all your universes live in my head rent free but kelce’s sister and hockey rafe occupy a special spot
you really rewired my brain with those two
pairing: kelce's!sister x hockey!rafe
warnings: smut
Your brother likes to do things with intent.
Which turns out to be a problem, mostly for your little self.
You’ve known that since you were kids, when he figures out that the fastest way to get a rise out of you is to smile.
The chalet he booked is ridiculous—wood beams stretching up like a cathedral, a stone fireplace bigger than most dorm rooms, windows opening onto nothing but snow-heavy pines and mountains that look fake enough to be printed on a postcard.
Rich-kid Christmas break at its finest.
Everyone dumps their bags in the foyer, boots kicked off, when Kelce claps his hands together like a villain who’s been waiting for his cue.
“Alright,” he says, grinning. “Since I booked the place, I pick the rooms.”
You stop mid-unzipping your coat, already dreading the outcome.
Rafe, clocking the tone immediately, leans down toward your ear. “He’s smiling,” he murmurs. “That’s never good.”
You shoot him a glare that says don’t start, but you don’t bother hiding your own suspicion. Kelce has been your brother your whole life, which means he’s made it his mission to be annoying for just as fucking long.
Rafe stands behind you now, hands lazily resting on your hips, and leans down again. “He’s plotting.”
You bite back a shit-eating smile. God, he smells good.
Kelce starts assigning rooms like he’s handing out punishments, using everyone’s government names. JJ and Kiara—master bedroom, balcony, king bed. JJ whoops like he’s won the lottery.
Then Kelce turns to you and Rafe.
“And you two,” he says, pointing between you, “are in the east wing.”
Rafe’s brows lift. “Sounds expensive.”
Your smile drops so fast it almost hurts.
You stare at him. “Say that again.”
Kelce tosses you the key. “Two twins. Real cozy.”
“Oh my God,” you say flatly. “You are actually sick in the head.”
Topper chokes on his laugh. Kiara winces. JJ immediately says, “Oh, that’s foul.”
Rafe laughs, completely unbothered. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in with the same instinct he’s had his whole life.
“You know that’s not gonna stop me,” Rafe says, eyes locked on Kelce. “Right?”
Your brother rolls his eyes, fake-gagging. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Two tiny twin beds, a pettily small gap between them. One sad little nightstand.
You stand there, hands on your waist, glaring at the beds.
Rafe drops his bag and flops onto one of the beds, testing the mattress, completely at ease—probably that hockey-captain energy from all the road trips.
“I’ve definitely slept in worse.”
You turn to him. “Rafe. This is not helping.”
He sits up immediately, grin softening when he sees the pout on your face. He crosses the room in two steps and cups your waist, palms warm against your sides. Your body responds without permission, melting into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he coos quietly. “We’re together. That’s the part I care about.”
Kelce can give you twin beds, can be as annoying as he wants, can try to control whatever he likes—but none of it changes the way Rafe looks at you.
“He did it on purpose,” you mutter.
“Oh, absolutely,” Rafe agrees. “One hundred percent.”
He smiles, eyes bright, this all being hilarious to him.
You gesture around. “Because we’re sleeping like camp counselors.”
Rafe laughs and leans down, forehead pressing against yours.
“Baby, I’d sleep on the floor if it means waking up next to you.”
One sentence from him expels the edge right off your mood. You let yourself feel giddy—he’s yours, you’re his, and Kelce can do nothing about it.
You pull away first, pointing a finger at his chest.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
You turn back to unpacking, folding expensive sweaters and ski gear you’ve only worn once before. It’s your normal, but sometimes it still feels surreal—standing in a mountain chalet with your childhood best friend turned boyfriend hovering behind you like a shadow.
By afternoon, the whole group migrates outside, bundled in designer coats and goggles, giggling in the crisp air. The mountains are blindingly white, sun bouncing off the snow in a way that makes everything feel unreal. You soak in the privilege of it—none of you have to think about cost or time or consequences.
Rafe sticks close, like always. His hand finds yours without thinking, fingers lacing inside thick gloves. You catch him glancing down at you more than once, at your dark, glowing cheeks against the cold.
You aren’t skiing seriously—just gliding, laughing when JJ nearly wipes out, when Topper complains about the cold in a jacket that probably costs four figures. Kiara skis ahead, graceful as ever, shouting back at everyone.
Rafe stays at your side, matching your pace, refusing to leave you behind even when you tell him to go on.
Later, you all sprawl on heated lounge chairs outside the chalet, sipping hot chocolate, fire pits roaring nearby. You lean back against Rafe’s chest, his arm draped over your shoulders, thumb rubbing absent circles into your arm. You catch yourself smiling for no reason.
You tilt your head back to look at him; his eyes soften immediately.
“Nothing,” he says, brushing a kiss into your hair.
Eventually, after a full day of overstimulation, the chalet quiets down. You move through the room slowly, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from the fire and Rafe’s hands that never stray far. You catch your reflection in the mirror while pulling your hair back—dark skin glowing under amber light, features relaxed, eyes heavy-lidded in that pretty nighttime way.
There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing yourself like this: comfortable, adored, completely at home in your body and this life. Rafe stands behind you, brushing his teeth, shirtless and broad and way too much man for a twin bed. You smile to yourself—this is your reality now.
Choosing one bed isn’t up for discussion. Rafe lifts the covers on his and looks at you like it’s obvious. You climb in first, back pressed to the wall; the mattress dips the second he follows. The fit is ridiculous, your knees nearly off the edge, his shoulder brushing the headboard, but he wraps himself around you, one arm snug around your waist, leg thrown over yours.
You laugh quietly, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away. You like the weight of him, how he crowds out everything else. Your thoughts slow when he’s this close.
Sleep comes in pieces, drifting. You hover in that in-between space, feeling his breath at the nape of your neck.
After a while, an annoying thought creeps in: If I have to pee, this is going to be fucking hell. You sigh silently, staring at the wall inches from your face, hyperaware of being trapped between wood and solid man. Carefully, painfully slowly, you wriggle free, lifting his arm and sliding out inch by inch until you escape to your own bed across the gap.
The moment your body hits the other mattress—exactly that moment—something cosmic snaps.
Or maybe he never really slept at all.
You barely have time to blink before the mattress dips again and he’s on you, one hand braced beside your head, the other cradling your face like he’s been searching for you in his dreams. Your eyes widen, brows lifting in surprise, lips parting on a soft, confused “Rafe?”
But the question never finishes because he kisses you like he’s been gone for years—muscle memory taking over, his body knowing exactly where you belong even if his mind is still half-dreaming.
You melt immediately, fingers curling into his forearm, skin buzzing everywhere he touches. His kisses are warm, full of that never-hidden affection. When he finally pulls back, forehead dropping to yours, his voice is rough with sleep.
“Where’d you go?” he murmurs.
“I was right there,” you whisper amused.
Rafe frowns slightly, unsatisfied. His eyes are still heavy, lashes low, but the way he looks at you is anything but tired. His thumb brushes your cheek.
He kisses you again, this time pulling a reaction from you. You give it without thinking, a needy sound slipping from your throat as your hands slide up his chest, feeling the muscle under your palms.
His hand leaves your face, settles at your waist, fingers spreading wide, tugging you closer until no space remains. His thigh presses against yours; your body arches into him before your brain catches up, breath stuttering.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against your mouth—he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
You chuckle into the kiss, feeling powerful like this. You tilt your head, giving him more, and that’s all it takes for him to lose it.
Rafe’s kisses turn messy, consuming. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, thumb brushing under the hem of your sleep shorts, right there, not crossing the line, but exactly where you need him.
You suck in a breath, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his hips jerk forward.
“Baby,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours again.
Your pulse throbs everywhere, especially between your legs. You swallow, mouth brushing his. “You started it.”
He hums, loving the answer. His nips at your jaw, then your neck, sucking and slurping, making your skin buzz. You feel the tension in his shoulders, his grip flexing on your thighs.
He wants more but holds back, for now.
Rafe's face is shadowed in the dark, lips pink from kissing, pupils blown wide in a way that soaks your shorts. He looks so needy for you. And that thought, doing this to him, makes your hips move before you can stop yourself.
You do know better. The wise part of your brain whispers common sense: your brother is down the hall, the house is full, terrible idea.
You grew up in these circles, discretion is second nature. You’re usually the composed one, the girl who thinks before she moves, before she speaks, before she starts things.
Rafe Cameron makes it so hard to care.
He smells so fucking good, you want to bite him. It scrambles your thoughts until nothing else exists. You’re painfully aware of how pretty he is in the dark, lashes low, hair falling out of place. A man who looks like that has no business being this devoted, this obviously in love with you; his body doesn’t know how to stop when you’re close.
You know better—and still, your hips hump him like a bitch in heat.
Rafe sucks in a sharp breath. He didn’t expect it, even though he absolutely did. His forehead drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he lets out a sound he tries and fails to swallow.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice strained.
You do it again, more confidently, rocking against him, beaming at how he reacts instantly, hips rolling back into yours, both of you breathing harder.
The twin bed creaks quietly beneath you, a reminder of the tiny space, but Rafe doesn’t pull away. His chest drops flush to yours, mouth finding the curve of your neck again. He kisses there, marking time instead of skin. You tilt your head back, giving him more without words, hands sliding over his shoulders, nails grazing soft skin.
You suck in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs tighten around him on instinct.
“Fuck,” he whispers, almost a growl against your neck. “You’re—” His forehead presses to your shoulder.
That should be the moment you both calm down. His arms flex as he leans down for a quick peck, biceps straining, wrapping you up.
“Princess,” Rafe pleads, hands flexing at your thighs. “Y’know I’m tryin’ to be good, right?”
You smile, feeling how worked up he is, every inch focused on you. It makes your head spin, makes you bold.
You’re already nodding, legs spread wide, aching for him.
Rafe laughs under his breath, disbelieving then rolls his hips into yours again, making you brace a hand on the headboard.
His rough hand slides lower, fingers tracing lazy circles until they dip under your sleep shorts, finding your pussy already soft and ready.
You gasp, fingers tightening on the headboard, head tipping back, your body opening for him like always: trusting, ready.
His breathing hitches, chest expanding as his forehead drops to your shoulder again, exhaling through teeth, a strained sound he can’t stop.
“That’s not fair,” he murmurs. “You know that’s not fair.”
You turn your head, reeling at how dark and glassy his eyes are, locked on you. You hear the faint crackle of the fire outside, muffled wind against windows—the whole chalet wrapped in sleep.
In seconds, Rafe shifts his hips, reaches for his briefs, pulls himself out, lifts your legs over his waist, and slowly guides himself inside you. He’s big, always stretching you perfectly, but tonight feels achingly gentle as he sinks into your puffy cunt, filling you when you should be dreaming of this exact moment.
Your eyelids flutter as warmth blooms low in your belly.
“Spread those legs wider, baby.” His breath hitches; he lets out a small, controlled groan as he bottoms out.
You obey, thighs trembling as they hook higher around his waist, opening completely. The stretch steals your breath; your walls flutter around him as he seats himself fully, hips flush against yours.
Rafe’s groan muffles against your neck where his face buries itself again.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked, broad chest heaving against yours.
His hand grips your thigh tighter, digging in as he holds you open, letting you feel every thick, pulsing inch. Heat radiates everywhere—his skin on yours, his body pinning you to the tiny mattress.
Your hands roam greedily, scraping down his back. You love how he’s built but melts for you, always careful not to crush you. Your hips tilt up instinctively; he rewards you with a shallow thrust that forces you to bite your lip to stifle a whine.
“Sshh, gotta keep quiet.” Rafe’s finger slides into your mouth; you wrap your lips around it immediately. Your feet lock on his back, forcing him deeper.
His rhythm builds as you suck his thumb like it’s his cock; his hand grips your hip, your clothed breasts grazing his skin and drawing a grunt from him.
Your moans vibrate through him; he pulls his thumb free, watching the trail of spit follow it.
“Jus’ like that.” His teeth nip the nook of your neck.
Rafe’s mouth finds you, swallowing your gasps as he picks up pace—the bed creaking faintly, dangerous in the quiet chalet. His tongue slides against yours; his freshly wetted thumb slips between your bodies, circling your clit with feather-light pressure that makes you clench instantly.
You whimper, one hand flying to the back of his neck.
“You feel so fucking good.”
Rafe lifts his head, lips parted, staring down at you.
“Yeah?” he rasps, pulling back before sinking in again, making your back arch. “Tell me, baby.”
“Please,” You're rocking up to meet him, slick dripping where you’re joined, the sound driving you insane. “Harder—I can take it.”
He curses under his breath, pace quickening, ramming perfectly against that spot that curls your toes. You can’t stay quiet, your voice breaks on every stroke, praises spilling out.
“Yes—right there, oh my God, Rafe—” Your fingers twist in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your neck. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come—”
“That’s it,” he pants, thumb circling your clit fast and relentless.
Rafe’s chest heaves, mouth swollen from biting to stay quiet. He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone as your body pulses around him—each tiny movement of your pussy drawing a muffled plea from him.
He feeds you another inch, hand splayed over your lower belly, feeling himself slide in and out. It’s maddening—ridges and veins catching before your body yields and sucks him in.
You’re so full it almost hurts. You clench rhythmically around him; tears prick your eyes from the overwhelming fullness, yet your legs spread wider, silently begging him to split you open completely.
Rafe loses the fight—a broken curse tears from his lips, hips jerking forward uncontrollably, driving deep as he can go. You feel him swell thicker just before heavy ropes of cum flood you in forceful jets that make your oversensitive walls flutter and clench. The sensation drags you over with him; greedy pulls wrench your orgasm from you without mercy.
Your pussy spasms wildly around his throbbing length, squeezing in ruthlessly, voice hitching on silent screams while he grinds through his release, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle his ragged groans. Both of you tremble violently as he empties himself completely inside you.
Rafe stays buried deep, twitching through the last weak pulses, breath fanning hot against your shoulder.
The room smells like sex and faint pine from the downstairs fireplace. Neither of you moves, just calming shaky breathing.
He finally lifts his head, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. The sight sends another helpless aftershock through you; you clench around him again. He hisses, hips jerking, still half-hard inside you.
“Fuck,” he rasps, disbelieving. He drops his forehead to yours, a shaky laugh escaping. “You made me come in five minutes.”
His lips brush your temple, cheek, corner of your mouth—soft, worshipful kisses that feel more intimate than everything else.
You can’t help the little giggle that bubbles out, thighs still trembling around his waist. “That a complaint, Cameron?”
You bite your lip, grinning up at him, fingers threading through damp hair at his nape. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me in round two.”
His eyes darken instantly, even as he catches his breath. “Yeah, I’m makin’ it up to you, princess.”
Everyone else can keep their petty king-size beds.
You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
In the morning, the sunrise hits like a hangover none of you deserve. Sun streams too bright through massive windows; coffee brews downstairs; everyone moves slowly from cold and yesterday’s overexertion.
You’re last to the kitchen, wearing one of Rafe’s hoodies that swallows you whole. Rafe’s already there, leaning against the counter with a mug, looking annoyingly perfect in gray sweats and a thermal—hair tousled exactly how you left it.
Kelce stands at the island, flipping pancakes like domestic brother of the year.
“Morning, lovebirds,” he says, voice dripping fake sweetness. “Sleep well in your separate twin beds?”
Topper snorts into his coffee. JJ doesn’t hide his laugh. Kiara shoots Kelce a half-hearted behave look.
You roll your eyes and slide onto a stool, reaching for orange juice. Rafe moves behind you automatically, hand settling on the back of your neck, thumb stroking idly.
“We managed,” Rafe answers.
Kelce flips another pancake higher than necessary. “Yeah? No creaking headboards waking the whole house?”
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. Heat crawls up your neck; Rafe’s hand stills.
You set the fork down slowly. “Kelce.”
He turns, spatula in hand, eyebrows raised like he’s innocent. “What? Just askin’. Thin walls in these old chalets, y’know.”
Rafe’s voice drops low. “Watch it.”
Kelce meets his eyes; his smile fades. The spatula freezes mid-air, batter dripping onto the griddle with a sad plop. His face cycles through shock, disgust, betrayal, horror, resignation.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna puke. I was joking! You actually did it? While I’m in the house?! In twin beds I specifically picked to prevent this exact scenario?”
JJ raises a weak hand. “For the record, I didn’t hear anything. I sleep like the dead. Now I kinda wish I had, for the drama.”
“Shut up, Maybank,” Kelce and Rafe say in unison.
You channel years of lying-to-parents practice, tilting your head.
“Did what?” you ask, voice sugary sweet. “We slept great, thanks for asking. Those twins are super supportive. Great for the back.”
JJ howls, sliding off his stool onto the floor in a dramatic heap. Topper’s face goes red holding in laughter. Kiara bites a dish towel to muffle herself.
You go full innocent angel, blinking up at Kelce with Disney-princess eyes.
“Kelce, we slept in separate beds. Pinky-swear.”
Your brother stares at you, then at Rafe—who meets the glare with the most innocent expression a guy who came inside his girlfriend at least three times last night can muster.
Finally Kelce throws the spatula into the sink with a clatter.
“I hate you both. I hate this house. I’m moving the twins farther apart tonight.”
Rafe presses a quick, totally platonic kiss to your temple, pure sibling torment. “You do that. We’re real good at sharing space.”
Kelce gags so hard he grips the counter.
You blow him a kiss. “Love you too.”
JJ hauls himself off the floor, wiping tears. “Ten out of ten. Best breakfast theater I’ve ever seen.”
Kelce flips a pancake so violently it lands on the counter instead of the griddle. “Nobody gets fucking syrup.”
