thinking about it and yeah sam and misa do fist bump after sex
in fact, they do something quite similar to sam in the podcast going "good word!" and holding out his hand for a fist bump.
i think it could actually be "good work" or "good one" or "nice" but it's usually sam saying it because I subscribe to the michael misa going to sleep IMMEDIATELY post sex agenda. And he's sleepy and sam is warm and hes pressing his face into Sam's bicep, and Sam's taking his other hand and holding out a fist bump and saying "nice one, eh?" and misa is sleeping fist bumping back, nodding. "Good Job."
alpha will and omega mack roommates where will is lowkey an asshole who thinks male omegas are unnatural (hello traditional catholic alpha family!) and mack is headstrong and was raised to never let an alpha tell him he was worthless
will would hurl some insults and mack would hurl some right back unaffected
they start a strange sort of âcompetitionâ of trying to get the other to move out but neither are backing down
from mack leaving his knotting dildos out in the open (do they really fit inside of macks pussy??) to will walking around the dorm with his gray sweats hung low so his happy trail and v line were showing to make the omega uncomfortable (why the hell was his dick that big theres just no way)
until one day mack brought an alpha home and will was awoken by macks bed frame slamming against their shared wall and mack.
macks high pitched moans and whines and begging were all will could hear that night his voice as he begged that fuck ass alpha to fuck him harder or thats it alpha right there fuck im close! rang through his mind as he tried and failed to fall back asleep
the next morning mack was glowing with a satisfied smile and a bit of a limp he greeted will good morning with a giggle and a sly smile as he asked will how he slept
it was so on
and so ensued the sex competition between the alpha and the omega to disrupt the others sleep as much as they could by bringing an omega or alpha home to fuck and be as obnoxiously loud about it as possible
when will brought an omega home he made sure to spend most of his time between her legs and make her scream telling her to let him hear her and teasing her about how he could hear how much her pussy wanted it every time he pushed his fingers in and out and a nasty wet sound echoed through his room he made sure to grab her wrists and hold them against her belly to prevent her from muffling her moans
he wanted mack to hear
and the next day he walked out (shirtless with his gray sweats cause he liked how flushed mack always got) and saw mack at their kitchen counter glowering at his coffee
but will didnt know when he started to look forward to hearing mack scream and cry and beg the alpha fucking him to fuck him ever harder or when he started to imagine that the pussy that he was fucking was macks and that it was macks bright and pretty green eyes that were the ones shedding tears into his pillows as he plowed into them or when he started to whip his dick out every time mack got fucked and stroke his dick to the rhythm of the bed frame pounding against the wall leaning his head against it to hear mack better shirt in between his teeth as he huffed and groaned lowly as he finished at the same time as mack
â° Synopsis Youâre the Blackhawks physio, Connor always makes up injuries just to feel your hands on him. One day he talks you into coming over to your place to give him a massage, even though deep down you knew it just wasnât gonna be that.
tags/contains Connor Bedard x fem!physio!reader. Smut, unprotected sex (donât copy them pls), 18+, NSWF content, handjob, p in v, p with p, creampie, slow burn, older!reader (2-3 years), physio reader at the united center, holy shi this is long asf; 3.7k words.
âş from Sera, to youđ¨. FAHHH thatâs on me baby boo, that I didnât post the fic yesterday or the day before, but, hey I hope this makes up for it!! đź
masterlist Ἅᥠplease reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!
If somebody had told you five years ago that youâd be a physiotherapist at the United Center for the Chicago Blackhawks, you wouldâve laughed until your sides hurt.
17 year old you, still in high school, still convinced the closest youâd ever get to the nhl was screaming from the nosebleeds, was absolutely certain it was impossible.
But here you were.
A few months shy of twenty three, diploma still crisp in its frame back at your apartment, and somehow youâd landed the gig. Grad school flew by in a blur of anatomy labs, study sessions, and one very persistent internship application that somehow made it past the first round.
Then the interview where you tried not to sound like you were fangirling when they mentioned the players.
Over the few months youâd been at the united center, youâd gotten close to just about everyone who mattered. The coaches who were strict but quick to joke once you proved you could keep a player on the ice. The media girls, who always knew the latest gossip before it hit the group chat.
You absolutely loved your job. You loved the morning skates, the way a playerâs shoulders would finally drop after you worked out a knot that had been bugging him for weeks. You loved learning the teamâs rhythms: who preferred heat packs, who swore by ice baths, who pretended he didnât need help until the pain made him limp.
And then there was Connor. Not that youâd meant to get close to him but it just happened. He came to you all the time, not always with an injury; sometimes it was just to drop off some of his snacks or to ask, very seriously, if the new foam roller in the gym was better than the old one.
Then he came to you with discomfort, real or invented, he always found his way to your treatment room. It didnât matter if another physio was free, or if the place was packed after a hard practice. Heâd hover near the door until the other guys cleared out and it was just you.
Youâd noticed the pattern early on. The way he would tilt his head toward your table when someone else offered to take him. A âIâll wait for herâ that carried just enough weight to end the discussion. The team didnât comment because Connor was Connor but you caught the occasional smirk from the older guys.
And you would be lying if you said he wasnât attractive. If anything, he was the most beautiful man on the team.
He wasnât attractive in obvious way that other guys his age were. Connor carried himself differently: humble, focused, almost shy off the ice and that only made it worse. Heâd sit on your table in compression shorts, thigh flexed just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him when you palpated the âinjury,â.
You knew there was nothing wrong with him. When Connor actually got hurt, he was the worst patient imaginable. Heâd downplay it, skate through it, only admit anything when the trainers physically dragged him off the ice. Heâd told everyone it was âfineâ until he couldnât weight bear in the locker room.
This past week, Connor had been coming to you every single day. Monday and tuesday, youâd brushed it off as the usual. Heâd wander in at afternoon, claim the right hamstring was âstill a little tight,â let you palpate it for thirty seconds, then flash a small, crooked smile and leave with a quiet âthanks, doc.â
You figured he was just finding excuses to see you, same as always. The attention was flattering, even if you pretended it didnât make your pulse kick up a notch.
But then wednesday rolled around. He showed up right after morning skate. âThigh again,â he said, hopping onto the table without being asked. You pressed your thumbs into the meat of his hamstring, searching for knots, trigger points. Nothing.
The muscle felt warm, strong, perfectly fine. You told him to stretch more, ice after, and sent him on his way.
Thursday was game day. He came in early with the same complaint, same spot on the table.
By friday, youâd had enough. He walked in at around 3pm with the same sheepish smile. You didnât even let him speak first. âConnor,â you said, crossing your arms. âSit.â
He did, immediately, legs dangling off the edge of the table.
You stepped closer, âYouâve been in here every day this week with the exact same âthigh injury.â Iâve checked it six ways from Sunday. Thereâs no swelling, no bruising, no tightness that shouldnât resolve with basic mobility work. If this keeps up; Iâm going to have to tell the coaches. Theyâll bench you, get imaging, maybe send you to a specialist. We canât risk you playing through something that might actually be serious.â
His face changed instantly. The smile vanished and his eyes widened. âNo,â he said quickly. âThat canât happen.â
You raised an eyebrow. âItâs my job to make sure it doesnât get worse.â
âI know, I just-â He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. âI already missed too many games in december and january. The team was struggling without me, I canât just sit there again.â
He looked genuinely rattled. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. âCan you.. give it a massage or something? I swear it helps when you do it. I can come by tomorrow, and the day after if you need. Just please donât tell the coaches to bench me.â
Part of you wanted to call bullshit because the rational, professional part screamed red flags. But another part that noticed how he said please, and how he genuinely didnât want to be benched; wavered.
âFine,â you said finally. âWeâll try a deeper session today. But if itâs not improving by monday, Iâm looping in the head trainer.â
Relief washed over his face so fast it was almost comical. âOkay.â
You turned to the counter, grabbing the arnica cream and a bottle of massage oil. When you faced him again, heâd already tugged his shorts up higher on his thigh, far enough that the hem bunched just under the curve of his quad. A faint line of muscle definition ran along the edge where shorts met skin.
He leaned back on his palms, elbows locked, chest open. The position pulled his hoodie tight across his shoulders. You could feel him watching you as you warmed the oil between your hands.
You stepped between his knees, keeping your eyes on the spot you were about to work. âLie back a little more if you can. I need better access.â
He leaned back without hesitation, reclining until his weight rested on his forearms. The move made his thigh flex under your fingers. Heat radiated off him immediately, skin fever hot from whatever this was.
You started gliding strokes along the hamstring, thumbs pressing into the belly of the muscle. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. You kept your focus down on the glide of oil over skin.
Your hands moved higher, working the attachment near his glutes. His quad twitched once under your palm. You swallowed. âTell me if itâs too much pressure.â
âItâs perfect,â he murmured.
After two days of radio silence over the weekend, you thought maybe the threat had finally landed. Scaring him with the bench talk, looping in the head trainer, it seemed to have worked.
But then monday came. The knock came at around 2pm and you sighed, already knowing exactly who it was before the door even opened.
Connor stepped inside and headed straight for the treatment table like it had his name carved into it. He sat in the same spot, legs parted just enough, and looked at you with those big, earnest eyes.
You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter. âBack already?â
He rubbed the back of his neck. âYeah.â
You watched him for a few seconds, and then maybe because you were tired of dancing around it, the words just slipped out. âConnor, if you want to see me, you can try other ways rather than making up injuries.â
His mouth opened, color crept up his neck, pink and guilty. He blinked like a deer caught in headlights. âIâm not- I mean, it really hurts.â The words came out fast and defensive. âYouâre just the only one who gets it right.â
You rolled your eyes, but it was playful, the corner of your mouth twitching despite yourself. âRight.â
You stepped forward, reaching for the massage oil again. Before he could say anything else, you placed the back of your hand against his chest and pushed him back gently. âLie back properly,â you said. âIf youâre going to lie to me, at least do it comfortably.â
He exhaled a shaky laugh, complying without argument. You warmed the oil between your palms, then slid your hands up the back of his thigh, starting low and working higher as the muscle jumped under your touch.
âHigher a bit,â he murmured, almost under his breath.
You paused, thumbs circling just below the glute hamstring tie in. âYou know,â you said casually, keeping your tone light, âthere might actually be something worth working on up here. Your adductors feel a little overcompensating. Maybe from all the skating, or maybe from.. other reasons.â
He swallowed audibly. âYeah?â
âYeah.â You pressed deeper. âCould explain why it keeps âcoming back.ââ
âIf I really need more help with the thigh.. maybe you could treat me outside of here?â
Your hands stilled for half a second. âWhat?â
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. âLike.. at your place or wherever. Just so itâs not always in the middle of the day with everyone around. Iâd still be getting treatment and youâd still be doing your job.â
You pulled your hands back, wiping them on a towel, buying time. âI donât do private sessions, Connor. Thatâs not how this works.â
âCâmon,â he said softly, sitting up a little. His voice dropped, almost pleading. âItâs still me getting better, you still fixing whatâs wrong. No one has to know itâs not in the training room.â
You looked at him. The flush on his cheeks, the way his fingers flexed against the table, the intensity in his stare. You knew wasnât just asking for a massage anymore.
Your heart thudded hard once. âWeâll see,â you finally said. âMaybe we can figure something out. But only if youâre actually honest with me next time.â
A small, relieved smile broke across his face. âI will.â
You donât remember exactly why you said yes when he asked again the next day. Whatever it was, the words âfine, come over after practice tomorrowâ slipped out before your brain could veto them.
This wasnât professional. No licensed physio invited a player to their apartment for a âtreatmentâ when the real diagnosis was obvious: he wanted you, bad, and his only strategy for getting close was inventing aches because he didnât know how else to talk to a woman.
You knew it and he probably knew you knew it. And yet here you were, changing out of sweats into something cuter just because he was coming over for a âmassage.â
Connor, meanwhile, was thrilled. Heâd spent the last twenty four hours replaying your âweâll seeâ. Yeah, he could have any girl in Chicago throwing herself at him, but none of them were you. None of them patched him up after morning skate, none of them rolled their eyes at his bullshit and still let him stay. Was lying worth it? One hundred percent. He was terrified youâd say no if he just asked you out like a normal person.
When the knock came at 7pm, you opened the door and immediately raised an eyebrow.
Connor stood there in black athletic shorts. âIsnât it a bit too cold to be wearing shorts outside?â you asked, stepping aside to let him in.
âNah,â he said, shrugging as he kicked off his sneakers. âI got out of the house straight into the car so there wasnât much point in changing.â
You closed the door behind him. âWell, no wonder your thighs hurt.â
He laughed under his breath and padded over to your couch like heâd been there a hundred times. He dropped onto the cushions, legs spread comfortably, and looked up at you.
âArenât you gonna wear your work clothes?â he teased, eyes flicking over your outfit.
You crossed your arms. âDoes it look like Iâm at my job?â
âWell..â He tilted his head. âYouâre treating me, so you kind of are.â
You stepped closer. âI think youâre in my house, so you better watch your attitude.â
His pupils dilated instantly. If you only knew how much he liked that tone; the bossy edge, the way you took charge without even trying. Some people might call the age gap weird; he called it perfect.
He loved a woman who could handle herself, who could handle him, who didnât melt just because he played hockey. It turned him on more than heâd ever admit out loud.
You grabbed the arnica cream from your coffee table, your home supplies, nothing fancy and sat down next to him on the couch. âIâm working with what I have. Shorts up.â
He tugged them higher without hesitation, exposing the full length of his thigh. You squirted cream into your palm, warmed it, then started with long, firm strokes.
âAnything hurt?â you asked, keeping your voice even.
âA bit higher,â he murmured.
You shifted your angle, sliding your hands up toward the inner thigh. Your left arm braced on his knee for leverage and then you accidentally touched him. Your forearm brushed against the growing bulge in his shorts.
Your cheeks flamed. Connor was already half hard and your touch sent a fresh wave of heat through him. A soft whimper escaped before he could catch it. Then breathy sighs as your fingers worked higher.
You heard the sound and glanced up. He was staring right at you, lips parted, cheeks flushed, trying to play it cool.
You tried to play it cool too, like the brush of your arm against him was nothing, just an accident in the heat of the moment. But your pulse was hammering, cheeks still burning, and the way his whimpers hung in the air made it impossible to ignore.
You cleared your throat, keeping your hands moving lightly over his thigh. âYou okay?â you asked. âDid I push too much there?â
He moved slightly, breath catching. âYeah,â he rasped. âIâm good.â
You glanced up again, his lips were parted, his chest was rising and falling faster. âCan I kiss you?â he murmured suddenly.
You didnât know where this surge came from but you liked it. You liked him like this, him eager. Without thinking, you leaned in, closing the space. His lips met yours soft at first. He exhaled against your mouth, one hand coming up to cup your jaw gently.
You pulled back after a moment, both of you breathing hard, eyes locked. But the pull was too strong; you dove back in immediately, your tongues tangling, teeth grazing, his fingers threading into your hair to hold you close. A low groan rumbled from his chest as the kiss deepened, and before you could process it, he grabbed your wrist with his free hand, guiding it up and over to the hard bulge straining against his shorts.
Connor wasnât thinking straight but if he was already this far, already green lit by the way you kissed him back, what was there to lose? He pressed your palm against him, hips twitching up instinctively.
You broke the kiss with a gasp, but didnât pull away. Instead, you rubbed your hand over the length of him through the fabric, feeling him throb under your touch. âJesus, Connor,â you whispered, laughing.
He thrust up into your palm, desperate, eyes fluttering shut for a second. âPlease,â he muttered, voice wrecked.
Together, you tugged his shorts down past his hips, freeing him completely. His cock sprang up, hard and flushed, pre cum already beading at the tip. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slow, thumb circling the head.
âWas this your plan all along?â you teased, leaning in to nip at his jaw. âFake a thigh injury just to get me touching you like this?â
He let out a choked laugh, head falling back against the couch. âMaybe,â he admitted, hips bucking into your fist. âFuck- worth it, though.â
You picked up the pace, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, watching his face contort in pleasure; his brows knit, lips bitten, soft moans spilling out unchecked. His hand covered yours, guiding the rhythm faster and needier. Sweat glistened on his forehead, muscles tensing under your other hand still braced on his thigh.
âShit, Iâm-â He didnât finish, just groaned deep as he came, spilling hot over your knuckles and his stomach in thick pulses. His body shuddered, breaths coming in ragged gasps.
You slowed your hand, milking the last of it from him, then wiped your fingers on a nearby tissue. He opened his eyes, hazy and satisfied, and immediately pulled you in for another kiss, his tongue lazy against yours.
His hands slid to your waist almost immediately, fingers splaying wide and warm through the thin fabric of your top as he kissed you deeper. He tugged gently, urging you closer, trying to guide you onto his lap.
You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, lips brushing his. âConnor-â
âHmm?â He chased your mouth, kissing the corner of it, then your jaw softly.
âI donât think I can-â
He paused. âBut you could give me a handjob?â He teased. âIt canât get any worse than that, right?â
You sat there for a few heartbeats, his hands still on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles over your hips. He was right; youâd already crossed so many lines tonight, the handjob alone was enough to get you fired if anyone found out. Professionalism was long gone and the truth burned low in your stomach: you wanted him, you wanted to feel him inside you, wanted to chase your own release instead of just giving him his.
If things were going to be awkward at the rink tomorrow, they might as well be worth it.
You exhaled shakily, then swung one leg over his thighs, climbing into his lap. He groaned softly the second your weight settled, hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against him. Your mouths crashed together again, his fingers dug into your sides like he was afraid youâd disappear.
He broke away first, trailing hot, open mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. When he found the spot that made you gasp, he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to leave a mark youâd have to hide tomorrow. His hands moved to the button of your pants, popping it open with surprising dexterity.
You stood up fast, shoving your pants and your underwear down in one impatient motion, kicking them aside. Connor watched, eyes raking over you like he couldnât believe this was happening, cock already hardening again against his stomach.
You straddled him again, knees bracketing his hips, and sank down slowly. The stretch burned in the best way; he was thick, hot, filling you inch by inch until you were seated fully, both of you letting out matching moans.
âFuck,â he breathed, head tipping back against the couch, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. âYou feel-â
You rolled your hips experimentally, grinding down once then twice. The friction sent sparks up your spine. âGood?â you finished for him.
âBetter than good.â He thrust up to meet you, shallow at first, letting you set the pace. His hands roamed up your sides, under your shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra. âWhat a nice treatment for me, isnât it?â he murmured, lips curving into a smug little smile against your collarbone.
You laughed sarcastically, moaning at the same time as you lifted and sank again, faster this time. âWell, youâre one lucky player, arenât you?â
âLuckiest,â he agreed. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He circled it in time with your movements. âBeen thinking about this for months. Every time you touched my thigh in the training room- fuck, I had to think about stats just to keep it together.â
You clenched around him at the confession, riding him harder. âShouldâve just asked me out like a normal person.â
âWould you have said yes?â He nipped at your earlobe, hips snapping up to meet your downward strokes.
âMaybe.â You gasped as he hit that spot inside you. âProbably. Definitely now.â
His laugh was wrecked. âGood to know.â He pulled you down for another messy kiss, swallowing your moans as the rhythm turned frantic; skin slapping, breaths mingling, the couch creaking under you both.
You were close, coiling tight in your core. His thumb pressed harder, relentless, and you shattered with a choked cry, pulsing around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a long, shuddering groan, arms banding tight around your waist like he never wanted to let go.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, his heartbeat thundered under your ear.
After a few minutes of catching your breath, still tangled together on the couch, Connorâs arms loosened just enough for you to sit up a little. His chest rose and fell under you, heartbeat slowly steadying. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering on your cheek.
âYou okay?â he asked quietly. âWas that good for you?â
You smiled, still a little dazed, and nodded. âYeah. Was nice.â
He exhaled, looking almost relieved, then rubbed the back of his neck. âSo.. um. Thereâs this nice steakhouse a couple blocks from my apartment. Would you wanna check it out with me?â
You raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping. âYouâre asking me out on a date? Thatâs so cute, Connor. You couldâve just said that months ago.â
He flushed, ducking his head with a sheepish grin. âYeah.. I know. Iâm an idiot.â
what the fuck is free agency and why did shakir mukhamadullin get traded to the edmonton oilers?? and mario ferraro to the winnipeg jets?? why am i just finding this out on espn??
i actually need someone to sit me down and explain hockey to me again because apparently i understand this sport significantly less than i thought i did.
i thought players were safe after the trade deadline?? like, i thought after march players were safe until next season.
omg, the sharks are actually trading off all the old players. i know weâre in a rebuild, i just didnât realize the roster would change every month. i swear i learn one lineup combination and by the time iâve gotten used to the players half the team has been sent somewhere else.
iâm still not over eky and now this. can we please stop trading players for the sake of my mental health. i cannot keep forming emotional attachments to random people only for them to be shipped across the continent overnight.
