hockey whore

✨

[jonasiegenthaler]

1-on-1 with Nico Hischier

[drysdaleseyes]

cutest little smile

[andy-15-07]

nico hischier fic in honour of his bday !! ?

Birthday Boy

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Reader

Word Count: 1366

Request open!

Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist | 24 days of Christmas | Hockey Masterlist II

A/N: heyyyy, sorry to post this a little late but I hope you like it 🤍 this was written as a small birthday fic for Nico because he honestly deserves all the soft, happy things. as always, thank you so much for reading and for all the love — it truly means the world to me. 🏒🎂

You wake up to the soft buzz of your phone on the nightstand,too early for it to be anything good. You squint at the screen.

Nico.

A message, sent exactly at midnight.

Nico: I am officially older. Please be nice to me today.

You snort, still half-asleep, and type back with one eye open.

You: Happy birthday, Grandpa. How’s the back pain?

Three dots appear immediately.

Nico: Unacceptable. I will be ignoring you at breakfast.

You: You love me too much to ignore me.

Nico: Unfortunately true.

You grin into your pillow. That’s the thing about Nico,captain on the ice, composed in interviews… and a complete menace in private.

You roll out of bed, pulling on his hoodie because it smells like him and you like pretending you’re not obsessed. The apartment is quiet, but you can hear movement in the kitchen,soft footsteps, the clink of a mug.

You pad in and find him at the counter, hair still messy, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who claims to be “older.”

He turns when you enter, eyes immediately flicking to the hoodie.

“Is that my hoodie?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed. “No.”

He blinks. “It says Devils Hockey on the front.”

“It’s a coincidence.”

“A coincidence,” he repeats, deadpan.

You nod seriously. “Yes.”

He steps closer, lifting an eyebrow. “So you just happened to buy an identical hoodie… in the exact same size… that smells like me?”

You smile sweetly. “Maybe you smell like me.”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile and losing. “Come here.”

You take two steps forward, then stop. “Why?”

“So I can decide if I’m forgiving you for the grandpa comment.”

“That depends,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Are you going to be dramatic about it?”

“I am always dramatic,” he says. “It’s my birthday.”

You laugh and walk into his arms. He wraps you up immediately, chin resting on the top of your head. For a second, he just holds you like he’s memorizing the feeling.

Then, muffled against your hair, he says, “You’re warm.”

“You’re clingy.”

“I’m allowed,” he says. “Birthday.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him. “Happy birthday, Nico.”

He studies you, eyes soft. “Thank you.”

You tilt your head. “That was too serious. Try again.”

He exhales, amused. “Happy birthday, Nico,” he repeats, imitating you with a little too much enthusiasm. “You’re so handsome and talented and your girlfriend is unbelievably lucky,”

“Okay,” you cut in fast, laughing. “That’s enough.”

He grins. “Accurate though.”

You poke his chest. “Ego.”

He catches your hand, bringing your fingers to his mouth for a quick kiss. “Captain.”

“Captain Ego.”

He makes a face like he’s offended. “No. Captain Beautiful.”

You gasp. “Nico.”

“What? It’s true.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Sit.”

He pauses. “Why.”

“Because,” you say, pushing him gently toward the kitchen chair. “I have a birthday plan.”

He sits, suspicious. “I don’t like how you said that.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” he says slowly. “I don’t trust your ideas.”

You walk to the counter, revealing a small plate you’d hidden behind the coffee machine: pancakes shaped like a very questionable number, with berries arranged into a heart.

Nico stares at it.

Then he looks at you.

Then back at the plate.

“You made me… a pancake number?” he asks carefully.

You lean in, proud. “It’s your age.”

He squints. “That looks like… a swan.”

“It’s a seven,” you insist.

He points. “That’s a neck.”

“That’s the top of the seven!”

“And this is… what, the tail?”

“Stop analyzing my art,” you say, offended. “Just eat it.”

He laughs under his breath. “It’s very… creative.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It is,” he agrees, then looks up at you with that soft expression again. “You did this for me?”

You pretend to be casual. “Maybe.”

He reaches for your waist, tugging you closer until you’re between his knees. “You are cute.”

“I am not cute.”

He nods seriously. “Correct. You are terrifying.”

You glare. “Nico.”

He smiles. “Terrifyingly cute.”

You huff, but you can’t stop smiling. “Eat your swan-seven.”

He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully like he’s judging a five-star meal. “Mmm.”

“Don’t lie,” you say, pointing.

“I’m not,” he insists, swallowing. “It tastes good.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

He reaches out and taps your hip. “No, really. It’s good. Also,” he takes another bite, “,I like that you tried.”

You soften. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

Your chest feels warm in a way that makes you want to be annoying about it. So, naturally, you are.

“So,” you say, “what do you want for your birthday?”

Nico pauses, eyes sliding up to yours slowly. “I can say anything?”

“Within reason.”

His mouth curves. “I want you to stop stealing my hoodies.”

You scoff. “Impossible.”

He shrugs. “Then I want… one full day of you being nice to me.”

You blink. “That’s cruel.”

He laughs, reaching for your hand again. “Fine. Half a day.”

You pretend to think. “Hmm. I don’t know. I’m very busy.”

“With what?” he asks, amused. “Bullying me?”

“Yes,” you say simply.

He leans forward. “Okay, then I want one thing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Name it, birthday boy.”

He looks at you like he’s choosing his words carefully, like he doesn’t want to scare you off with how honest he can be.

“I want you to come with me today,” he says. “To the rink. Just for a bit. And then after… we can disappear. No phones. No people. Just you and me.”

Your smile turns soft without your permission. “That’s two things.”

He grins. “It’s my birthday. I’m greedy.”

You reach up, smoothing his messy hair back. “Okay.”

His eyes brighten. “Okay?”

“Yes, Nico,” you say, leaning in close. “Okay.”

He exhales like he’s relieved, then kisses you,slow, warm, familiar. The kind of kiss that says thank you without needing words.

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re the best part of my days,” he murmurs.

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s illegal.”

He chuckles. “It’s true.”

You swallow, trying to recover your ability to be teasing. “Say something less sweet right now.”

He considers. “You are a menace.”

“Better.”

“And you make terrible pancake numbers.”

You gasp. “Nico!”

He laughs, full and bright, and you feel like that’s the real gift,making him laugh like he doesn’t have the whole world on his shoulders.

You point at him. “You’re going to regret that.”

“I’m not scared,” he says, leaning back in the chair like he’s confident.

You lean in, voice lowering. “I’m going to post an embarrassing birthday story of you.”

His eyes widen instantly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he repeats, panicked now. “Absolutely not.”

“What if it’s a cute one?”

“No,” he insists. “You will choose the worst one.”

You grin. “I will choose the worst one.”

He stands abruptly, reaching for you. “Give me your phone.”

You dart away, laughing. “Catch me, Captain!”

He lunges, and you squeal, sprinting down the hall. He’s faster,annoyingly faster,and he catches you easily, arms wrapping around your waist.

“You think you can escape me?” he says, breath warm against your ear.

“I thought you were old,” you tease, wriggling.

He tightens his hold, laughing. “I am in my prime.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

He spins you slightly so you’re facing him, holding you like you’re something precious. His expression shifts,less playful, more fond.

“Thank you,” he says again, quieter.

You blink up at him. “For what?”

“For making today feel…” He searches for the word. “Like home.”

Your throat tightens. You try to joke, because that’s your reflex when you feel too much.

“You’re so emotional,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Birthday.”

You cup his face, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth. “Happy birthday, Nico.”

His hands slide to your hips, steady and sure. “Best one yet,” he murmurs.

And when he kisses you again, you decide you can be nice to him for at least half a day.

Maybe even more.

Because for Nico,your Nico,you’d do anything.

Even make swan-shaped sevens.

[tendietandem]

[kniesonice]

The Pumpkin Patch Pact ╰┈➤ MR73

summary: two childhood friends reunite in their hometown and compete in the town's annual pumpkin-carving contest—just like they used to. expect they haven't seen each other since last year—the year that everything changed between them.

[word count] 5.5k

warnings: friends to lovers | childhood best friends | slow burn | college student! reader | pumpkin carving | mention of cutting fingers | angst | kissing | teeny bit of fluff | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

pairing: matt rempe x reader

a/n: hey so it actually took me a total of two hours to write this and was done way quicker than I imagined!! so consider it an early festive treat 🍂🖤

🎶 the great pumpkin waltz by vince guaraldi, red by taylor swift, lover, you should’ve come over by jeff buckley, we fell in love in october by girl in red + always forever by cults

you hadn't planned on staying home long. just a weekend. just enough time to see your parents, pretend to rest, and avoid walking past the places that still whisper his name.

but autumn always has a way of pulling you back—whether you want it to or not.

your small hometown in calgary hasn't changed much—if it all. the gas station still sells that awful cider slush mix, the library still has your name carved into the back corner table, next to his—both faded with time but makes your heart pang all the same—and the main square is already lined with hay bales, flannel banners, and tables full of pumpkins.

when you were a child, you always used to countdown the days to your towns annual pumpkin carving contest. for weeks you were so giddy with anticipation, planning your carvings at the dinner table instead of eating your favourite squash soup, that your mom threatened to not let you compete.

you remember your eyes welling up with fat tears instantly at the hallow threat, bottom lip trembling and a sketching pencil clutched in your palm—begging your mom to let you compete. because it wasn't just about you, it was about him.

matt. your best friend. tall, lanky, always smells like rubber hockey pucks and fresh laundry.

that first year, you carved your pumpkin to look like a regular jack-o'-lantern, and matt carved out a hockey stick. neither of you won the competition, but you didn't care. neither of you did.

every year after that, you and matt kept showing up. it was an unspoken rule between you—carving half soggy pumpkins in your town square the weekend before halloween with every other child that chooses to participate.

the sight of the familiar decorations and the smell of warm apple cider towards the back end of picnic tables has your breath hitching.

you forgot that it took place this weekend—or maybe you didn't.

"are you looking to enter?"

you blink, eyes darting towards the sound of the voice. it's a girl—no older than 15–bundled in fall coloured gear and a volunteer sticker plastered to her army coloured jacket. she's looking at you kindly, pen outstretched in your direction.

your eyes dart between the pen and her eyes, "i'm not sure." you breathe a laugh, tucking your hands into your pockets awkwardly.

"you should," she smiles, her voice barley audible over a few laughing children who dart between you and the table. "this year, the prize is a $25 gift card to the cafe across the square."

your lips part, but nothing comes out. a million things run through your mind—are you just going to pass through today? were you just planning to watch? is matt here? or worse, is he not here?

"sure, i'll enter." the teen smiles as you take the pen, quickly adding your name to the growing list of people participating in the contest. you look up at her once you're finished, "I do love their coffee."

"right," she agrees with a grin. "sit anywhere that's empty, there's kits on every table. have fun."

you breathe a thanks and pass under the wooden pumpkin painted archway. immediately you're brought back to the past. out of everything that hasn't changed since you've been away at college, the autumn decorations here are at the top of the list.

picnic benches litter the square, covered in festive patterned table cloths—turkeys, leaves—one even has little skeletons all over. kids run all around, squealing and laughing. one little boy wearing a ghost face mask chases a girl, her face red and lips chapped.

you smile absentmindedly—they remind you of you and matt.

taking a deep breath and shaking of the chill that penetrates through your light jacket, you force your feet further into the square, weaving through tables like you've done many times before.

then—then—does everything that once was the same get completely transformed. flipped upside down and back again.

you see the back of his head—messy, familiar, tilted in laughter you can feel in your chest before you even hear it.

it's matt. sitting at the very same picnic table you used to chose when you were kids. the same one you chose only a year ago—before everything between you changed.

the same one that for years, every fall, the two of you carved ridiculous masterpieces and fought over whose was better. the contest was always your thing. something sacred. something that used to mean...everything.

and now....

matt turns like he feels you watching—maybe the air turned to maple butter just like it did for you.

your eyes meet, and it's like the leaves pause mid-fall. the past year floods back in pieces: the conversation that turned into a goodbye, the almost-kiss that never quite happened, the silence that followed.

it's too late to turn back now, not without looking like a wimp. even though you haven't talked since last fall, doesn't mean you stopped caring what he thinks. so you don’t turn away. not yet, anyways.

matt stands up, quickly, strong thighs bumping the edge of the picnic table—enough that it almost sends the pumpkins toppling over.

awkwardly, he runs a hand through his hair and then waves at you. "y/n," he breathes, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. if it wasn't for the harsh bob of his adam's apple, you would think he forgot what happened a year ago.

after a tension filled beat, you step towards the table. you don't smile. not quite. mostly because you're not sure what to feel.

"I didn't think you'd be here," he sits back down, handing you a carving knife like it's 2017 again and you're both just kids who don't know what heartbreak is yet.

"neither did I," you admit, fingers curling around the knife. "was just passing through the square. didn't really expect to see you here either."

not after last year—you don't need to say that, it's written all over your face. matt sees it. of course he does.

matt shrugs, "tradition." he says simply.

but it's not simple. not at all. the word lands somewhere between your ribs like the carving knife in your palm would. you don't know if it's comfort or cruelty that he showed up because of your yearly tradition—even after everything.

your first pumpkin is lumpy and stubborn. it's fitting.

you start slow, like usual, making soft shapes with an even softer hand—contradictory to matt's more chaotic approach of pulling out pumpkin guts like a crazed surgeon.

working in silence, you and mat don't look up at one another. at least, not for the first 10 minutes of carving—10 minutes that feel like 10 hours, mind you.

obviously it's different this year, and you can both feel it. tension. lingering and suffocating all around you.

the late afternoon sun casts long shadows over the square, bathing the familiar buildings in warm gold, while the scent of fallen leaves and roasted pumpkin seeds drifts around you, mixing with the faint chatter of townsfolk winding down their day.

matt's foot brushes yours under the table, and the knife in your hand suddenly feels heavier. you allow yourself to look up, steal a glance at him.

he's not looking at you. but his jaw his clenched, lips pressed tight in concentration, and his eyes are not on the half carved pumpkin in front of him. or on you. instead, they're fixed somewhere behind the fading afternoon light, like he's wrestling with something he's held inside for far too long.

finally, matt breaks the quiet.

"I think about it. all the time." his voice is low, almost a whisper, as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile space you've carved out together.

your heart picks up its pace, thudding hard in your chest. you drop the knife, searching his face for something—an answer, an apology, a sign that you're not alone in this.

"last year. that night," matt continues, voice trembling just a little. "I haven't stopped thinking about it. about us."

you swallow past the sudden lump in your throat. it's still fresh—aching and hurting right behind your ribs.

1 year ago

it started the way it always does—with laughter.

you're both walking home after the pumpkin contest, the sky a deep indigo behind the streetlights, and your hands still sticky with pumpkin guts.

matt's hoodie hangs off his frame, sleeves pushed up, a plastic carving tool sticking out of his back pocket like it belongs there. he didn't even mean to take it, he'd been too distracted talking about the possibility of getting called up to the rangers that putting it back on the table slipped his mind.

the contest was chaos as usual—kids running everywhere, apple cider spilling over table cloths, matt making fun of your lopsided bat wings—but here, on this quiet back road, it's just the two of you again.

like always.

you're not sure when the air changed, only that it did. maybe it was the way he looked at you when you won—when your name was called out and he smiled like it mattered more to him than to you. or maybe it was when his hand brushed yours and didn't pull away right or maybe it's just the season—the way october makes everything feel softer and sharper at the same time.

matt slows his pace as you reach your driveway, shoes scuffing against the sidewalk. "remember when we tried to build a haunted house in your basement?" he asks suddenly.

you laugh. "and alley cried because we made the 'mummy room' too realistic?"

he grins, teeth flashing in the porch light. "we were eleven. honestly, that was our peak."

you stop walking completely when he does, just a few steps from the porch—orange and yellow leaves crunch under your boots.

you're standing close enough to see the gold in his eyes, to notice the way his jaw shifts when he's overthinking something. and you know—you just know—he's overthinking something right now.

the silence stretches before your eyes flicker up to him, heart already beating faster.

matt's not saying goodbye. not yet. and neither are you.

"you leaving tomorrow?" he asks, voice low.

since starting college, you've barley been home. it's a few hours of a drive, and you don't have a car. coming back home is more of a hassle than a necessity—but you could never miss the pumpkin carving content.

not ever.

you nod. "yeah. early."

his lips press into a thin line. "right. of course."

the words are small, but they scrape against you. you can feel the weight in them.

this is the part where you should say something. maybe a joke. maybe something bold, something brave. but you're afraid—afraid to push, afraid to ruin whatever this is. so instead, you just pull your sleeves over your hands, like maybe the fabric can protect you from what you want too much.

"I don't want this to be the last time," matt says suddenly.

you head snaps back up at the confession, brows already drawn.

his voice is quiet, almost careful—but his eyes are anything but. they're fixed on yours, dark and unsure and vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach turn over.

"It won't be," you say, just as quietly.

and that's when the air really changes.

it thickens.

matt takes half a step closer and your chests nearly touch. the space between you feels fragile, electric—like the kind of silence that only exists before something either beautiful or devastating happens.

his eyes flicker to your mouth, just for a second, and your breath catches.

you're not sure when you and matt started to change. sometimes you think it was inevitable to grow feelings for your best friend, other times you think it's a soulmate situation.

maybe it started when he pretended to slice his finger two years ago during the carving competition, just so you'd get up and loose time on your own pumpkin. or maybe it was when you scarped your knee in the 9th grade and matt put the bandaid on for you.

but when you think really hard, you think you've always loved him—just now, the world has gone still enough that he's noticed. 

you feel the moment stretch open, slow and golden and trembling. this is it. this is the part in the movie where the music swells, where someone leans in, where years of "just friends" shatter in the space between two heartbeats.

you lean in—barely. just a tilt.

so does he.

but then—he stops.

completely freezes.

a blink and a breath and then he takes a small step back, eyes darting to the ground like he's ashamed of something.

your heart stumbles.

"sorry," matt says, almost under his breath. "I—I thought..."

he doesn't finish the sentence, and you don't make any moves to try and finish it for him. because the moment is gone.

your chest tightens. not with anger—not yet—but with the worst kind of disappointment: the kind that comes from almost having something you didn't realize you needed so badly.

"it's late," matt mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck. "you should probably get inside."

you don't move.

"right," you nod eventually, though your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to. "of course."

you climb the steps slowly—waiting for matt to stop you. waiting for him to say anything. but he doesn't.

so you go inside, shut the door without giving matt a second glance. then—and only then—do the tears come. hot, fresh and fast. because deep down, you know everything has changed.

you told yourself you'd forget the moment. that it wasn't that big of a deal—that it didn't actually mean anything.

you'd get back to your dorm room and that night, matt would already be calling you.

but he didn't call you and you did think about it—every time your phone buzzed and it wasn't him. every time a text went unanswered. every time a silence stretched a little too long.

and your gut feelings were right. because everything did change that night. matt rempe didn't kiss you, and he never told you why.

"I don't remember," the lie rolls off your tongue easily. it's the same kind of lie you told your mom when she asked why you weren't going to matt's christmas eve. the same kind of lie when your mutual friends invited you to a get together. the same lie you told yourself when someone asks if you loved him.

he's busy.

i'm not feeling up to it.

I don't know—we just grew apart.

matt's brows draw inward, "y/n, let's not do this."

"yeah," your tone is sharp, "let's not."

you look away from matt and back down to your messily carved pumpkin. it's half done, with only a crooked smile and one eye—but somehow you'd still rather look at it than at the man across the table.

he sighs, "look, can we just—ah fuck."

that has you looking back at him just as quick as you looked away. matt drops the carving tool to grab his finger, a small trickle of blood sliding between his digits and staining his knuckles.

you stand up without thinking, rounding the table to sit next to him. matt's jean clad thigh is warm where it's pressed to yours, shoulders broader beside yours.

"it's fine," he insists.

you pry his hand away, "let me see."

it's not a deep cut, just sliced the right way to summon enough blood to make it look like he's lost a finger. silently, you use the mini first aid kit at the edge of every table and clean his cut—you wipe it with an alcohol pad and then spray some bacterial spray to help ward off any infections or lingering pumpkin guts.

finally, you wrap a halloween snoopy plaster around his finger—ignoring how you can feel his racing pulse. 

your eyes flicker up towards him. matt's closer than you expected, forehead nearly brushing yours. the proximity makes your breath catch low in your throat and blood pump 10 times quicker.

because his cologne is still the same and he still has that scar on his chin you accidentally gave him in the 7th grade. a hot wheels incident that you hate taking about but he loves bringing up.

and as much as you hate to admit it, you've missed matt. you've missed your best friend. having him so close now, only reminds you of before.

of every waking minute you used to spend with one another. of your finger tips brushing and pretending they didn't. of blushing into your shirt. of matt braiding your hair when you broke your arm in the 12th grade.

of almost kissing him last year.

your lips part in question before you can stop yourself, "why'd you stop texting me?"

he swallows, "I didn't know what to say."

laughing almost bitterly, you turn your head. you can't look at him now, not when your seconds away from welling up with tears. "that's a really shit excuse."

"I know," matt eyes your bottom lip—the way it trembles with unshed emotion—and his heart cracks all over again.

long forgotten is the half carved cat waiting to be finished, matt keeps his gaze locked to you, brows drawn. "can we talk? properly?" slowly, you look back over at him, waiting for him to continue. "we can get some cider and walk around the square for a bit..."

matt trails off, but the unspoken words sit heavy between you: like we used to.

you shrug and fiddle with the wrapper of the bandaid, "I leave early tomorrow."

"never used to stop you," his reminder is gentle, yet also firm. a reminder that the conversation is inevitable.

you sigh.

"please."

and then, you agree—"okay."

you don't mention the walk again. not physically. but later, as the sun starts to dip low and your fingers are sticky with goop and pumpkins are turned into jack-o-lanterns, you both linger.

neither of you one wins the contest—or maybe you do—or maybe neither of you care.

matt's hand grazes your back over your coat, soft enough that chills break over your skin. "do you still prefer your cider scorching?"

you nod, and just like that, the routine you tried so hard to fight has fallen back into its place.

with a throw away cup in cider in both your and matt's hands, you slowly begin making your way through the square. stars and warm lit lamp posts illuminate the familiar path, and you follow it like it's where you're meant to be.

matt's bicep keeps pressing into your shoulder. your hair keeps blowing into his neck. he burns his tongue on the hot cider and you send him a little look afterwards like you could’ve guessed that would happen.

its somehow amazing and worse than death all at once.

the square is long behind you now—nothing but flickering lights and the scent of roasted kettle corn in the air. unlike the contest, now it's just the two of you, wandering through streets that haven't aged but feel so much older, somehow.

everything's quiet, save for the sound of your footsteps brushing against leaves and the sound of the autumnal sounding music playing in the distance.

you follow the quiet sidewalk past houses wrapped in orange lights. past the tree where you and matt carved your initials when you were fifteen. past lizzy buckleys house where in the 6th grade, you got dared to sit in matt's lap for the whole game. past your porch where you nearly kissed last year.

the memories hit you in flashes, and they feel like bricks sitting in your stomach. your steps falter before you can realize, coming to a stop just outside the old stone bridge.

the very bridge you had your first kiss. not with matt—no matter how much you wished it was. he was there though, when it happened. watching from a distance with the rest of your friend group—a small frown on his face that didn't go unnoticed by you.

you two had fought about it later, both 16 and hormonal. matt claimed that the guy was a dick. you counter claimed that matt was the real dick.

you made up the next day when matt showed up at your bedroom door with your favourite chocolate bar and a promise to watch twilight with you.

before this past year, that was the longest you two had gone without speaking.

matt's quiet beside you, coming to a stop a few feet in front of you. his hands are buried in his pockets, like if he keeps them there, he won't reach for you. like he's trying to stay still. safe.

his eyes are soft, but there's something behind them—regret, maybe. or hope, still clinging to the corners. "so," he starts, "how's school?"

you blink, taking a moment to recover from the internalized trip down memory lane. for a harsh second, you wonder if may could see the distant look on your face and was only trying to snap you out of it—or if he's asking because he actually cares.

"It's fine," you swallow, "messy though. I switched majors, so mom's mildly horrified."

matt almost grins.

"you?"

he makes a small noise—one that makes you think he doesn't want to really talk about it. but he does anyway. "dropped another class," he shrugs, "might drop another. or drop out completely."

you look slightly horrified so matt breathes a laugh, "kidding—kind of. i'm just," he purses his lips in thought before continuing, "barley there. the rangers keep calling me up and it's sticking."

"that's good," you mutter, moving to sit against the cold stone wall. it's slightly damp under your jeans, but you don't make any attempt to move. not even when mat gingerly sits next to you. "it's always been your dream, right?"

you ask even though you already know the answer. at least, you used to.

matt looks over at you, something longing and distance in his gaze that makes your face feel frozen. "yeah, something like that."

"it was weird seeing you today," you start after a beat, crossing your arms over your chest—not because you're cold, but because you don't know what to do with the ache crawling up your chest.

he quirks a suspecting brow, "good weird or bad weird?"

your lips part, "good weird...I think."

"yeah?" matt asks, an easy smirk pulling at his slightly chapped lips.

the sight is so familiar—comforting like chicken noodle soup warming a chilly soul—that you can't help but to mimic with your own.

"yeah."

silence stretches between you again, but this time there's something hanging between you. lingering from the words exchanged—and not yet exchanged—between you.

neither of you reach for it, not at first.

but then—"I wasn't sure if I should say anything." matt admits sheepishly, knee bumping yours in an accidental way that feels anything but.

you frown, "tonight?"

"at all," he admits, "ever again."

the words hit hard in your chest. you swallow roughly and look away, "oh." it lands heavier than you mean it to.

he shakes his head, "sorry, that uh, sounded dramatic."

you've missed his voice and presence more than words could ever describe. he's sitting beside you now, and even after everything you've been through in the past year—the silence worse than any argument that could've happened. texts that went unanswered. calls that never took place—being with him again has started to tear down the invisible wall that built itself between you.

the wall that you had no choice but to let win.

you swallow and it feels like wetting sandpaper for the first time. "no, I get it," a beat, "I didn't know if I wanted you to. not towards the end anyways."

matt's eyes twinkle as he eyes you, a hopeful hitch in his throat. "and now?"

you shrug, trying not to look at him for too long. but like gravity, your eyes keep finding his through the barley lit bridge.

"I don't know. I guess... part of me hoped you would. even if I pretended I didn't care anymore."

his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks again, the admission touching your eyes like a brand new petal, "I thought about texting you, like, a hundred times.”

you can't help the emotion that clogs your throat. hearing him say those words only worsens the damage the separation caused. because knowing that your best friend wanted to reach out, but didn't, is almost worse.

but you're here now.

and so is he.

and maybe that still means something.

"but you didn't."

matt exhales long and hard, like he's disappointed with himself. "no." he breathes out now—slow and a little shaky—like what he's about to say is like finally coming up to the surface.

"I wanted to kiss you," he admits, eyes finally meeting yours. raw and unguarded. "that night. I wanted to."

The air crackles between you, thick with everything unspoken, and your throat tightens like it suddenly forgot how to swallow.

you say softly, your voice barely louder than the breeze. "I wanted you to too."

matt's eyes soften, shimmering with something like relief and regret all at once. he swallows hard, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers intertwined.

"so why didn't you?" you continue, heart hammering against your ribs. you can feel it—the answer you've been searching for the past twelve months. it's almost like you can taste it, and your palms clam up like they know it too.

his gaze drops to his hands for a moment before he answers, voice low and haunted. "I panicked. I was scared that if I kissed you, it would mess everything up—that i'd lose you. our friendship...everything we had."

you watch his chest rise and fall, see the way his eyes flicker with vulnerability you haven't seen before.

"but you did lose me," you say quietly, biting back the sting. "you stopped texting, stopped calling. I kept waiting for you to come back, to say something, but you didn't."

matt's jaw tightens. "I know, and I was wrong. I thought distancing myself would make it easier, but all I did was make it worse. I thought I could protect myself from getting hurt by pretending nothing had changed."

your breath catches, tears stinging your eyes until you're furiously blinking it away. "you didn't protect either of us."

"I didn't want to ruin what we had," he admits, voice heavy. "and then I did anyway."

matt takes a second, looking off into the fall coloured leaves like they can help provide an answer. but they don't, of course they don't. because you've been the answer the entire time.

he looks at you then, fully, without hesitation. "i'm sorry. more than I can say."

suddenly, the years of unanswered questions and quiet heartache rush to the surface, but the anger you thought you'd feel is replaced by something softer—something hopeful.

it's an apology, one you've always needed. not for closure and not to move on—but instead—to continue. to grow. to love.

"so what now?" you ask, voice trembling with a mix of fear and longing.

"I still want to," matt smiles—small, genuine, cautious and a little nervous. "kiss you. I still want to kiss you, y/n. I've never wanted to not."

your fingers twitch on the walls rough edge—like you're physically holding back from reaching out. the wind stirs the fallen leaves at your feet, carrying a whisper of possibility.

steadying yourself and your giddy heart, you take a deep breath—your exhale coming out in cold fog. "so if I leaned in now...would you stop me?"

his answer is a breathless, almost silent laugh—"never again." then he closes the distance, eyes fluttering shut just before his lips brush yours.

warmth floods your senses—the faint taste of cinnamon from the apple cider you both drank earlier, the roughness of his hoodie against your palm, the softness of his hand reaching for your cheek.

time slows and the world shrinks until it's just the two of you, suspended in a moment you both thought might never come.

it's not perfect. your noses bump, your hands are still stained orange, and someone honks a horn in the distance.

but it's real, and after a year of silence, almosts, and aching—real feels like the most beautiful thing in the world.

when you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling, hearts racing in sync, you can't help but to smile—small and lips slick with salvia—heart swelling with something you can't quite name but feel deep in your bones.

"never again," you agree.

1 year later

you wake to the sound of wind tapping softly at your window, the rustle of leaves brushing against glass like fingertips. the air in your room smells faintly of old wood, laundry detergent, and the cinnamon candle your mom insists on lighting this time of year.

you sit up slowly, wearing a hoodie you never returned to matt—one he probably forgot he left at your house around a few years ago. or maybe he didn't forget. maybe that was his way of hoping.

downstairs, the house hums with quiet saturday energy. you wander into the kitchen to find your dad reading the paper, and your mom mixing pancake batter—a plate of fresh-cut apples already waiting on the counter.

"you going to the square today?" your mom asks, casually.

you shrug, but the grin on your face tells her everything. "yeah, we are"

she doesn't need to ask who we is, and you don't need to tell her either.

—

by noon, you're back at the table. the same table that you grew up at, covered in pumpkin guts and wearing too many layers. jacked up on apple cider and daring matt to put the pumpkin on his head.

this time, there's no contest. no crowd. just matt, already seated, sleeves rolled up, a pumpkin in front of him like this is just another fall sunday.

"there was a lineup at the cafe," you exhale through an apologetic grin, placing the too hot cup of coffee on the picnic bench. "sorry."

you sit down beside him—not across from him like before, but next to him. it's a small change, but a significant one.

"don't apologize baby," matt grins, pressing a thankful kiss to your cheek. "I would never start without you." he nips your cheek playfully.

you squirm and send him a look. "flattery will get you nowhere, matt." except it totally gets him everywhere—your brain reminds you.

he hands you a knife, one he must’ve searched through kitchen junk drawers early this morning to find. it’s a good one, one you used to fight over when you were younger.

the lucky ghostbusters craving knife.

you smile without meaning to. "you’re letting me use the lucky carver?"

"i’m trying to be a better person," he chimes, mock serious. "besides, I'm pretty sure you only win when you use it."

you roll your eyes but it holds no meaning, “whatever.”

looking over at matt, you find that his eyes are on you. not the pumpkin, or the janky tool—only you. only ever you.

hours pass in a blur of scooped seeds, orange pulp, and soft laughter. at one point, matt smears seeds on your cheek, and you’re brought back to your childhood.

he kisses you, and you kiss him back. just like every time since the first.

eventually, and with a lopsided grin you have to fight the urge to kiss the corner of, matt holds up his pumpkin.

It's a mess.

"Is that supposed to be... a dog?" you ask, stifling a grin.

he frowns. "it’s a wolf, actually. like, a halloween wolf. very fierce and majestic if I do say so myself."

"it looks like it's crying."

"maybe it's emotional," he retorts with a straight face.

you laugh then, really laugh. the kind that bubbles out without effort, the kind you used to share with him all the time, before everything complicated itself. the kind that since you made up a year ago, hasn’t really stopped.

and then suddenly, his voice softens. "I love this," he says.

you look at him, really look.

matt continues, "I love you."

the words hang there, suspended between the smell of pumpkin guts and apple cider and too many memories to count.

you don't say it back.

you don't need to.

he knows it by the way you dart forward to steal a kiss, and the way you sabotage his carving by cutting off the part of the pumpkin that makes the wolf’s ear.

[rempesluck]

[firechilde]

Tweet of the night! 🤣

[abwatcheshockey]

"Uh oh, you're in time out. Let me go talk to mama." "Mama put me in time out too." w/ rempe thx

The Adventures of Bella Pairing: Dad!Matt Rempe x Mom!reader Chapter One:

you hear the sound of the front door creaking open just as you finish setting the timer for bella's time-out.

she looks up at him from her spot on the bottom stair, her lower lip jutting out in a dramatic pout.

"uh oh, you're in time out. let me go talk to mama," he says, his tone a mix of amusement and curiosity as to why she's in time out.

"she drew on the walls with marker," you explain, gesturing to the colorful scribbles adorning the living room wall.

matt nods and looks back over to bella who starts crying again. he walks over and sits down beside her. "it's okay. mama put me in time out too."

"you were drawing on the walls too?" bella asks, looking up at him.

"no," matt laughs. "just means we're both in trouble."

you shake your head and head back to the kitchen to finish up dinner.

a few minutes later, the alarm on your phone goes off, signaling the end of time-out.

you walk back into the living room and matt goes to stand up. "nuh uh. you still have twenty more minutes, rempe."

he groans and sits back down, scratching his nose with his middle finger so he could flip you off without bella realizing as you turn your attention to her. "okay, bells, your time-out is over. do you understand why you were in time-out?"

bella nods. "i drew on the walls."

"that's right. we don't draw on the walls or furniture, okay? we use paper."

she nods again, and you pull her into a hug. "alright, go play while i talk to dada," you tell her, patting her back.

bella runs off to her toy box and matt smirks at you. "twenty more minutes, huh?"

you cross your arms over your chest. "yep. and no complaining."

"you got it." he laughs, shaking his head. "anything else exciting happen while i was gone?"

"no, just that." you hold your hand out. "i'll let you off the hook now, i guess. your time out is over."

"i hope you know i wasn't sitting there for twenty minutes anyway." matt tells you, grabbing your hand and standing up.

[abwatcheshockey]

fluff prompt 1 or 30 w matt rempe pls!!

"get off me" pairing: matt rempe x fem!reader

you're sprawled out on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through tiktok.

you hear footsteps approaching but you don’t bother to look up.

a moment later and without warning, matt lays down on top of you.

“get off me,” you groan, pushing at his shoulders with one hand while trying to keep hold of your phone with the other.

“i’m trying to love you!” he declares, his voice muffled as he buries his face in your neck. his breath tickles, and you squirm beneath him, trying to wiggle free.

“matt, seriously,” you protest, but there’s no real annoyance in your tone. it’s hard to be mad or annoyed when it comes to him being clingy with you.

after a few more attempts to get him to move, you give up and let your hands fall to your sides.

matt shifts slightly, adjusting so he’s lying more comfortably.

your phone is forgotten now, the screen going dark as you let it slip from your fingers. your arms find their way around him, one hand idly playing with his hair.

"I could listen to your heartbeat forever." matt murmurs.

[be4chywritez]

medicine | matt rempe

matt rempe x fem!reader

matt just needs some medicine in the form of some good ol’ loving

prompt: tracing your lover's features as they sleep.

request: prompt 13 w matt rempe pleaseee? love ur writing

The soft light of dawn began to seep through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. You lay beside Matt, his steady breathing and the rise and fall of his chest a soothing rhythm in the quiet morning. Last night's game had been intense, and the brawl he'd gotten into left visible marks on his face.

Gently, you traced your fingers over the bruises, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. "You always give it your all, don't you?" you whispered softly, more to yourself than to him. Your fingers moved to the curve of his jaw, lingering on the rough stubble, then traced the line of his cheekbone.

Matt stirred slightly but didn't wake. You smiled, reaching to brush stray hairs out of his face. Your tank top rode up slightly as you placed a chaste kiss on his forehead.

He stirred a little more, his hand settling on your lower back. His calloused thumb rubbed against your exposed hip as his eyes opened sleepily.

"Good morning," he rasped, leaning up to kiss your lips. The kiss was soft and lingering, both of you needing something soft and bliss.

"Morning," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You brushed your fingers gently through his hair, careful not to touch the bruises. "How are you feeling?"

Matt sighed, his eyes closing briefly as he savored your touch. "Sore," he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But having you here makes it better."

You traced the outline of his lips with your finger, marveling at how even in pain, he managed to smile. "You scared me last night," you confessed. "Seeing you out there, fighting like that… I hate seeing you hurt."

His smile widened. "My fight didn't get you hot and bothered?" he suggested, pulling you into his lap, his hand running up and down your back. You giggled, shoving his chest playfully.

"You're the worst, Rempe," you said, shaking your head.

He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I know," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But you love me anyway."

You couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, I do," you admitted, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I love you even when you're a pain in my ass."

"Y'know what else could be a pain in your ass," he teased, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

You jumped out of his lap, making your way to the bathroom. You could hear him laughing to himself as you called back, "Not happening, babe."

Still chuckling, he leaned back against the pillows, a satisfied grin on his face. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he said, loud enough for you to hear.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at your lips. "Just rest up, Matt," you replied, peeking out from the bathroom door. "You've got to heal those bruises before you can try any of your moves again."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a mock salute.

You laughed, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"And you love me for it," he called back, settling into the bed and closing his eyes, the smile still lingering on his lips.

As you finished up in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom, you couldn't help but smile at Matt. Despite the bruises and the teasing, he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

"I think you should assess my injuries," he suggested as you crawled into bed beside him.

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. "Oh, really?"

He smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah, I need my girl to check all my injuries," he said, gesturing to his bruised face. "Very thoroughly."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Fine, but only because you actually need some care," you said, leaning over him to gently kiss the bruises on his face.

"How's that?" you asked, your voice soft.

"Much better," he murmured, his eyes closing in contentment. "But I think you need to keep going."

You smiled, your heart swelling with love. "Alright, but remember, this is just so you feel better," you teased, pressing gentle kisses along his jawline and down to his neck.

"Of course," he replied, his voice filled with amusement.

"You know," you said softly, pausing to look into his eyes, "I'm really glad you're okay."

He reached up, cupping your face with his hand. "I'm glad I have you," he whispered. "You're the best medicine I could ever ask for."

beachy's notes: hope you enjoyed it :)

[fangirlmermaid]

So This Is Love

Pairing: Matt Rempe x Fem!reader

Summary: The two of you take a trip to Disneyland, and you overdo it on your first day.

Note: I was on vacation at Disneyland when I got this idea, but I wasn't going to write it. Then I saw that Matt went to Disneyland; it felt like a sign to write it.

Warning: Fluff, lightly proofread, spelling, and punctuation errors.

(I also totally haven't watched this Broadway hat video on a loop. That's crazy.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Matt knew the two of you went a little crazy on your first day at Disneyland, but he wasn’t sure why. You guys will be here for a week. You made Matt go to the parks as soon as they opened, and you made a schedule for opening to close.

It was an hour before the park closed, and the two of you were sitting on a bench near the Haunted Mansion, resting your aching feet. Matt was on Instagram looking at the comments on the pictures you posted of the two of you. You were tucked into Matt’s side, arms wrapped around his waist, and you buried your face into his chest.

“Baby, did you see what Alley wrote?” Matt chuckled, showing you his phone. You didn’t say anything. Matt's eyebrows knit. “Baby?” Matt called in a hushed tone, looking down so he could see your beautiful face.

Matt couldn’t help to smile, You were fast asleep; you looked so peaceful. Matt’s heart could burst. You trusted him so much that you felt safe enough to fall asleep in a public space. Matt decided that you both had enough for one day. He knew you would be upset that you missed the fireworks, but he knew that you would be too tired to enjoy them.

Matt picked you up like a koala. He threw your arms around his neck and wrapped your legs around his waist; he place one strong hand under your butt and placed his other strong hand on your back to keep you pressed against him.

He felt you stir. “Mattie?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. Matt ran his finger through your hair, knowing that it would soothe you back to sleep. “I’m right here, baby. Go back to sleep,” Matt assured. Your head was buried deep into his neck, your hot breath sending shivers down his spine.

Matt got some weird looks from people as he walked past them, but he didn’t care; getting you back to the hotel room was his main priority. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Matt entered the room, he cursed under his breath that he left the lamp on. he pulled the sheets back and delicately placed you down. Very slowly but quickly removed your bra and shoes, happy that you decided not to wear makeup. He placed a soft kiss on your forehead before tucking you in.

Matt started to get himself ready for bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed you trying to find him. You lifted your head. “Mattie?” you voice full of sleep, your eyes squinting, trying to adjust to the light. Matt quickly threw off his shirt and shorts. “I’m right here, baby. I’m right here,” He promised, hopping into bed.

Once he pulled his blanket up, you were tucked back into him. “I’m sorry that we didn’t get to see the fireworks,” you huffed, shoving your face into his chest. Matt's heart ached; it had been a long day. Why are you beating yourself up? Matt grabbed your chin and forced you to look into his eyes; he smiled when he saw you blushing. “It’s okay, baby. There’s always tomorrow,” Matt reassured. Your heart fluttered. “Are you sure?” you wondered. Matt nodded. “I was getting tired anyway,” Matt said. It wasn’t completely true; he still had some energy in him, but he didn’t want you to feel bad.

“Let’s sleep in tomorrow so we can be awake for the fireworks,” Matt suggested. You nodded your head.

You gave Matt a chaste kiss before shoving your face into his chest. “Night, Matt. I love you,” you mumbled, placing a soft kiss onto his pec. Matt turned off the light. “I love you, baby,” Matt smiled. He placed a sweet kiss on the top of your head before drifting off to sleep.

[1daydreamingdoll]

[mattsunsdollie-deactivated20250]

Cowboy’s Motivation

Matt Rempe x Fem!Reader

A getaway to a farm in Texas makes Matt want to turn a fantasy of his into reality.

The hot Texas sun beamed down on your perfumed and moisturized skin. The sweetness of your perfume and lotion attracted swarms of mosquitos, the buzz constant in your ear. It seemed as the day progressed the hotter and less merciful the sun became.

Yet, Matt was in heaven. Leaning on the wooden fence, he watched the animals and occasionally took a sip from his beer. The rented home was beautiful, surrounded by corn fields and grass for miles. It was evident Matt was in his element by being in the country side.

You on the other hand, had a love-hate relationship. You hated the bugs, the constant feeling of sweat dripping down your neck and the mosquito bites. But, you were willing to endure all of that and more for Matt.

After a particularly hard season filled with gruesome fights, all Matt wanted was to be in a secluded farm. You remember the night he came to your shared city apartment, all bruised and cut from a game. He expressed his feeling for wanting to getaway for a month to a small town in Texas.

After the first week on the farm, you grew to love it a little more. You found yourself getting accustomed to the routine of waking up early and taking care of the animals. It started to feel like heaven on earth, especially ending the night curled on Matt’s lap while on a rocking chair. Both of you just looking at the view of nothing, no big buildings, no crowds of people, and most importantly no paparazzi.

The days on the farm were non-ending it seemed. Although they were filled with the same routine, it felt like a new adventure every day. “This is the last beer baby, gonna go into town to get another pack” Matt said sipping the last bit of his beer.

“Can you pick up some peaches? Wanna make some peach cobbler” you asked, swatting the flying bugs around you. Matt nodded, standing up straight and hooking his fingers on the loops of your jean shorts. The shorts that had your ass peaking out from the bottom of them.

He leaned down, kissing you lightly before smiling against your lips. “Whatever you want darling” he hummed against you. You playfully slapped his chest, “You better get going, I’ll have an early dinner made by the time you get back”.

Stepping out of the animals den, you hear Matt lock the gate behind you. The grey gravel road leads you back to the home, where you wait on the porch with the car keys for Matt. You see the blueish dingy pick up truck parked on the grass.

You see Matt emerge from the side of the house, and you wave the keys in the air. The wooden steps up the porch creak under his weight, and even though you have been dating for while the height difference never fails to make you weak.

He kisses you on the cheek and grabs the keys, putting them in the back of his jean pocket. You looked stunning anywhere and with anything, but something about you standing infront of a real home, in such a domestic scenario made Matt’s stomach twist.

Kissing the corner of your mouth, he lightly slapped your ass. A moan escaping your mouth, which Matt took advantage of. Tongue slipping in your mouth, while his hands groped and massaged you.

Eager couldn’t even describe Matt in the moment, hands gripped the back of your thighs- signaling you took jump. You obviously did, arms wrapping around his neck as you passionately kissed him back.

You subconsciously began to grind on him, earning a moan from him. Feeling heat engulf your body you decided to push your chest into his, kissing up and down the side of his neck.

His strong hands began to move you however he felt like. Grabbing the cowboy hat off of his head you let it hang off of your fingertips. Looking at his lips, you give him on final peck.

He puts you down, hands still on you. “Gonna speed into town, promise I’ll be back fast baby” he mumbled into your skin. Giggling at the stubble poking your face you pushed his stomach lightly.

“Go and be safe” you said as he walked down the steps towards and the pick up truck. The car shook as Matt turned it on, and before you knew it he was pulling out of the property.

Going into the home you couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to live on a farm like this with children. You daydreamed as you made an early dinner, imaging how the children would run up and down the fields.

Matt did just what he said he would do, he sped and made it back home in under 1 hour. When he walked in the house was filled with the aroma of the food you had prepared. As he walked on the carpet he found you washing the dishes, the table set up with the food.

He placed the pack of beer and bags of peaches down, going behind you. He pressed his weight on your back, where you were forced to feel his erection. “Matt, let’s eat first” you struggle to get out.

He turns off the kitchen sink, hands going down to grope your chest. “ ‘m hungry for something else now baby” he groaned out in your ear.

Letting your head fall onto his chest you let him play with you. His large hands pulling down your tank top, exposing your chest. Skilled fingers pulling and pinching at your nipples.

“Please” you whisper out, brows furrowing from the mixture of pleasure and pain. You push your hips back onto his, trying to relieve the ache between your legs.

“It’s okay love, I’ve got you” he whispers in your ear, cooing you on as he continues to play with you. His hand makes its way to the back of your neck, pushing you lightly to have you bent over the sink.

“Stay right there baby” he says, hands massaging the exposed skin of your spine. He tugs down your shorts, revealing your grey panties with a soaked spot in the middle.

Squatting behind you, he admires your behind. Pulling down your underwear, letting it pool at your ankles with your shorts. Pulling your cheeks apart softly he’s greeted with your slick cunt.

He gives your right cheek a kiss before licking a bold stripe up your pussy. You grip the counter as you try to hold your hips still. He removes his cowboy hat, placing it on the counter next to you. His fingers spread your fold, admiring the way it glistens in the dim kitchen light.

Puffy clit aching for attention, his thumb pushes tight circles. Small mewls escape from your lips as you push your hips back. His fingers dance around your hole, which you clench in anticipation.

“P-please Matt, just touch me already” you begged, not caring about how desperate you sounded. “Be patient” he replied, continuing to push your buttons.

After what felt like ages of light touches his fingers finally opened your hole. Leaving your jaw hung open, you instinctively pushed back, feeling his fingers get deeper.

Looking back you saw his faced filled with adoration as he fucked you with his fingers. The squelching sounds filled the kitchen as you clamped down on his fingers. He knew exactly what he was doing, curling them inside you right as he reached your g spot.

“No more- fuck please. Need you now” you whined, fingers gripping the countertop. Obeying, he removed his fingers leaving you with an empty feeling.

Standing to his full height, he quickly undid his belt and jeans, sliding them down enough to free him. Stroking himself he rubbed himself up and down your soaked folds.

Your own arousal coating your inner thighs. Grabbing your neck he fixed your posture, leaning your back onto his chest. He kissed you while he put the tip in. Your mouth left in an ‘o’ shape from the stretch.

“Fucking hell. Gonna suffocate me, love.” he moaned, hand rubbing your clit in hopes to loosen you up. Bending over again you wiggled your hips, slightly moving yourself back onto his length more.

As each inch got deeper you could feel the veins, the way he pulsed inside you. Until he reached your cervix, an inch still outside of you.

His palm held your back down, as he began to thrust shallowly. The kitchen was filled with slapping of skin, and you’re just glad there’s no neighbors to see you get fucked stupid by the kitchen window.

“Gonna make you a fucking mom. Fuck, gonna live on a farm like this. H-have you, oh shit- show everyone your mine” he growled out, increasing his pace.

The thought of Matt claiming you causing your stomach to tighten. “Give me it, please Matt” you moan out, bucking your hips back.

“Yeah? Want me to stuff you full?” He asks, his weight engulfing you as he practically lays on you. You shake your head yes, not being able to spit the words out. “Shit, feels so fuckin good” he groans out as you get impossibly tighter.

The coil in your stomach waiting to unravel, and when he stops fully inside you- just moving his hips you can’t help but cum. Body shaking underneath him, and that’s what sends him over the edge.

The way you gushed around him, like you were begging to be knocked up. He’d never cum inside you, always on your stomach, mouth or pussy.

But now that he knows what’s it like- he’ll never go back. The feeling of the hot liquid filling you up, a foreign feeling you became obsessed with.

You lay there, cheek on countertop for a few minutes regaining your breathe. Matt slips himself off, pulling your clothes up and tucking himself away.

The sun is setting in the kitchen window, hues of pinks and purples illuminating the sky. Matt can’t resist the way his chest tightens at the idea of you actually becoming pregnant.

You were always one of his biggest motivations, but now? It increased by a tenfold. His stupid grin sneaks on his face when he grabs his cowboy hat and places it on your head when you finally stand up and turn around.

“Just in time for dinner” he says.

[camficdiner]

Hello Cam, can you please write something about Matt Rempe, partying at the table next to his, waking up married in Vegas and then after a while the awkward meeting the siblings for the first time on a mixed 2k fic . xoxo

☕ Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 004

Thank you so much to the absolute chaos connoisseur who dropped this request on the counter.

Drunken vows? Vegas? Public appearances? You know exactly what I like.

This one’s served with rhinestones, rink lights, and a lot of poor decision-making.

💬 “what happens in Vegas wears #73”

✨description and prompts

• Character: Matt Rempe

• Prompt: Partying next to his table → Drunkenly married in Vegas → Meeting his siblings at an MSG home game

• Word count: ~3/4k

• Type: Fluff / Implied smut / Chaos marriage fic

🧁✨🍒🛼

The bass is so loud it rattles through the floor, vibrating up your legs with every beat. Lights strobe in pinks and purples, and the air smells like sweat, perfume, and overpriced vodka. You’re not even sure how you ended up at this club — someone’s birthday, maybe. You’re three drinks in and already regretting your heels.

You lean into your friend to yell something over the music, and when you glance to the right — that’s when you see him.

Matt Rempe.

He’s sitting in the roped-off VIP section like it’s nothing, legs stretched out, backwards cap tilted low, a drink in hand that he hasn’t touched. He’s surrounded by a few teammates and a couple of girls who look like they belong in the NHL wives’ section, all glossy hair and fake lashes.

You almost look away — almost — but then his eyes catch yours. And he doesn’t look away.

You feel it like a jolt. His gaze flicks down — from your eyes to your lips to the hem of your skirt — then back up, unapologetically.

You swallow.

“Is that—?” your friend starts, but you don’t let her finish.

“I know,” you say, lips barely moving. “I see him.”

He leans toward one of the guys next to him, says something you can’t hear, and when he looks back, he nods toward the bar. An invitation.

You hesitate.

You’re not wearing anything impressive. The skirt’s short, sure, and your makeup turned out better than expected, but you didn’t come here planning to flirt with an NHL player — let alone one who looks like that, all broad shoulders and slouched confidence.

But you go anyway.

The crowd parts for you without meaning to, bodies shifting with the rhythm, and when you reach the bar, he’s already there, tall and still, like the music doesn’t touch him.

“You look bored,” you say, sliding up beside him, voice loud enough to cut through the noise.

Matt turns his head slowly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That obvious?”

“You’re sitting VIP and still not having fun. It’s almost impressive.”

He lets out a low laugh, eyes dipping again — slower this time. “I was waiting on something better.”

You arch a brow. “And now?”

He leans in just slightly, enough that you catch a hint of cologne beneath the club haze. “Still waiting.”

The way he says it — the slight growl in his voice — makes something hot coil in your stomach.

You reach for your drink. “You’re smooth.”

“You haven’t seen me play yet.”

It’s cocky. Teasing. But his tone is soft enough that it doesn’t sting. Just slides under your skin.

You tip your glass toward him. “So what, you’re scouting from across the dance floor?”

His smile grows, eyes gleaming. “I liked the way you moved.”

You blink. That one hits lower than it should.

“Careful,” you murmur. “You keep talking like that and I’ll think you’re actually interested.”

His expression shifts — something steadier, quieter.

“I am.”

And for a moment, the whole club seems to blur out around you. The music fades, the lights dull, and it’s just him. Watching you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

It starts with a drink. Then another.

Matt slides a glass toward you — something amber and fizzy that smells dangerously sweet — and his grin widens when you take it without hesitation.

“To what exactly are we drinking?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

He leans closer, forearms braced on the table. “To bad decisions.”

You laugh. “I think that’s the most honest toast I’ve heard all night.”

The liquor burns a little, but it goes down easy. Too easy.

Conversation gets louder. The VIP booth spins with music, lights flashing neon pink and electric blue over your skin.

Matt’s knee knocks against yours under the table and neither of you move away. His hand finds your thigh at some point, warm and steady. Yours ends up around his neck — you don’t know how it started, just that you didn’t stop it.

You’re straddling his lap now, his mouth hot on yours, the taste of whiskey shared between kisses. He kisses you like he’s starving — like he’s waited for this moment through a thousand crowded rooms and found you in all of them.

The club disappears in pieces. First the music. Then the people.

You barely register the blurry selfies taken in the Uber. The stop at an all-night diner where he insists you need fries or you’ll “pass out before the good part.” The way your arms stay wrapped around each other like gravity only works when you’re touching.

Then someone — maybe him, maybe you — says something ridiculous.

“We should just get married.”

The idea is wild. Insane. Hilarious.

Except… no one laughs.

You both look at each other.

And something about the way his eyes sparkle — open, fearless, boyish — makes your brain shut off completely.

Ten minutes later, you’re speeding toward the airport, still in your party clothes. Matt’s texting someone at a ridiculous hour. You’re holding his hand.

You shouldn’t be allowed to buy plane tickets drunk — that’s the first lesson. But somehow you’re standing in the TSA line, giggling, shoes in hand, whispering “This is so fucking stupid” into his shoulder as he laughs loud enough to earn a dirty look from a security guard.

Las Vegas welcomes you with a blinding sunrise and a headache that’s already brewing. But the city doesn’t wait for hangovers.

The Strip is alive, pulsing with neon lights, with blinking signs and oversized cocktails and fake Elvises on every corner. Matt points at the miniature Eiffel Tower and says, “That could be our honeymoon,” before dragging you into a chapel that smells like roses and glitter and faint regret.

You’re still wearing your club dress. His shirt is half buttoned, and he has to borrow a tie from the officiant. He leans down halfway through the vows, murmuring, “Too late to back out?”

You snort. “I think we already did.”

There’s laughter in your kiss — laughter, and tequila, and too much heat in too little time.

You barely remember the hotel elevator. Just flashes. His hand on your lower back. The door to the suite swinging open. The city lights pouring in through floor-to-ceiling windows. His laugh as he kicks off his shoes.

You end up on the bed with him, limbs tangled, dress sliding up your thighs, his hands on your hips.

The rest is a blur. But god, it felt good. It felt… easy.

⸻

Your head is pounding.

That’s the first thing you register — not the silk sheets beneath you, not the unfamiliar scent on the pillow, not even the soft breath against your shoulder.

No. It’s the hangover.

It settles in like a freight train. Hot. Heavy. Unforgiving.

You groan and roll over, wincing at the tight pull of your muscles. Your mouth is dry. Your limbs ache. You’re barely even aware you’re half-naked until the cool hotel air hits your skin.

And that’s when your eyes catch on something strange — something foreign on your hand.

A silver band. Thin. Gleaming. On your ring finger.

You blink once. Twice.

No. No, no, no.

You sit up, heart thudding, brain scrambling. The sheets slip down, revealing a black lace bra — definitely not what you left the house in. The room around you is unfamiliar, but expensive. Huge windows, a minibar with gold trim, an absurdly large flatscreen playing muted reruns of Shark Tank.

And then there’s him.

Matt.

Matt Rempe is passed out beside you, sprawled across the pillows, one long arm draped across his face, messy hair sticking to his forehead. His bare chest rises and falls slowly. The covers barely hang onto his hips.

You inhale sharply and scramble off the bed, eyes darting between him and your hand like you’re trying to solve a crime scene.

What the fuck happened last night?

Your memory is… fuzzy. Bits and pieces. Laughing at the bar. His hand brushing yours. A third drink you probably didn’t need.

Then a fourth.

Then his arm slung across your shoulder in the VIP section, his voice in your ear — low, teasing, something about how good you looked under the neon.

Then the makeout session. Hot. Hungry. Almost embarrassingly public. His hands gripping your thighs, yours tangled in his jacket. You think someone cheered. You think someone filmed it.

Then—

Flashes.

His lips against your collarbone.

A plane?…than, a limo?

Your back hitting leather seats, the two of you pressed together like magnets.

Vegas lights whipping by in a blur of reds and blues and impossible gold.

And then—

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your hand to your mouth.

A tiny chapel. Something pink and tacky. Neon rings hanging above the altar. Elvis.

Elvis?

Matt beside you, grinning and swaying slightly in a tuxedo jacket that absolutely wasn’t his. You in a white minidress that looked suspiciously like someone else’s bridesmaid outfit.

The officiant holding a mic.

“Do you, Matthew Rempe, take—?”

Your hand squeezing his.

His voice, slurred but sincere: “Fuck yeah, I do.”

Your laughter. His lips on yours again.

And now here you are — married in Vegas to a six-foot-eight NHL enforcer you made out with once at a club.

You sink into the nearest chair, staring at your hand again like it might spontaneously combust.

Matt stirs.

“Mm?” he mutters, eyes still closed. “You good?”

You don’t say anything.

He lifts his arm off his face, blinking up at the ceiling. Then at you.

Then at your hand.

Then at his own.

Because he’s wearing a ring too.

“Shit,” he breathes.

You just nod, eyes wide. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. He sits up, sheet sliding dangerously low on his hips.

“Did we…?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “We did.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Well… fuck.”

You glance at him, expecting panic. Horror. Regret.

But he’s just looking at the ring, then at you — expression unreadable, hair a mess, muscles taut beneath his skin.

And then, the last thing you expect.

He grins.

“Well,” he says, voice low and rough, “I always said I’d make someone an honest woman.”

You throw a pillow at him.

It’s a disaster in motion after that.

You’re both scrambling to piece together the night — flashes of velvet lounges and neon signs, a speeding car down the Strip, laughter, your legs wrapped around his waist in some chapel hallway while Elvis pronounced you man and wife. You vaguely remember giggling at the altar. Matt holding your hand like it was a lifeline.

“I think I cried,” he mutters, half-buried in a pillow. “Like a happy cry.”

You glare at him. “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not!” He sits up, raking a hand through his hair. “You looked really pretty. It felt romantic.”

“Matt.”

He holds up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. What now? I mean—we can get it annulled, right?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. We have to. This wasn’t… real.”

Silence stretches between you. The room feels way too quiet now, like the walls themselves are judging you.

Then, softly: “It felt kinda real to me.”

You look at him. His expression isn’t teasing anymore.

And your stomach does that flip again — except this time, it’s not the hangover.

⸻

The chaos hits when your phones turn back on.

Matt has 32 missed calls. You’ve got 48. Both of your inboxes are flooded with screenshots of blurry wedding photos on social media. You’re trending on X. There’s a blurry image of you two kissing in front of a gaudy neon chapel sign that simply says Love Me Tender.

There’s even a close-up shot of the rings.

“This is so bad,” you whisper, scrolling.

Matt groans, flopping dramatically back onto the bed. “They’re gonna slaughter me in the locker room.”

“Pretty sure my mom’s already halfway to Vegas with a lawyer.”

He snorts. “Your mom scares me. In a hot way.”

You chuck a pillow at him, but he catches it easily — and when he throws it back, it lands square in your lap.

And for a second, you both just… laugh. It’s tired, breathless, a little hysterical — but it feels good.

“You hungry?” he asks after a beat.

“I might throw up.”

He grins. “Perfect. I’ll order room service.”

⸻

Later, with the food cleared and your head less foggy, you’re lying across the bed with your legs tangled together. You’re both still in hotel robes — the only thing clean and within reach — and the vibe has shifted. Again.

You’re scrolling through TikTok. He’s watching you instead of the screen.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “this might be the weirdest way I’ve ever gotten into bed with someone.”

You laugh softly. “Definitely beats my worst.”

He shifts closer, one large hand resting just above your knee. “Wanna make it weirder?”

You look at him. “We’re married, technically.”

His grin sharpens. “Then we should consummate, technically.”

You roll your eyes, but your thighs press together instinctively.

“Matt.”

He dips his head closer. “Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t stop him when he kisses you. It’s softer than last night — less frantic, more intentional. His hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, lips slow and unhurried.

“You can say no,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I mean it.”

You don’t.

You kiss him harder, pulling him over you until your robe slips open. His hands are warm, big and steady as they glide down your sides, over your waist, your hips.

“God,” he breathes, breaking the kiss. “You’re so beautiful.”

You arch beneath him, gasping when his mouth finds your chest — slow kisses between the curves of your breasts, one hand sliding down to cup your thigh and pull it over his waist.

He grinds gently against you, the friction making you both moan.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers, and when he pushes inside you, it’s with a low groan that sounds like your name.

You cling to him, wrapping your arms around his back. His thrusts are deep and slow, almost reverent. There’s no rush this time — just the sound of your bodies moving together, the soft slap of skin, his breath in your ear.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs.

You come with a soft cry, nails digging into his shoulder. He follows shortly after, burying his face in your neck as he shudders, spilling inside you with a broken moan.

You lie there for a long time after, breathing heavy, skin damp, the air between you charged and strange.

Matt kisses your shoulder.

“So… still thinking annulment?”

You groan. “Please don’t make me answer that right now.”

He chuckles, curling closer. “We’ve got time. Let’s just… be married for today.”

You rest your head against his chest, and — god help you — you kind of like the way that sounds.

———

The locker room is buzzing.

“Yo, Rempe!” someone yells. “You bring your wife to morning skate or what?”

Another voice chimes in: “Gonna get her a jersey with Mrs. Rempe on the back?”

You’re sitting off to the side in your hoodie, coffee in hand, trying to shrink into the bench. The entire Rangers team is in full chaos mode, and Matt? Matt is just glowing. He has the audacity to be thriving under the attention.

“She’s got good taste,” Trocheck laughs, nudging him with his stick. “Did you at least sign a prenup, rookie?”

Matt looks over at you with a lopsided smile. “She married me, not my contract.”

You spit your coffee back into the lid, face burning.

Later That Day:

The two of you are holed up in Matt’s apartment, the world outside still screaming about your Vegas wedding. TMZ. Instagram. NHL Twitter. The whole circus.

He sits next to you on the couch, your legs pulled over his lap. His fingers play with the hem of your shorts.

“So,” he says, like he’s been rehearsing it, “should we… you know. Talk about the whole marriage thing?”

You tense.

“Annulment?” you ask softly.

“I mean—” he shrugs, eyes on your knee, “—we were hammered. It’s a pretty standard thing people do after they drunk-marry in Vegas.”

You nod, staring at your ring. “Makes sense.”

A long pause.

Then: “Do you… want to?”

You look at him.

And something in your chest twists.

Matt looks unsure for the first time. Fidgety. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with his size and everything to do with the way he’s watching you — like your answer will either level him or save him.

You chew your bottom lip. “I don’t want to undo something if it… didn’t feel like a mistake.”

His eyes snap up. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It was insane, yeah. But it was also kind of… right? You didn’t feel it?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “I did.”

And just like that, the tension shifts — replaced with something heavier, warmer.

You lean into him, lips brushing his jaw. “So we’re staying married?”

He grins, one hand sliding to your waist. “Guess so.”

“Cool,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t let you pull away.

Instead, he pulls you into his lap, kissing you full-on, deep and slow. His hands explore — your back, your thighs, your hips. Every inch of you he accidentally married 24 hours ago.

His lips drag down your neck. “Want you again.”

You laugh softly. “We’re supposed to be figuring things out.”

“This is me figuring things out.”

You end up back in bed. Again. Naked, again.

This time, though, it’s different.

Less frantic, more intense.

He kisses you like he means it — every press of his lips a confirmation that he wants this. Wants you.

When he finally pushes into you, it’s slow, torturous, one hand cradling the back of your neck while the other grips your waist. You cling to him, gasping into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like home.”

You arch into him. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He moves deep and steady, murmuring your name between kisses, between moans. When you come, it’s with his name on your lips and his fingers tangled in yours.

Afterward, you’re curled up against his chest, your fingers playing with the edge of your wedding ring.

Matt glances down, smile tugging at his lips. “You’re kinda stuck with me now.”

You roll your eyes. “Guess I could do worse.”

The Next Morning:

You wake up to Matt on the phone, pacing the kitchen shirtless, one hand running through his hair.

“Yeah, I know it’s fast, but it just… happened,” he says. Then, “No, I’m not kidding.”

You sit up, confused, until you hear: “Yes, I told her. No, she’s not mad. Actually, I think she likes her.”

Pause.

“Okay, fine, then come meet her.”

You blink. Wait, what?

He hangs up and turns to you.

“So,” he says sheepishly, “I may have told my sisters.”

Your heart lurches.

“You what?”

He walks over, wrapping his arms around you, still warm from bed. “They want to meet you. Like… today.”

You blink.

“I just found out I’m married, and now I’m meeting your sisters?”

He grins. “Welcome to the family, babe.”

“Meet the Sisters” aka: awkward brunch, overprotective little sisters, flustered you, and Matt being whipped beyond repair

You don’t have time to mentally prepare.

One second you’re arguing over whether you can wear sweatpants to brunch (Matt says yes; you say you’re not meeting your in-laws in a hoodie), and the next you’re sitting in a corner booth at some trendy café in the Lower East Side, nursing a mimosa and praying the ground will open up and swallow you whole.

Because across from you sit Matt Rempe’s two older sisters.

They’re both gorgeous, intimidating in completely opposite ways — one is taller, willowy, and observant; the other has shorter hair, a mischievous grin, and has already asked you if you’re on birth control.

You nearly choke on your drink.

Matt, for his part, looks like a man caught between a battlefield and a dream come true. He’s grinning, arm slung around your shoulders protectively, trying very hard to seem chill when he’s clearly vibrating with excitement.

“Okay,” says the shorter one — Stephanie, Steph , if you’re remembering correctly — as she stabs her pancake stack with deadly precision. “So let me get this straight. You guys got married. In Vegas. Drunk. And now you’re just, like… going with it?”

Matt shrugs, squeezing your hip. “Pretty much.”

The other sister — Alley — tilts her head. “That’s kind of insane. Even for you, Matt.”

“Yeah,” Steph adds, eyes narrowing at you. “What’s your deal? Who marries a 6’8” NHL goon on accident and doesn’t run for the hills?”

You blink. “Uh. Apparently me.”

Alley hums. “You’re either extremely brave or extremely in love.”

Your face heats. “Is… both an option?”

There’s a pause.

Then Steph smirks, nudging Alley under the table. “She’s cute.”

Steph sighs. “Yeah. Fine. She can stay.”

Matt looks way too pleased.

Later, as the four of you walk through the park, you catch Matt pulling Alley aside, muttering something you can’t hear.

She punches him in the arm and loudly says, “If you hurt her, I’ll break your kneecaps.”

You blink. “Aren’t you older than him?”

She shrugs. “And still meaner.”

Matt just laughs and tugs you close. “See? My family loves you.”

That night, you and Matt are back in his apartment, tangled together on the couch.

He’s got one hand down your shirt, lazily tracing circles against your ribs, the other scrolling through Instagram. Every other post is still about you two.

“Think it’s dying down?” you murmur, half-asleep against his chest.

He huffs a laugh. “Not even close. You’re officially The Wife.”

You groan, burying your face in his neck. “I didn’t even mean to become anyone’s wife.”

He tilts your chin up with his fingers, smiling slow and warm. “Maybe. But you became mine.”

Your breath catches.

And before you can come up with anything smart to say, he kisses you — deep, soft, slow.

Married.

To Matt Rempe.

And somehow… it’s starting to feel a little less insane.

you’re not even sure how it started — maybe it was the champagne, maybe the heat of the Strip, maybe the way Matt looked at you across that roulette table like he already knew.

But now it’s three days later, your head still pounding faintly from the hangover and the echo of Elvis officiating your vows, and you’re standing center ice at Madison Square Garden wearing his jersey.

Number 73.

Rempe.

The sleeves fall past your fingers. It smells like him.

The crowd’s electric, half of them already losing their minds at the sight of the two of you. The rest are still trying to process the jumbotron graphic that just flashed up:

“Mr. and Mrs. Rempe 💍”

Matt’s hand finds yours — big, warm, grounding — and when the announcer introduces him last, he doesn’t skate out alone. You’re still holding onto him, laughing too hard to care.

He lifts your joined hands in the air like you just won the Cup.

“Guess it’s official now,” he says, grinning, cheeks pink.

Your voice is dry but giddy: “I still don’t remember saying ‘I do.’”

He winks. “Doesn’t matter. I said it for both of us.”

And under the bright lights of the Garden, with your borrowed jersey and a diamond ring you didn’t pick out, you realize you don’t mind the chaos one bit.

You’re already halfway in love with the mistake.

And he’s not letting go of your hand.

💌 If it made you grin (or Google “Rempe height”), slide a coin to your server:

ko-fi.com/camficdiner 🍒

[kawhh]

HIS LEGS? | Quinn Hughes

[camficdiner]

hiii, how are you doing sweetheart?hope's good yeah,

i was thinking about a [1;4] [2;14] [3;2-3] [4;2]

love your writing xoxo

☕️ Cams Fic Diner – Order 059

🍓 thank you for stopping by Cam’s Fic Diner.

We serve stories that make you bite your lip, clutch your phone, and say, “I need help.” If your brain is rotting, your standards are ruined, and you’re now fully convinced a pro athlete is in love with you

Good. That’s exactly what we’re here for. Come again. Or come twice. We don’t judge.

💬 “The Jersey Stays On”

Character: Matt Rempe

Prompt: A slow, sleepy morning in his kitchen. You’re wearing nothing but his oversized jersey

Type: Domestic smut, praise-heavy, lazy and intense

WC: ~1.5k

✨🍒🛼🧁

You don’t hear him come in. You just feel him.

A shift in the air. The weight of eyes. That thick, warm silence that clings to you right before he presses his chest to your back — all bare skin and sleepy heat.

“You tryna kill me this morning, baby?”

His voice is rougher than usual. Still raspy with sleep, like it dragged itself up from somewhere deep. His arms wrap around you, big and lazy, pulling you tighter against him until your hips slot right into his.

“Didn’t hear the alarm,” he mumbles, nose brushing the curve of your shoulder.

“It’s Sunday.”

He hums. His hand slides slowly up your thigh.

“Not wearing anything under this, are you?”

“Nope.”

He makes a sound. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest.

“Fuck.”

You feel him grow hard against you — slow, heavy, pressing into your ass through those thin gray sweatpants. The ones hanging way too low on his hips.

“You just want me to lose it,” he mutters.

“Wouldn’t mind.”

He spins you gently, lifts you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing. His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where jersey meets skin, moving higher. He stares at you for a second — flushed, chest heaving — then drags the jersey up just enough to see all of you.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he says, like it’s a revelation. “Like—stupid hot. First thing in the morning and I wanna ruin you.”

“Then do it.”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth is on yours — open, hot, tongue sliding deep. His hands grip your ass and pull you closer, and his hips start grinding against your bare core with filthy intent.

You gasp against his mouth. “Matt—”

“I got you,” he groans, biting your bottom lip. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby. So good.”

You shove his sweatpants down and he helps you, groaning when his cock springs free — already leaking, already hard, flushed dark and thick between you.

He grips himself at the base and slides it through your folds — once, twice — letting the tip drag over your clit until you’re gasping.

“So wet already,” he pants. “Jesus.”

Then he pushes in.

One long, slow thrust.

Your back arches and he kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, anything he can reach.

“Always so fucking tight,” he groans. “Every single time.”

He starts moving — slow, deep strokes that hit just right, just enough, and fuck he knows exactly how to rock his hips to make your head drop back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “My pretty girl. On my counter. In my jersey.”

Your nails claw his shoulders. Your thighs start to shake.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, fucking into you a little harder now. “Let me see you fall apart for me.”

You moan louder, legs tightening around him.

“That’s it. Good girl. You take it so well—fuck—you were made for this.”

When you come, it’s a full-body thing — back arched, mouth open, hands gripping whatever you can reach. And he watches you the whole time, in awe.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s my girl.”

And when he follows right after — grunting against your mouth, spilling deep inside you with a shudder — he doesn’t even pull out. Just keeps holding you there, close, safe.

“You’re never taking this jersey off,” he breathes, forehead resting on yours.

“It’s mine now,” you whisper back. “You’ll have to fight me for it.”

“Wouldn’t win,” he says, grinning. “You’d pin me in two seconds.”

“Exactly.”

And then he kisses you again.

Long. Soft. Slow.

Your legs are still trembling when he finally lifts you off the counter.

He doesn’t let you stand on your own — just scoops you up like you’re nothing, arms under your thighs, your body curled against his chest. The jersey rides up again, and he doesn’t fix it. Just walks you straight back to bed, still inside-out messy and sun-warmed from earlier.

“You okay?” he murmurs, setting you down like you’re glass.

“Mhmm.”

You’re already sinking into the mattress, thighs still sticky, body warm all over. He grabs a clean towel from the bathroom — you don’t know how he’s still standing — and gently wipes between your legs, muttering soft things like “So good for me, always so fuckin’ good,” and “You’re unreal.”

Then he kisses the inside of your knee.

Then your shoulder.

Then disappears for two minutes and comes back with a glass of water and two pieces of toast because “baby steps before breakfast.”

“You’re being disgustingly boyfriend right now,” you mumble.

“Good,” he says, grinning. “Maybe I’ll get you to stay longer.”

You roll onto your side and watch him pad around the kitchen — shirtless, hair a mess, still flushed from sex, humming something under his breath while he makes scrambled eggs in the pan.

He turns and catches you staring.

“What?”

“You’re just really big,” you say.

He blinks.

Then walks over, leans down, and kisses you slow and deep like it’s nothing.

“You love it,” he mumbles against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you admit, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. “And you love when I wear your jersey.”

“I worship you when you wear my jersey.”

[kawhh]

Smart Quinn knowing his numbers | Quinn Hughes

[postgamevibes]

Practice Wife

Summary: Luke’s teammates tease him about how often he talks about you, joking that you’re basically his “practice wife.” At first, Luke plays along, calling you “Mrs. Hughes” for laughs, but when the teasing starts to feel real, he realizes just how much you mean to him, and isn’t afraid to show it. A lighthearted, swoony one-shot full of warmth, laughter, and the quiet comfort of being someone’s forever teammate.

*********************************************************

You weren’t sure when the nickname had started, but one thing was clear: Luke Hughes was utterly, completely smitten, and apparently, his teammates had picked up on it faster than he did.

It was the little things at first. The way Luke’s phone buzzed constantly with texts from you, even when practice was starting. The way his face lit up whenever you came to games, sitting just a few rows behind the bench. The way he talked about you all the time, really in casual conversations with his friends.

His teammates noticed.

Jesper was the first to make the joke, one afternoon in the locker room, lacing up his skates with a smirk. “Dude, you talk about your girl so much, it’s like you’ve got a practice wife or something.”

Luke had laughed, brushing it off, but the nickname stuck like glue.

Soon, the teasing became a steady drumbeat. “Mrs. Hughes” echoed around the arena during warmups and team dinners. Luke’s friends called him “hubby” when he wasn’t looking, and every now and then, a teammate would slip a playful, “Better get home to Mrs. Hughes,” right as he left practice.

You heard the nickname before Luke did. The first time it really hit was when you joined a group video chat with some of the team and heard a chorus of “Hey, Mrs. Hughes!” directed at you.

You raised your eyebrows at Luke, who just grinned sheepishly.

“Seriously? Practice wife?” you teased later over coffee, eyes sparkling.

Luke shrugged, the faintest blush dusting his cheeks. “Why not? It’s kinda fun.”

And it was. Somehow, that silly phrase had become a badge of honor proof of the quiet, comfortable bond you and Luke shared amidst the chaos of hockey life.

One Friday night, you sat curled up on the couch in Luke’s apartment, a pizza box open on the coffee table and a documentary playing on mute. Luke was scrolling through his phone when a message popped up from Jesper: “Hey man, you really gonna make us wait until the offseason for the big Mrs. Hughes announcement?”

Luke showed it to you, laughter bubbling from his chest. “Apparently, they’re all waiting on me.”

You nudged him playfully. “Maybe you should give them a little something to chew on.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

You smiled, slipping your hand into his. “I don’t know a little less ‘practice wife’ and a little more ‘officially Mrs. Hughes.’”

Luke squeezed your hand gently, eyes soft. “We’ll get there.”

The next week, the nickname took on new life.

During practice, you arrived early to watch the team warm up. Jesper caught sight of you and jogged over. “Hey Mrs. Hughes, you here to cheer your hubby on?”

You laughed, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Luke appeared moments later, catching Jesper’s teasing grin.

“Careful,” Luke warned with a smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

Jesper just smirked. “I’m just saying, you two are a package deal.”

Luke looked over at you, his gaze full of warmth and quiet pride. “Yeah, we are.”

Later, you and Luke took a walk through the city, hand in hand, the evening air crisp and refreshing.

“I kinda like this whole ‘practice wife’ thing,” Luke admitted, squeezing your hand. “It means I get to brag about you in front of everyone.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “Good. Because I’m proud to be your Mrs. Hughes practice or not.”

Luke laughed, pulling you closer. “Best title I’ve ever had.”

As the days passed, the teasing faded into a comfortable rhythm, the nickname transforming from a joke into a symbol of your life together steady, playful, and filled with love.

And every time Luke called you “Mrs. Hughes,” whether for laughs or something softer, you knew you were exactly where you belonged.