramatic reactions from you as you flailed helplessly under him.

He switched between sucking and licking for a short while, despite it felt like a lifetime to you, squeals and unabashed moans muffled by a careful, responsible hand over your mouth. Sidney wished, in an irrational, still-lintering youthful part of himself, that he could hear you moaning without the sound barrier, though he knew much better. Maybe he’d leave Jake at Geno’s for a sleepover one night, take you out for a nice dinner somewhere, eat you out on the counter for longer than he planned to that night, hear you scream for him in the dim kitchen light. 

But for then, for that short, hopeful moment, Sidney could be satisfied with the muffled, barely-there sound of a scream as he pushed two fingers into you, savoring in your tightness while he pushed them in and out experimentally. He was, momentarily, too enthralled in the taste of you to hear the soft pleas falling from your lips, barely hanging on a too-quiet sigh. 

“Please, Sid,” You murmured, lip caught between your lips like a fly, tight enough to turn pale with the force of your teeth. “Please, need you, please.” 

Sidney pulled away from the apex of your thighs, face sticky and shining like honey in the dim, warm lights that hung above you. The edges of him plump lips lifted into a barely-there smile as he stood, casting a shadow over your naked body as you laid on the cold, hard counter beneath him. 

“You already have me, needy girl,” He smiled, and it would have been kind, if he weren’t teasing so badly and forcing a needy, sticky pout to your lips. “What else do you want?”

“Your- You know what I mean, Sid,” You whined, and you knew if you heard yourself, you would have cringed, but for that moment, you couldn’t give two fucks about how desperate you sounded. “Please.”

“I know exactly what you want,” Sidney pulled his fingers out of you, still smiling that cruel smile, leaning over you like a benevolent spirit. “But I want to hear you say it.”

You sat up, resting on your elbows, with eyebrows furrowed and your very best pout adorning your lips. And the look on his face told you he was already gone, because his fly was already down and his slacks were already slipping off. He just needed to hear that you were his. 

“Please, I need you in me,” You whined - not loud enough to wake Jake from his peaceful, unknowing slumber, but loud enough to portray to your desperation to his father. “Please, I need you inside, I’ve been such a good girl.” 

“That’s my girl,” The reaction was instantaneous. You tried not to linger on how Sidney’s hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you to his as his lips pressed softly, affectionately to your forehead as he dropped his boxers with the other, or how he pulled you just a little closer to the edge than you needed to be, a little closer to him.

He pushed into you quickly, without hesitation. You gasped at the suddenness of it - the stretch of your pussy around his cock burned, just a little, an ember in the dying fireplace, orange and happy and good. 

You clung to Sidney as he let you adjust for a minute, hands roaming over his back, trying to map every little dip and divot in the milky expanse of it, where his shoulderblades stood as he held himself above you, where you could feel the tensness of his neck in his spine as you felt for each and every vertebrae. 

Sidney reveled in the tiny drop of your jaw as he began to move, slowly, in and out of your messiness, groaning just a little at the sticky, wet sounds that seemed to run to his ears. Your nails dug little crescents into his back, and the memory of chirps in the locker room crossed his mind for a moment. You felt the feeling of him reach deeper than anyone you’d ever been with before, drawing strangled little sounds and choppy, progressively louder moans form your parted lips, like he was physically, literally pushing the moans out of your throat with each passing stroke. 

“Be fuckin’ quiet,” Sidney grumbled in your ear, cut momentarily by a particularly loud grunt as you kicked your legs at the feeling of him hitting somewhere inside you. He cursed, softly, quietly under his breath, hips snapping harder and harder against yours as you mewled beenath him. 

Sidney thought you were a sight to fucking behold. Head tilted back, eyes screwed shut and lips pushed closed as you tried to stifle your moans, hair splayed messily beneath you, long since having plopped back down on his kitchen counter. Your hands varied in position - one clutched your breast in some feeble attempt to ground yourself through the thorough fucking your boss was giving. Another was somewhere up by your head, grasping desperately at air, sometimes wide open, sometimes gripped so tight that your knuckles turned a paler shade. 

Sidney’s brain was cloudy - he could barely think about anything other than how fucking tight your pussy was, how you seemed to pull him back in after every harsh, rough stroke, drunk on your moans and wanton pleas, eyes trained on your face as his hand crept toward your face, impulsive, not thinking straight. 

“I said to be quiet,” Sidney murmered in your ear as he watched the ways your eyes widened while his hand closed over your mouth, effectively muffling the sweet, aching noises you made. Your eyes were trained on his, half-lidded and glassy, filled half-way with uncried tears as Sidney pulled you closer to the edge, striving for more leverage to fuck you. “Fuck, ‘s so good.”

You nearly shattered when he brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing tiny, almost soothing circles to it. Sidney could hear, behind his calloused, warm hand, the muffled sound of an ‘oh God,’ and felt his lips tug into a smug smile once more. 

You were halfway screaming into his hand as he fucked you deeper, deeper, deeper, brushing against parts of you that you barely knew could even be reached, staring intently at your face as you neared orgasm, teetering closer and closer to the edge of something horrifyingly deep and unknown. Sidney knew he was close, blood rushing in his ears as something primal, not-quite developed told him to fuck you harder and harder. 

“Oh, God, Sid,” You spoke (barely spoke, you wouldn’t even call it speaking, because speaking was something intelligent, you thought, and you were much past that point,) muffled by your moans and the hand over your mouth. “Sid, ‘m gonna cum, fuck, ‘m gonna cum.”

And all he did ws nod reverently, eyes wide and lips parted, lost in the throes of his own lust, and press his thumb deeper into your clit, push his hips ‘til they touched yours, and let you cling to his shoulders and scream into his hand.

It felt like nothing you had ever felt before. No lonely ngiht spent with a vibrator and a cheap dildo, with a bumbling frat boy, in the backseat of a car letting a high-school classmate take your virginity could compare to the orgasm Sidney fucking Crosby had given you, that night on his kitchen counter. You were lost in it for what seemed like forever, writhing and letting a stray tear slip down your cheek as you waded through what seemed like an eternity. You felt Sidney cum, too, barely. His shoulders tensed under your nails, he grunted something like fuck into your ear adoringly, shaking as he spilled into you. He sighed and slumped over your limp body, hand falling from your mouth as you both panted like dogs on a hundred-degree day. 

Sidney pressed a tender kiss to your lips then, like passing a secret between the two of you, breathing heavily against your lips and basking in the afterglow that came before he pulled out. 

“Fuck,” He sighed, deeply, into your hair, breathing in the sweet scent of a shampoo he couldn’t place. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect and you’re mine.”

Though you couldn’t yet form coherent sentences yet, still a little too cock-drunk to really form anything intelligent, you pressed your lips to the soft skin behind Sidney’s ear. And you basked in they fact that, in whatever weird, fucked-up way, you were his. You wanted to be his. He wanted you to be his, wanted to be yours, in the same way that the night had almost, barely belonged to you for the months before you actually had sex. 

He pulled out reluctantly, watching in fascination as his cum dribbled out of your thoroughly-used hole, a small, proud part of him reveling in the sense of possession it gave him.

“I’m on the pill,” Was all you could muster, a barely-heard whisper above the nothingness that lingered in the kitchen. 

“Good,” Sidney murmured, pulling you off the counter with a gentleness that you swore was new, steadying you with a possessive hand on your naked hip. “Sorry I came inside.”

You smiled up at him briefly, eyes still glassy and hooded, lips coated with spit, pink with your bites. You winced as you felt cum dribble down your thigh, at the wet, sticky feeling it left as it fell to the floor. 

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Your smile widened as you nodded, slowly, sleepily. Sidney felt warm, sticky affection build in his stomach as he watched you cling to his arm walking to the bedroom, and a smile with no ill intention, to harly-hidden teasing to it spread over his face accompanied by a warmth in his cheeks. 

His hand remained on your hip, protective as you hobbled to the stairs, up the dark staircase and into his lavish bedroom, Sidney plucked you up, softly, to lay you on the bed, murmuring something about getting a rag to clean you up with and disappearing into the attached bathroom. 

You thought briefly about texting Therese triumphantly to brag about finally having fucked your hot boss, but the bed was too warm. It smelled too much like Sidney for you to ever even think about getting up as you gazed lazily at the light from the crack between the bathroom door and the rest of the wall, keeping careful watch for any Sidney-shaped shadows to appear under the door. 

A warm, soft washcloth was what woke you from a sleep you didn’t even know you’d fallen into as Sidney cleaned between your thighs. He shushed you, gently, firmly as you squirmed when he ran it over your overstimulated clit, caressing your hip affectionately before pulling his thick, warm comforter back over you and throwing the washrag indiscriminately in the direction of the bathroom. 

His weight reappeared after a moment, next to you in bed, under the warm covers and safe from the world, just for a moment. As Sidney’s hand settled on your hip, as his eyes closed comfortably against the pillow, he didn’t feel guilt, or fear, or panic. With your soft, naked body nestled next to his in a bed he would usually think was far too comfortable for his own good, Sidney fell into a deep, comfortable sleep for the first time in years.

[smdnai]

Your Sidney and younger girlfriend works have been giving me life maybe one of him attended her university graduation like after her undergrad/masters and it’s a little private because ya know their age gap is a little controversial so they have their own celebration 👀

you don’t see him in the crowd.

not that you expected to—sidney made that clear. “i’ll be there,” he told you the night before, “but i’m not gonna make it a thing.”

you understood. you always do. it’s not that he’s ashamed of you, or even of what you have. but people talk. they talk enough already, and he’s spent years learning how to ignore them, how to let the outside world buzz and hum without letting it get in. but you? you’re still so young. fresh out of college, bright-eyed, untouched by the worst of it. he doesn’t want them to ruin you before you even get started.

so he’s there, but not there. watching from somewhere in the sea of faces as you cross the stage, shake hands, accept your diploma. watching as you toss your cap, laugh, throw your arms around your friends, take endless photos.

you don’t see him. but you feel him.

later, when it’s over, when the celebrations have died down and the exhaustion starts to settle into your bones, you get a text.

“come outside.”

your stomach flips. you make up some excuse to your family—just need a minute, be right back—and slip out into the warm evening air.

he’s waiting by his car, leaning against it, hands in the pockets of his slacks. your breath catches a little when you see him. he’s dressed down, baseball cap pulled low, but he’s still him. big. solid. yours.

and the moment his eyes meet yours, your chest aches.

“you were there,” you say, walking up to him, feeling suddenly small beneath his gaze.

he nods. “wouldn’t miss it.”

warmth spreads through you. “did you at least cheer?”

his mouth quirks up. “in my head.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “that’s not the same.”

he tilts his head, considering. “guess i’ll have to make it up to you, then.”

you barely have time to react before he’s pulling you in, hands firm on your waist, lifting you off the ground and spinning you in one easy motion. you gasp, hands gripping his shoulders, but the sound quickly turns into laughter as he holds you against him, tight and steady.

“that’s what i wanted,” you murmur, breathless as he sets you back down.

he smirks. “better late than never.”

you grab his shirt, tugging him down to kiss you, pouring everything you feel into it—the pride, the relief, the overwhelming love for the man who’s let you shine, even when he had to stay in the shadows.

and later, when he takes you home, when he presses you into the mattress and murmurs, “so proud of you, baby,” against your skin—

you believe him.

[smdnai]

BARKING

The Sound of You | B. Skjei

Part of City Lights, Hockey Nights

Nashville used to have more integrity than just looking at the bottom line... --> Crystal Gale

***

Request: there was quite a few but all mashed into one!

Summary: A stripper in Music City, but the sound you're the most interested in is his voice...

Word Count: 4.6k

Pairing: Brady Skjei x fem!reader

Warnings: descriptions of past sex, alcohol, age gap, strip clubs/strippers stuff like that

Notes:

ik he isn't that old... but let's just pretend reader is in her like very early 20s and has a baby face

I need him sooooooo bad

dilf dilf dilf

Took inspo from one of my favourite movies of 2024, Anora

enjoy!

The bass thrums through the floor, rattling up your spine as you weave through the crowd, the air thick with perfume and liquor. A haze of pink neon glows over the stage, catching on rhinestone heels and the shimmery fringe of cowboy hats. A few of the other girls are already circling a group of men near the VIP booths, their shirts bunched up in fists, drinks sloshing over the rims. You recognize them instantly—the Nashville Predators. A bunch of overpaid, overconfident guys with nothing better to do on an off night.

You roll your eyes and keep moving, trailing your fingers along the back of an empty chair, scanning for better options. It’s not that you don’t like money—you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t need it—but the hockey guys are always the same. Loud, arrogant, slurring their words as they flash their cash like it makes up for everything. The girls fall over them anyway, because they tip well, but you’re not in the mood to play along. Not tonight.

Then you spot him—taller than the others, broader too, leaning back in a booth with one arm slung over the back. His dark shirt stretches over strong shoulders, and he’s got that look, like he’s been around long enough to know better but still ended up here anyway. Silver streaks through his hair, catching in the dim light, making him stand out among the younger guys. For a second, you assume he’s someone’s dad, maybe a bored husband waiting for his friends to finish throwing cash at girls half his age.

You sidle up to him, pressing a hand against the edge of his table, angling yourself just right. He glances up, eyes sweeping over you, slow and considering. “You look like you could use a dance,” you offer, letting your lips curl as you shift your weight, making the fringe on your outfit sway. You’re used to men snapping at the bait instantly, but he just watches you, then drags a hand down his face like he’s debating it.

“You sure you wanna waste your time on me?” he asks, voice lower than you expected. There’s a rasp to it, like whiskey over ice, settling in your stomach like a slow burn. Up close, you can see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw flexes when he smirks. He doesn’t look like the others—there’s something steadier about him, something grounded. But money is money, and he doesn’t look like he’s hurting for it.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say, trailing a finger along the buttons of his shirt. He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s in on some private joke, but nods toward the back rooms anyway. You grab his hand, leading him away, heat buzzing beneath your skin.

The private room is dimly lit, the music thrumming softer, the scent of cologne and champagne lingering in the air. You straddle his lap, shifting against him as your hands find his shoulders. The heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, the scent of whiskey and clean linen mingling in the space between you. 

He leans back in the chair, hands resting on your hips like he’s holding himself still more than anything. Most men would already be pawing at you, but he doesn’t move beyond what’s necessary. There’s something unnerving about it, the way he watches without expectation, letting you decide how this goes. You shift against him, rolling your hips just slightly, waiting for the usual reaction—a sharp inhale, a stutter in his movements—but he just exhales slow, steady, eyes tracking every little movement like he’s taking his time memorizing it.

You don’t like that. You like it when they react, when they get drunk on the moment, when they stop thinking and let you work. It’s easier that way. But he’s still too focused, too present, and it makes something crawl under your skin. Your fingers skim the front of his shirt, trailing over the buttons, giving him a coy look. “You like to have fun, old man?” you tease, tilting your head as you press in closer, your lips just inches from his jaw.

He huffs out something close to a laugh, but it isn’t dismissive—it’s knowing, like he’s letting you have this moment, letting you think you’re the one in control. His fingers brush against your thigh, not gripping, just there, his warmth bleeding through your bare skin. “Depends on what you think fun is,” he says, voice still wrapped in that easy rasp, like he’s had a lifetime of late nights and long conversations. His eyes flick down for just a second, taking in the way you’re pressed against him, the way your lingerie shifts as you move. Then, without hesitation, he pulls out a neat stack of twenties, slipping them one by one into the band of your top, the crisp edges dragging over your skin.

Your stomach tenses at the sheer number of bills he pushes into place—most guys toss down singles, maybe a five if they’re feeling generous. He isn’t showing off, though. He’s just handing it over, casual as anything, like it’s only fair. The weight of the money settles against your ribs, each bill a silent message. You should be thrilled, should feel triumphant, but instead, there’s something else there, something that makes your fingers twitch against his collar. “Big spender,” you murmur, trying to tip the balance back in your favor. “You always hand it out this easy?”

He tilts his head slightly, considering you. “You’re working,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You should be paid for it.” He says it without that slimy edge you’re used to, no leer or expectation hanging between the words. Just a fact, clean and simple, like he’s handing cash to a bartender or tipping a valet. His eyes don’t waver from yours, and it’s unsettling in a way you can’t quite place.

You should just play along. You should say something flirty, maybe press a kiss to his jaw, keep him comfortable so he keeps peeling off those crisp twenties. But instead, you hesitate. Your hands rest lightly against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He doesn’t have the usual desperate hunger you expect from men here—he’s comfortable, settled, like he’s just here to pass the time. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, more curiosity than performance.

He sighs like he’s debating how much to give away, then shrugs. “I play hockey,” he says, watching your reaction carefully. You feel your mouth pull into something close to a smirk, the pieces clicking together. It makes sense now—the broad shoulders, the thick arms, the way he carries himself. But it still doesn’t fit, not with the silver at his temples, the calm steadiness in his gaze. The guys outside are boys, throwing money around like it makes them interesting. This man–he’s something else entirely.

“You don’t act like them,” you say, testing the words as they leave your mouth. His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close.

“That a bad thing?”

You don’t answer, just trail your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the way he exhales at the touch. Maybe it’s not a bad thing. Maybe, for once, you don’t mind taking your time.

You let your fingers linger at the nape of his neck, watching the way his breath shifts, slower now, controlled. He doesn’t react the way you expect—not a sharp inhale, not a hungry pull closer, just the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your touch. It’s unsettling, but not in a bad way. You’re used to men throwing themselves into the moment, eager to chase whatever high they think they’re buying. But he’s content to let you lead, watching you like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“Got a name?” you ask, voice soft but certain, testing the waters between you. You don’t really care—most men give fake ones anyway—but something about him makes you want to hear it. He shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling just enough to make you wonder if he’s debating an answer. Then, finally, he exhales, voice low and even. “Brady.”

Brady. It suits him. Strong, simple, like he doesn’t feel the need to dress it up. You roll it around in your head, weighing the way it feels against everything else about him—the silver at his temples, the steady way he holds himself, the patience in his movements. It doesn’t give much away, but somehow, it’s enough.

You lean in, dragging your nails lightly over the fabric of his shirt, waiting to see if he’ll shift beneath you. He doesn’t, just watches, still as ever. Your body hums with the anticipation of something you can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the lack of urgency, the way he isn’t rushing anything. It should make you feel powerful, in control, but instead, it feels like he’s the one holding the reins, simply by refusing to pull them.

When you reach back, unfastening the clasp of your bra, his eyes track the movement, slow and deliberate. The fabric slides down your arms, and for the first time in a long time, you feel the moment stretch between you—thicker than air, almost tangible. Brady doesn’t move right away. Instead, he waits, gaze flicking up to yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“Can I?” he asks, voice steady, unhurried. It knocks something loose inside you. Most men would have already taken what they wanted, hands eager and clumsy. But he asks, like it matters, like you matter. You nod, and when he finally touches you, his hands are warm, sure, sliding slow like he’s in no rush to get anywhere.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, pressing your palms against his shoulders for balance. His thumbs brush along the curve of your ribs, and there’s something grounding about the way he touches you—not possessive, not hurried. Like he’s just enjoying the moment for what it is. You close your eyes for half a second, letting yourself settle into the warmth of his hands. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pull you closer, just lets you decide what comes next.

Your fingers flex against his shoulders before you glance at him, something prodding at the back of your mind. “You got a wife, Brady?” The words come out quieter than you mean them to, but you need to ask. He looks at you, expression unreadable for a moment before he shakes his head.

“No,” he says simply, and somehow, you believe him. Maybe it’s the way he says it—no hesitation, no guilt. Just a fact. 

You study his face for a second longer than you should, taking in the way his expression doesn’t shift, the way he doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Most men would have already fumbled through some kind of reassurance, something performative, but Brady just meets your gaze and lets the words sit between you. You roll your weight forward, pressing against him, watching for the reaction that never comes. The heat of his body is unmistakable beneath you, solid and real, but there’s no sharp inhale, no tightening of his grip, nothing to indicate that your movement did anything at all.

Your stomach twists, something uncomfortable knotting inside you. You know what men are supposed to do when you grind against them, when you move like this, when you put on the show they came here to see. You shift again, a little slower this time, rolling your hips in a way that usually makes them fall apart, but Brady only watches you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for you to realize something. Frustration flares in your chest, unexpected and unfamiliar, and you lean in closer, letting your breath ghost over the curve of his jaw. “What’s wrong?” you murmur, letting the words drip into his ear like honey, like a promise. “Not feeling it?”

Brady exhales sharply—not a sigh, not a groan, but something closer to a laugh. It sends another ripple of frustration through you, hot and fast, and you pull back just enough to see the way the corners of his mouth twitch. “Something wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, voice smooth, easy, like he’s perfectly content to sit here all night and let you puzzle him out. His hands still rest against your hips, unmoving, steady, patient in a way that makes your pulse kick up. You tighten your grip on his shoulders, nails pressing into the fabric of his shirt, needing something to ground you. “Are you even here because you think I’m hot, or what?” The question slips out before you can stop it, sharper than you intended, but you don’t regret it. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like he sees something you don’t.

His fingers flex just slightly against your skin, the closest thing to a reaction he’s given you yet. “I think you’re beautiful,” he says, plain as anything, like it’s a fact and not something meant to be tossed out in the dark of a private room. He doesn’t say it the way most men do, all hunger and desperation, like he’s hoping to get something out of it. He just says it like it’s true, like it would be true whether he was here or not. Your breath catches for a split second, but you don’t let it show, just tip your chin up like you’re unimpressed, like it doesn’t mean anything at all.

You roll your hips one last time, slower now, searching for any flicker of something beneath you. Still nothing. Your frustration bubbles over, making you want to shove at his chest, make him react, make him stop looking at you like he’s already got you figured out. But before you can, the timer on your phone chimes, sharp and insistent, shattering the moment between you. You let out a breath and pull back, already reaching for the money tucked into your top on the floor, ready to gather it up and move on like you always do. But then Brady is pulling out more bills, crisp and clean, sliding a few hundreds into your hand like it’s nothing.

“Run it back, sweetheart,” he says, voice easy, like he has all the time in the world. The words send a strange pulse through you, something both grounding and electric, like a coin flipping mid-air. He could have just booked another dance, could have tossed the money down and expected you to come back, but instead, he asks, like it’s a choice, like it’s up to you. You watch him for a second, weighing the extra cash, the way he’s still looking at you, patient and unreadable. Then, before you can think too hard about it, you nod, slipping the money into place, already shifting to settle back onto his lap.

His lips twitch again, and this time, you don’t bother pretending it doesn’t make something shift inside you. “Good girl,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear over the bass pulsing through the walls. You set your hands against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your palms. He’s still not reacting the way you expect, still watching you like you’re something worth taking his time with.

You don’t know how it happened, not really. One second, Brady was just another client in a dimly lit private room, handing over cash with the kind of ease that suggested he wouldn’t miss it. The next, he was everywhere. He was a text when you woke up, a sleek car waiting outside when you finished your shift, a reservation under your name at a place that didn’t bother listing prices on the menu. He was the glint of diamonds on your wrist, the weight of silk draped over your shoulders, the ache between your legs that didn’t fade no matter how many hours passed. And worst of all, he was under your skin, curling into places you hadn’t realized were hollow until he filled them.

The first time someone mistook you for his daughter, you nearly choked on your drink. It had been a waiter, flustered but well-meaning, offering you a mocktail menu like you weren’t wearing a dress that cost more than your rent. Brady had just laughed, easy and unbothered, taking the regular cocktail menu from his hands and placing it in front of you like it hadn’t happened. But later, when you sat in his lap, impaled on him, legs trembling, his hand wrapped around your throat in that perfect way, he murmured against your ear, “You still worried about what they think?” The words had burned, deep and low, his voice sinking into your skin, and you had whimpered something incoherent, nails raking over his shoulders as he fucked the doubt right out of you.

It happened again, and again, always some older couple glancing at you with polite, confused smiles, always someone assuming you were his child and not the woman he dragged to bed every night. But he never let it touch you. Never let you dwell on it for more than a moment before replacing every sliver of uncertainty with something else—his lips tracing fire over your body, his fingers pressing exactly where they should, his voice wrecking you until you forgot how to doubt anything at all. He never let you slip too far, never let your mind wander into places that didn’t serve you. “Let them think what they want,” he would say, smoothing a hand over your thigh, his touch grounding you in ways you refused to name. “We know what this is.”

And maybe you did. Maybe you understood in the way he never asked you to quit, never tried to change you, never tried to buy more than you were willing to sell. He let you keep your job, let you keep your life, never once demanded more than what you were willing to give. But he gave. He gave so much it made your head spin. Bouquets waiting at your door, money slipped into your purse with an easy, thoughtless grace, gifts wrapped in expensive paper that you pretended not to like before wearing them with pride. He would leave for road trips and still find ways to make his presence known—a wire transfer, a handwritten note tucked into your things, a message just vague enough to make you ache. “Be good, sweetheart.” As if you ever could be with him on your mind.

The sex was the biggest problem. Or maybe it was the solution. You weren’t sure anymore. He ruined you, left you shaking, left you panting, left you wondering if you had ever actually known pleasure before he put his hands on you. He would take you apart slowly, deliberately, then put you back together in ways you didn’t understand. It wasn’t just that he was good; it was that he knew exactly how to unravel you. Every time you thought you had a handle on it, thought you could predict what he would do, he would change the game. A new position, a new rule, a new way to make you beg. He wasn’t just fucking you; he was playing you like he had all the time in the world to figure out every note, every key.

But he never kept you. He never demanded you quit, never told you to move in, never asked you to give up the independence you had fought so hard to carve out. He let you have your life, let you keep the control you had spent years clawing for. It should have been a relief. It should have made this easier. But instead, it made the space between you feel sharper, more pronounced. He was everything, but he wasn’t yours. Not really. He was just there, filling your nights with pleasure and your days with excess, leaving his mark on you in ways that didn’t fade even when he was gone. 

And worst of all? You liked it that way.

You liked that he never asked for more than you were willing to give. You liked that he treated you like something to be spoiled, not owned. You liked that he let you keep your life while making sure it was just a little bit better, just a little bit easier, just a little bit more golden. 

Your favourite version of Brady was when he would come back from a road trip, tired and sore, and pull you into his lap like nothing had changed. He would touch you like he had missed you, kiss you like he had thought about you every second he was away.

He pulls you in without a word, arms locking around your waist, solid and certain, like he needs to remind himself you’re real. His lips find yours in the kind of kiss that isn’t rushed or desperate but slow, purposeful, like he has all the time in the world. His hand slides up your back, fingers curling at the nape of your neck, holding you just close enough that you can feel the way his breath fans against your cheek.

You sink into him easily, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, letting yourself get lost in the familiar press of his mouth. There’s something different about it tonight, something softer. You can taste the exhaustion on him, the way his body is too tired to demand anything beyond this, beyond the quiet intimacy of just being close. Your fingers slip into his hair, tracing the silver strands at his temples, and he sighs against your lips like that single touch melts away the weight of the last few days. His hands settle at your waist, firm but not insistent, just holding, just feeling.

“I missed you,” you whisper against his lips, and his answering hum vibrates low in his chest.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw, breathing you in. His hands drift lower, palms skating over your hips before tightening just slightly. “Tell me how much.”

You bite your lip, smiling, pressing closer so there’s no space left between you. Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way his breathing shifts when you reach the hem of his shirt. You trail your mouth along his jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tasting the warmth of his skin. He leans back against the couch, letting you take your time, letting you do what you want with him. When you slip to your knees between his legs, his breath hitches just slightly, the only sign that he’s not as unaffected as he wants to pretend.

But before you can go any further, before your fingers can even reach for his belt, his hand catches your chin, tilting your face back up to his. There’s no urgency in the way he does it, no roughness. Just a simple, quiet demand. “Come back up, sweetheart.”

Your brows pull together, but you don’t resist, letting him guide you back onto his lap. His arms wrap around you again, holding you close, his lips brushing against your temple. There’s a quiet sort of contentment in the way he touches you, like he’s savoring the feeling of you being here, real and solid in his arms. “Not tonight,” he murmurs, voice smooth and steady, like he’s already made up his mind. “Just wanna hold you for a bit.”

Your heart trips over itself, not expecting the warmth that spreads through you at his words. He could have let you continue, could have let you take him apart the way you know he likes, but instead, he’s choosing this—choosing to just be close, to breathe you in and take his time. It shouldn’t make you feel the way it does, shouldn’t make your chest feel tight and your fingers curl into his shirt like you never want to let go. You swallow, pressing your face into the curve of his neck, letting yourself sink into the moment.

“You like this life I’ve given you, baby girl?” His question is unexpected, slipping into the space between kisses, his voice smooth but laced with something deeper. You pull back just enough to look at him, blinking as the words settle in. His thumb traces along your jaw, his gaze steady, patient, waiting for your answer.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a question that shouldn’t feel so loaded, but it does, because there’s no easy answer. You love the dinners, the gifts, the way he always makes sure you’re taken care of—but that’s not what keeps you here. It’s him. The way he watches you like you’re something worth waiting for, the way he never takes more than you’re willing to give. The way he makes you feel like you belong to him without ever asking you to.

He must see the hesitation flicker across your face because he hums, tipping his head to the side like he’s considering something. “I love it,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love spoiling you, taking care of you. Love the way you curl up in my lap when you’re tired. Love how you kiss me like you mean it. Love how you keep my bed warm when I come home.” His fingers drag slowly down your spine, his grip firm but gentle. “Love that I can’t go a day without thinking about you.”

Heat rises in your face, creeping down your neck, pooling low in your stomach. His words settle into your bones, each one wrapping around you like a brand. It should make you nervous, the weight of it, but it doesn’t. It just makes you want to sink deeper into him, let him pull you closer, let him keep talking like he’s unraveling something inside you.

His hand moves up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking over the curve of your throat. “And I love you,” he says, simple and certain, like he’s known it all along. “I know you love me too.”

Your heart stutters, a sharp inhale catching in your throat. He says it like a fact, like he’s never once questioned it. You should argue, should say something teasing to tip the moment back into your control, but you can’t. Because he’s right. You do love him. And the realization crashes into you like a wave, leaving you breathless, dizzy.

Brady smirks, reading every flicker of emotion on your face like an open book. “Not in it for the money, are you, doll?” His fingers tighten just slightly at your nape, enough to make you shiver. “I’ve known that from the start.”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your pulse, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at you like that. Like he already knows every thought running through your head, every unspoken truth you’re too afraid to say.

Then, before you can catch your breath, he drops it on you like it’s nothing. Like it’s as simple as anything else he’s ever given you. “I wanna marry you, sweetheart,” he says, casual as anything, like he’s suggesting dinner plans. “Make it official. Keep you forever.”

Your mind blanks. The air leaves your lungs. For the first time since you met him, you have no idea what to say.

Brady just watches you, unbothered, perfectly content to let you process. His thumb strokes over your jaw, the smallest, most grounding touch in the world. “Think about it,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. “But we both know the answer.”

[smdnai]

the little smiles and that vocal fry...

[smdnai]

tiptoes

[smdnai]

[EKKY] after the game against the devils 04.01.2025

[smdnai]

we got a cali fin jersey repeat of the moment from last game