sincerely yours

formerly: onlyquinns

[just-icing]

val, they/them, 20, average hockey enforcer enthusiast

this blog interacts with and contains nsfw content, no longer writing for the hughes brothers.

find my @/onlyquinn work easier ➜ @just-icing-archives

old writing tag: #val’s writing 🧃/ new writing tag: #sincerely val 🧃

requests are... open / closed ! or… just yap with me !!!

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[just-icing]

just watched the notebook for the first time and WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? i’m actually fucking devastated rn

[just-icing]

A SERIES OF UNREAL EVENTS, m. rempe

PART THREE, SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: best friend's younger brother!matt rempe x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

cw: EVENTUAL SMUT IN FUTURE PARTS, swearing, fake dating trope; for this part: usage of petnames (princess), an unreasonable amount of sexual tension

a/n: PART THREE PART THREE PART THREEE!!! one more part until this short series is over hehe!!! im having waaaaay too much fun with this

it’s far too easy to pretend with matt, holding hands and looking at each other with tender gazes. alley insists it’s just natural that he’s so comfortable with you because you basically grew up with the rempe family, but your heart and mind disagree. 

it’s not natural that your heart skips a beat when matt’s around, not natural that he’s suddenly leaving lingering kisses and touches even when people aren’t looking, never near your lips where you desperately want them to be. it messes with your brain, makes you realize that maybe your best friend’s annoying little brother isn’t as little or annoying anymore—that he’s actually kind of cute and kind and far too sweet to be known as an enforcer on the ice. 

he takes the time out of his long summer days to take you shopping, to fill your wardrobe with new shoes and outfits for your little events. it makes your stomach flutter when he does—when he insists that you deserve to be spoiled—but you try not to let it get to your head, because that’s what you asked of him in the beginning. 

right now, you’re tucked away in a dressing room for some fancy dress boutique that you’ve never heard of. it’s halfway through the offseason and the two of you have another little event to go to in the evening, but you’d folded when matt had suggested earlier in the day that the two of you go shopping. 

“just somethin’ comfy and pink, or whatever,” he’d said, since you’d complained earlier that week you had nothing to wear to your friend’s baby shower and gender reveal. 

yet, you find yourself with all kinds of dresses dangling from the hooks that line the wall, all different colors and made of materials you only ever saw in movies. several of them have cuts far from family friendly. 

“found another one you should try on,” matt says through the door. you inch open the dressing room door to grab it, hand waiting for a hanger that never comes. 

you huff, annoyed at his antics. “okay, are you going to hand it to me, or what?” you grumble, pressing yourself farther away from the crack in the door so that matt can’t see you in the current dress you’re wearing—a dark red number, one that you picked out because of its deeper neckline and open back—feeling far too naked to be seen by him. 

matt hums at your question. “i don’t know,” he says, “are you going to come out and let me see that dress, or what?” there’s a smirk in his tone. 

“you don’t have to see every single one, y'know," you mumble, even though you carefully open the door wider. matt’s gaze immediately snaps up from where it was situated on his phone, darkening at the sight of you and the ample amount of flesh your dress shows. “it’s not very… me, is it?” you say, self conscious of the way your best friend’s brother eyes you. you awkwardly try to wrap your arms around your body in an attempt to cover yourself even further. 

matt lets out a shuddering laugh, warm fingers reaching for your wrist and holding tenderly in the event you want to pull away. “i don’t know, princess,” he teases, “maybe if you do a spin and let me see the back i can give you my opinion.” he smirks softly, nothing wolfish like you’d expect from another man, but something weirdly fond. you think your heart skips a beat. 

your skin ignites where he touches you, his touch growing firmer when you don’t show any signs of pulling away. his fingers drift to yours, and matt twirls you slowly in front of him, eyes never once looking away from you until your back is to him and you’re looking at your own figure in the mirror on the dressing room door. you swallow thickly at the sight of matt behind you. his broad frame shadows you, covering you from any curious passersby. his eyes flick to yours in the mirror, hand still tangled with your own. you’re not even thinking about the dress anymore, too busy watching as matt leans closer to you impossibly slowly. 

“what’re you doing?” you whisper, scared to look away from his reflection and face him head-on. 

matt smiles and continues to lean forward until his lips brush just barely against your bare shoulder. his eyes never leave yours in the mirror as he draws higher up, drifting over the gentle slope of your shoulder and closer to your ear. your heart hammers loudly in your chest and blood pounds in your ears as you watch, body frozen still as he lets go of your hand and a warm solid palm finds its way on your hip. his lips brush your earlobe, coasting over the skin and the simple studs you’d put in that morning. before you can say anything, matt suddenly pulls away. 

“yeah,” he says nonchalantly, dropping his hand from your hip. “i think you’re right; it’s not very you.” 

whatever tension that was in the air shatters, and you whirl around to face him. your brows are pinched together and you’re ready to chew matt out for teasing you, but you stop at the look of amusement that dances across his too-pretty face. 

you huff instead, “fuck you, i’m getting it,” you grumble, stomping back into the dressing room. you miss the way matt’s body slumps with relief and the way his head tilts upward slightly as if thanking whatever higher being there is for your decision. 

“if that’s what you want,” he says instead, settling back to his original spot. he pretends to check his phone, still thinking about you in that dark red dress. his cock jumps in his pants at the mere thought of you and your bare back as he’d spun you. matt swallows thickly, brows furrowed tightly as he fights to pop a boner in public. “now try one that i picked out—the flowy pink one with the cute bow on it,” he says, and he hopes that you can’t hear the strain in his voice. 

that evening, you’re dressed in a new strappy pink dress with a cream-colored cardigan pulled over your shoulders. it’s the one dress matt had you try on, and the only one he’d bought for you that was in the proper pink color to express that you were fully ‘team girl.’ matt also wears pink, his tee a soft baby pink to match your dress and well complimented by his dark-wash barrel jeans and his stupid converse. he’d secretly told you he was actually ‘team boy,’ but you and alley had jumped him and basically forced him to be ‘team girl.’ “you can’t be when you have two sisters,” alley had argued, even if that logic barely made sense, but matt hadn’t brought it back up afterward. 

matt carries two gift bags in one hand and holds your hand in the other, swinging your clasped hands back and forth as the two of you walk over the mom-to-be. jessie smiles brightly at the sight of you and your supposed boyfriend, attempting to stand to greet you despite her swollen belly.

“oh, gosh,” she says with a little pout when she’s unable to get up. she tries again and you move to let go of matt’s hand to help her up, but he beats you to it. jessie smiles gratefully, looking at you and wiggling her eyebrows. “ooh, isn’t he good?” she teases and graciously accepts the gift bags matt holds out to her. 

“one’s for you,” you explain at the sight of jessie’s furrowed brows. “the other is for the baby.” you hope she likes the little pair of size-adjustable hockey skates and the tiny rangers jersey that you and matt had meticulously tucked into the gift bag. 

matt steps back and urges you forward with a gentle palm, excusing himself to go grab you a drink–something light, like you’d told him earlier in the season. you watch as he walks away, his broad back disappearing among the cluster of other husbands and boyfriends at the drink set up. you frown. 

jessie laughs, hand curved protectively over her stomach. “oh, babes,” she says between fits of laughter. “he’ll be back for you, don’t worry. he likes you too much.” 

your face warms at your friend’s words and your heart seems to soar at the idea of matt liking you. you try not to bask in the feeling, letting your brain stomp on your heart. you let out a forced giggle, playing into the role of lovesick girlfriend and not what you think might be one-sided-lovesick-family-friend. 

“that obvious?” you ask. jessie laughs harder and loops an arm through your own, leaning her body against your own. 

“oh, you’re going to make me pee myself!” she says. “its always been obvious, even in high school! you’ve got that boy wrapped around your little finger!” jessie giggles even after she’s done speaking, eyes crinkling in the setting sun. you think motherhood will look good on her as you let her corral you around the yard, letting you say hello to other guests. 

matt watches from afar, smiling as he sips from a beer he’d snagged off the drink table. in his other hand, he holds a glass of lemonade he’d grabbed for you. like at the other events, guys seem to crowd around him and talk in hushed tones, urging each other to try and approach him, but he isn’t thinking about them. instead, matt watches as you meander through your friend’s backyard, the skirt of your dress swishing around your calves. the sun casts a halo on your hair, highlighting the way you have it styled in a delicate half-up-half-down hairstyle. he catches a glint of something shiny around your neck–the silly little chain with his initials on it, the one you hadn’t taken off once since receiving–and lets the satisfied possessiveness settle over him like a warm blanket. 

he’s about ready to make his way over to you when the group of guys that lingers next to him decide to finally approach him, childishly shoving their designated spokesperson over like they’re teenagers daring each other to ask out a girl.

“uh, hey,” the random guy says, looking back at his little friend group in betrayal. matt bites back a smile. 

“what’s up?” he takes a casual sip of his beer, the liquid burning down his throat in a delightful sort of way. “here to ask about the nhl?” matt asks, antsy to just make his way back over to his beautiful–pretend–girlfriend. 

the guy’s friends laugh, clapping their hands down on his back in an attempt to urge him along. he looks at matt, eyes rounded with admiration and something like in fear of the 6’7” enforcer. 

“uh, yeah.” the guy swallows, awkward behavior weirdly refreshing after having to deal with other pushy and louder boyfriends and husbands through the summer. “you’re rempe, right? i saw you fight arber xhekaj against the habs last year; i’m from there… from montreal. so, y’know, a montreal fan.” 

matt nods in understanding, “yeah, i did fight him,” he says coolly, and instead of letting the poor guy choke his way through a conversation, matt asks, “do you play?” it’s a fair question, he thinks, especially for a white guy who’s from montreal–and when the guy perks up, matt knows he’s hit the nail on the head. 

the guy goes on and on about his college hockey career, chest puffed up in pride as he rambles about how good of a player he was. “would’ve made it pro like you,” he says, “if it weren’t for that damn injury.” matt pretends to listen, slowly inching the guy and his friends over to where you’re laughing with jessie. by the time he reaches you, the guy’s in a full angry reminiscence about the ‘dirty hit’ that hospitalized him and permanently benched him. 

at his approach, you look away from jessie to smile up at matt. you’re about to thank him as he passes you your glass of watered-down lemonade when you make eye contact with the poor sap he’s dragged along with him. you tilt your head, polite smile still on your face as you assess the angry, rambling grown man next to matt. 

“make a friend?” you ask, glancing at matt curiously. you bite down on your lower lip, fighting back a smile. the man stops talking and looks at you, finally seeing past his own anger to see you–pretty, smiley you. matt doesn’t like the way he looks at you. he hates it even more when he catches the wedding band on the guy’s finger. 

“my girlfriend,” matt declares, ignoring your question altogether and pulling you into his side so promptly you nearly spill your drink all over him. he looks at you and smiles, adoration oozing from his pretty eyes. jessie giggles behind a dainty hand. you decide not to think about it too much. you tear your gaze away, sipping at your drink. 

“and from the looks of it,” matt says, drawing your attention back to him. “you probably have a lovely lady wandering around here looking for you, yeah? maybe you should bring her over and we can chat.” there’s a sharp edge to his words, something akin to a warning, and for the first time tonight, you notice the crease between his brows and the little snarl of his upper lip. 

the guy immediately backs off at matt’s suggestion, said politely enough that it could’ve been friendly if it weren’t for the obvious glare on your so-called-boyfriend’s face. the guy laughs awkwardly, stepping backward to put more distance between you. he nearly trips on a portion of uneven ground, catching himself as he weakly makes an excuse to “look for the wife” like matt suggested. by the time he’s all the way across the lawn, it suddenly dawns on you that matt still has you pressed against him like you’re tinned sardines. and it also suddenly dawns on you that you don’t… hate it. 

“gosh!” jessie squeals suddenly, scaring you so badly that you launch yourself away from matt like a spooked cat. “oh, please! as if pda was ever an issue with you,” she teases, shoving your shoulder playfully in the hopes that you’ll curl up against matt’s body again. “we all saw how cozy you could get, especially with that cutie senior year.” she waggles her eyebrows at you and grins widely at the jealous look matt sports, one that you’re completely unaware of as you choke and sputter on your drink. 

matt pats your back, easily taking the cup from your hands and placing it off to the side somewhere. “that might be our cue to head home,” he says as you rub your sternum with your knuckles, face flushed. matt smiles at jessie, friendly despite the squinted look he gives her. “it was nice meeting you; congrats on the baby.” 

jessie smiles back, painted lips curled in a shit-eating grin. “maybe this time around in the next few years we’ll be together celebrating yours.” you cough and sputter again. 

when the two of you finally step through the threshold of janice’s front door, you immediately whirl on matt. he’s too preoccupied with making sure the front door is locked that he nearly misses the annoyed, pinchy look on your face. your purse dangles from one of his hands and you snatch it back, tossing it over your shoulder and letting it land somewhere unknown. 

“what was that?” you hiss as he finally turns to you. matt looks down at you casually, leaning his large body backward so that he’s comfortably resting against the door. “why’d you go crazy-eyed on that dude?” 

the scoff matt lets out is borderline obnoxious in the way that it affects you, grating on your nerves and alighting your body all at once. “c’mon, princess,” he says, crossing strong arms over his chest and inadvertently flexing, “you saw the ring on his hand, right? no way a guy should be hitting on another girl when he’s clearly got someone else.” 

you agree wholeheartedly with his statement, but a deep-seeded part of you pushes to argue with him just to see his reaction. “he wasn’t flirting with me,” you rebut and, without thinking about it, jut your lower lip in a large pout. “he was just being friendly; the majority of the people there were friends from high school.” 

matt laughs, throaty and far too attractive for your taste. “i know they were. i’m sure a few of them came through this house, too.” he suddenly crowds into you, large palms bracing themselves on your hips. you stumble just barely before your back is suddenly pressed against the front door, matt having moved you so quickly you’d barely noticed. he leans in close, the scent of his cologne overwhelming as it mixes with the smell of his sweat from standing around in the summer sun at jessie’s little party. “but i’m not too good at sharin’ what’s mine, you know that, don’t you? and last i checked, you’re mine for the summer.” 

[just-icing]

i WILL post p3 to my rempe fic series soon !!!!!!!

[shutoutshutup]

im so obsessed with the ref cam...

[just-icing]

just SLAMMED a mcdonald’s double quarter pounder at work and now i’m feeling sick as fuck

[rottencauliflowers]

chewing on his gray hairs

[just-icing]

the sliver of skin under his neck guard 🤤🤤

[just-icing]

roomie and i decided to give me a blonde like peekboo situation and accidentally mixed bleach and hair dye instead of developer and hair dye and put it on my already bleached hair and neither of us realized until several days later

i’m not bald but my hair is still orange as FAWK so is it rly a win tho

[just-icing]

i have this qh fic in my drafts (AGAIN FROM LAST SUMMER 😭😭) that i’m going to post on @just-icing-archives in an attempt to clear out my drafts

probably won’t post it rn cuz it’s 5am n i haven’t gone to bed yet

[just-icing]

A SERIES OF UNREAL EVENTS, m. rempe

PART TWO, SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: best friend's younger brother!matt rempe x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

cw: EVENTUAL SMUT IN FUTURE PARTS, swearing, fake dating trope; for this part: usage of pet names (princess, pretty girl), alcohol consumption

a/n: here's part two >:) i hope u guys enjoy !!

matt barely talks to you in the days leading up to the little event. it’s officially been a week since you’ve returned to calgary, and all he does is shoulders past you when you drop by to visit alley or to chat with their mom, and drops his chin in a respectful nod. it’s weird for you, to see matt rempe treat you like a human being instead of pestering and annoying you like he used to as a teen. you’re used to the gangly-limbed teenage version of him who would interrupt you during your time with his mom and sister just to say a bad joke or make fun of you for being single, not this suave version of him who’s grown into his body a bit too well. but you don’t say anything, and neither does his sister or mom; the two of them just give each other knowing looks that you can’t—weren’t ever able to—decipher. you convince yourself that you’re okay with that–the not knowing–since the agreement is to fake-date during events, not the entire summer. so, you exist in tandem with him, letting him treat you like any other guy friend you’ve had throughout college. yet, a part of you mourns the obnoxious teenage matt you’d grown up with. 

when the day finally comes for the silly reunion, though? it’s like matt is suddenly gone from your life, nowhere to be seen in his mom’s home when you let yourself in and call out a hello. not only is teen version matt gone, so is the adult version—something you’d normally be overjoyed about if it weren’t for your situation. for the first half of the day, you think nothing of it, thinking he’s out with old friends or doing his own thing, and let alley whisk you away to dress you up and do your hair like the two of you are sixteen all over again. it eases your mind, makes it so you nearly forget that you have a date—a second half, even if it’s fake—to bring with you. 

“where’s matt, by the way?” you ask finally when alley’s through with you, your hair and makeup immaculate and making you feel untouchable. you stand by the front door, wearing a brightly colored sundress and a pair of heels she’d let you borrow, a cute bag you’d forgotten about in the back of the closet at your parents’ house hanging from your arm. “we’re going to be late.” you suck in your bottom lip and reel at the taste of the waxy lipstick and gloss combination. immediately, you wipe your teeth with the side of your index finger. 

alley looks at the clock and, sure enough, the time’s too close for matt to be nowhere to be found. instead of freaking out, she pushes you out the door completely unbothered, “he’ll meet you there,” she reassures and slams the door behind you, leaving you out on the front porch with a promise you don’t know if you should believe. 

now, you think you really shouldn’t have believed it. 

the sun sets as you stand outside under a giant flower-and-vine-coated archway, a plastic solo cup in hand because of course your uni friend couldn’t afford to mess up her nice glasses—not that you can really blame her when you think back on your school days and remember all of the broken vases and other glassware left behind at frat parties. people mill about the lawn, talking with others but not once approaching you. 

matt still hasnt shown up. you gave him the benefit of the doubt when he’d been five minutes late, but soon lost hope when five turned to ten and so on. you knew you shouldn’t have trusted him, shouldn’t have so easily accepted his strange behavior to be part of your stupid ploy. of course he was just like every other boy ever, his status as your best friend’s brother shouldn’t have changed that. just the same teen boy who’d teased, taunted, and pranked you your entire life—especially when it came to your love life. 

you bring the cup to your lips and take a sip, nearly gagging when you realize what you assumed was punch isn’t actually just juice but some mixture of fruit punch and cheap liquor—a drink to make you nostalgic of your youth, you suppose. you’re about to spit the liquid out into some exotic flower bush when a trilling voice approaches you. you swallow with a shudder. 

“oh, my god!” sally, your friend who invited you, shrieks as she hands your drink off to who you presume is her husband. she takes your hands and jumps up and down; your eyes draw to her chest, suddenly flustered at the sight of her cleavage nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. “i can’t believe you came! i was so excited to see you rsvp back in april—right, honey?” she turns to her husband who stands behind her, awkward and holding three cups in his palms. 

he attempts something you think is a smile, “yeah, so stoked.” he chuckles but it falls flat. you smile back, hoping to ease his nerves. 

sally squeals again, “isn’t he just the cutest?” she gushes, coyly swatting at her husband who tries to dodge with a strained laugh. “anyway—where’s your man? i saw that you rsvp’d for two! you have a man, right?” 

this time, it’s your turn to stumble. your face feels hot and the sip of alcohol you’d had before makes your stomach tighten. “he’s around here somewhere,” you tell her and sally beams, hooking her arm through yours so you’re side by side and looking out over the ensemble of people who decorate her grossly decorated yard. 

“point him out for me, please?” she says, leaning into you, her chest pressing uncomfortably close. 

you agree—because what else can you do—and skim over the crowd, hoping you’ll see matt or someone who’s alone like you. you nearly give up, ready to admit the truth, when matt finally saunters through the gate looking as unbothered as ever. he’s wearing khaki-colored slacks and a navy henley, hair done immaculately. instantly, your relief at the sight of him outweighs the accrued annoyance of his absence. 

“that one,” you say immediately, pointing to his incredibly tall figure. sally gasps. 

“oh, wow!” she says, and she eyes him shamelessly, practically undressing him with her eyes even with her husband behind the two of you. “you rascal,” she purrs as matt starts approaching you. you fight the urge to kick off your stupid heels and run far, far away. 

matt stops in front of you and sally and grins, “hey, princess,” he says, eyes only on you even as your friend drools over him. you think you see a twinkle of humor in his eyes at the pet name, but it quickly disappears behind faux fondness. “sorry i’m late, had to pick up some things for mom—you know how it is.” he gives you a softer smile, crooked and tilting upward on one side, one that does not look fake at all. his eyes are soft, way softer than any guy has ever looked at you, and rakes up and down your body. they linger a second longer on your collarbones, on the body glitter alley had rubbed into the skin there, before flicking back up to meet your eyes. 

you blink a few times and nod slowly, oblivious to matt’s gaze on your body. “yeah,” you say slowly, “that’s okay. just… glad that you’re here.” and you mean it.

matt looks down at his shoes, far more bashful than you’ve ever seen him, the tips of his ears heating so brightly you can still see them even in the darkening sky. he looks up again and gives sally and her husband an extra charming smile, “didn’t see you guys there,” he says with a contagious chuckle, drawing the couple in to laugh with him. “i’m matt, the boyfriend.” he goes to shake sally’s husband’s hand but sally suddenly shoots off your arm and pushes her spouse away, peacocking in front of matt. 

“i’m sally,” she says, puffing her chest out and giving him a look that’s far too sultry for someone who’s happily married. something sick forms in your stomach at the sight. 

matt’s eyebrows shoot upward and, to his credit, his eyes stay glued to her face. never once do they drift lower, even with the way your friend pushes and preens. “it’s good to meet you,” he says so convincingly you think he means it. “i’ve heard so much about you.” another convincing lie, because you hadn’t spoken about sally once since that one time in college you’d caught her sleeping with one of your exes. a habit she obviously didn’t grow out of. 

sally smiles brightly and is about to say more until a cluster of guys suddenly appear behind matt, all holding beer cans or plastic cups. her friendly demeanor drops as she pouts, perfect eyebrows drawn together in annoyance and cheeks puffed up like a petulant child. 

“dude, holy shit,” one of the guys says, voice slurred so much you barely understand him. “you’re matt rempe, right? the one on the rangers?” 

matt turns to address the group, standing taller, prouder. “yeah, i am,” he agrees, nodding with a cocky grin that makes the turmoil in your stomach worse. “are you guys fans?” 

you doubt it, and you can tell he does too the moment he says it but he doesn’t retract his statement. instead, he lets them laugh at his statement like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, saying things like ‘as if i’m a rangers fan’ or ‘i’m obviously a flames fan’ because why wouldn’t they be when they reside in calgary. 

everyone is swept up into a conversation with him and you suddenly feel like you can breathe again, the awful sensation in your belly now gone as you watch a group of full grown men pretend to throw down with matt while their wives try to catch his eye, your friend included. you rub your hands down your arms at the sight, a different sort of feeling taking over in your gut. admittedly, you’re a little lonely. 

“so, you a rangers fan then?” sally’s husband—samuel, you learned—asks later in the night, still stuck with you while his wife continues to preen for your supposed-boyfriend’s attention. he’s the only one who stays outside of the rempe whirlwind, standing next to you as the both of you watch over the yard. 

you let out a small laugh. you want to tell him that you’ve only been to one or two rangers games, that you’re not actually dating number 73 on the team, but you can’t. so, instead you say, “no, i’m actually an islanders fan,” glancing at samuel with a little glimmer in your eyes. he laughs, loud and freeing and the only normal sound you’ve heard all evening.

it draws matt’s attention.

he’s quick to push past the crowd around him, moving easily through them as if they’re nothing but tall grass that he needs to brush away. he’s immediately by your side, arm sliding around your waist like it’s natural and not fake. marion falters at the sight. 

“what’re you laughing about, pretty girl?” he asks, grinning down at you and bumping his hip to yours in silly matt-like fashion, the kind and goofy matt that you see interact with alley and his mom. 

samuel coughs into his fist, hiding a growing smile. “just asking if she’s a rangers fan. got an interesting answer, if you wanna hear it?” he looks at you with a teasing glint, something friendly between two people who temporarily lost their partners to one another. 

matt agrees easily with a nod of his head and quirk of his lips. you stifle a giggle, one you can’t help, when samuel grins wide and relays the information the two of you shared between each other. matt’s smile slips a tad and you see it fall so briefly you think you’ve imagined it because one second it’s gone and when you blink—he’s still smirking. 

“well, guess i gotta up my game, huh?” he says with a chuckle, squeezing your waist to get you to play along. so, you laugh and swat at his chest as if he’s said something ridiculous. “right, princess?” 

the two of you continue to pretend to be the perfect couple, humoring the others around you and sipping poorly mixed drinks. by the time the whole reunion is over, you’re truthfully a little past tipsy and matt is far too sober for someone who had to dodge a married woman trying to get ahold of him all night. so, when matt insists he drive your car—because you’re drunk and he got a ride from alley—you don’t even fight him, readily pressing your purse into his broad chest. he takes it without complaint, slinging it over his shoulder as he walks you to your car. he goes as far as opening the passenger side door for you, letting you slip your fingers into his palm to steady yourself as you crawl in. 

it’s easy to just be his passenger princess, cheek pressed to the cool glass of the car window as he drives the two of you back to his mom’s. and it becomes increasingly harder to differentiate reality from your drunken mind when you and matt finally stumble through the front door, you leaning so heavily into him that you’re surprised he doesn’t trip or fall over. 

matt grumbles as he hauls you up the steps and into the guest room, arm looped securely around your hips. “why are you such a light weight?” he asks even though he knows you won’t respond. he knew this would happen, having seen how little alcohol you could drink in college while all of your other friends seemed to have developed increased tolerances. 

you giggle to yourself instead, launching yourself into the mattress still dressed in your dress and heels. “they believed it,” you slur, cheering happily and kicking your feet with glee. matt chuckles at the sight of you. “they really think you’re in love with me!” 

matt leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest and the sleeves of his shirt rolled past his elbows. he watches you laugh happily, kicking your legs up and down with no sign of stopping or taking your shoes off. 

“you’ve no idea,” he breathes under his breath as he pushes off the doorway and sits next to your sprawled out form, hesitantly taking your leg into his lap. “alright,” he murmurs a little louder, glancing at the clock on your nightstand. “let’s get these shoes off you and you can wash up afterward.” 

you don’t respond and matt looks at you, cursing when he sees that you’ve fallen asleep in the short time that it took for him to stride over to the bed from the door. he sighs, feigning annoyance even though a smile tugs at his lips at the sight of you fast asleep. he sets to work on removing your heels, looping his fingers into the gold buckles around your ankles before sliding the heels off one by one, placing them softly on the ground. his thumb rubs at the deep indents the buckles left behind, soothing irritated skin with calloused fingers. 

he gets up and leaves for a second, returning with a pack of makeup wipes his mom left in the bathroom out in the hallway. matt carefully wipes away the remaining makeup on your face, taking precautions to prevent you from waking up and finding him hovering over you, pausing whenever you stir slightly. when he’s done, he crumples the wipes in his hand and leaves, taking the wipes with him to ensure you won’t find a trace of him in the morning. 

[just-icing]

need to pee soo bad but the roomie is showering

[pucksandpower]

teased as sin (sweet as sin series)

Sidney Crosby x controversially young!Reader

Summary: the one where Sidney proves he’s still firmly in his prime no matter what the media likes to claim

Warnings: 18+ content

Series Masterlist

The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sports media can be incredibly rude.

You’re reading the article on your phone while stirring pasta sauce, and with every paragraph, your eyebrows climb higher.

“Listen to this,” you call to Sidney, who’s setting the table. “‘At 39, Crosby is experiencing what can only be described as a twilight renaissance — impressive for someone his age, but ultimately a desperate grasp at relevance in a league that’s passed him by.’”

Sidney looks up from arranging silverware. “Who wrote that?”

“Some guy from The Athletic,” you say, scrolling. “Oh, it gets better. ‘While his point production remains high’ — you’re literally leading the team in points, by the way — ‘one can’t help but notice the inevitable decline. His skating has slowed, his once-dominant faceoff percentage has dropped to merely excellent, and he’s showing his age in ways that would be concerning for any player approaching the end of their career.’”

“I’m having one of the best seasons of my life,” Sidney says, genuinely baffled.

“Oh, he mentions that,” you assure him. “Right here: ‘Despite putting up numbers that would be impressive for any player, the question remains: how much longer can Crosby’s aging body sustain this level of play?’”

Sidney makes a face. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Wait, there’s more,” you continue gleefully. “‘The veteran center, who will turn 40 next August, is undoubtedly in the final chapter of his storied career. While he continues to produce at an elite level — a testament to his hockey IQ compensating for diminished physical abilities-’”

“Diminished physical abilities?” Sidney interrupts, sounding offended now.

“‘-it’s clear that Father Time is undefeated. How much longer can Crosby stave off the inevitable decline? This season may very well be his last hurrah, a final desperate attempt to prove he can still compete with younger, faster, more dynamic players.’”

You look up from your phone to find Sidney staring at you with an expression somewhere between disbelief and annoyance.

“Did he just call me old and washed up while simultaneously admitting I’m having a career year?” He asks.

“Basically, yes,” you confirm. “He also uses the phrase ‘one foot in the grave’ in the next paragraph.”

“I’m thirty-nine, not ninety,” Sidney says.

“I know that,” you say, trying not to smile. “But apparently you’re ancient and decrepit and barely hanging on.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “I mean, you did grunt when you bent down to tie your shoes this morning.”

“Everyone grunts when they tie their shoes,” he protests.

“And you went to bed at nine-thirty last night.”

“We had an early practice!”

“And you asked me to pass you the remote yesterday because it was ‘too far away.’”

“It was on the other side of the couch!”

You’re fully grinning now. “I’m just saying, maybe The Athletic has a point. You are getting up there in years. Practically geriatric by hockey standards.”

Sidney sets down the fork he’s holding very deliberately. “Geriatric.”

“Ancient,” you agree, stirring the sauce. “A relic. Basically a museum piece.”

“I’m top 10 in the league in points,” he reminds you.

“For your age group,” you tease. “Very impressive for someone so old. I’m proud of you for keeping up with the youngsters.”

“I’m not that old,” he says, moving toward you.

“Sure, grandpa,” you say sweetly. “Do you need help reaching anything? Should I put a chair in the shower in case you get tired?”

“You’re asking for it,” he warns.

“Asking for what?” you ask innocently. “Asking you to prove you’re not a decrepit old man who’s desperately clinging to relevance? I would never.”

He’s behind you now, his hands bracketing you against the stove. “Turn off the sauce.”

“What? Why?”

“Because dinner’s going to be late,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “And I need to remind you exactly what this old man can do.”

Heat that has nothing to do with the stove floods through you. “The pasta’s almost done,” you try weakly.

“It can wait,” he says. “Turn it off.”

You reach over and turn off both burners, your heart already racing.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your ear, and you shiver. “Now, let’s see. How did you put it? Geriatric? Museum piece?”

“I was joking,” you say, but your voice is breathless.

“Were you?” He spins you around to face him, lifting you easily onto the kitchen island. “Because it sounded like you were questioning whether I can still keep up.”

“I would never question your abilities,” you say, but you can’t quite keep the teasing lilt out of your voice.

“Liar,” he says, stepping between your legs. “You just called me a relic. Suggested I need a shower chair.”

“You’re right, that was unfair,” you agree solemnly. “Shower chairs are for people in their nineties. You’re not quite there yet.”

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing up your dress. “You’re really committed to this bit, aren’t you?”

“I’m just concerned about your health,” you say innocently. “At your age, you should be careful not to overexert yourself. Maybe we should have a quiet night in. I could make you some tea. Get you a blanket. Put on Jeopardy.”

“I’m going to make you eat those words,” he promises.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a guarantee,” he says, and kisses you hard.

You melt into it immediately, wrapping your legs around his waist, your hands fisting in his shirt. He’s kissing you like he has something to prove, all intensity and possession, and you’re very much here for it.

“Still think I’m old?” He asks against your mouth.

“Ancient,” you gasp, just to see what he’ll do.

What he does is lift you off the island like you weigh nothing, walking the three steps to press you against the refrigerator, his hips pinning you in place.

“Ancient,” he repeats, his hand sliding up to wrap lightly around your throat — not squeezing, just holding, possessive. “Ancient men can’t do this?”

He rolls his hips against you and you moan, your head falling back against the stainless steel.

“That’s what I thought,” he says smugly. “What else did the article say? Diminished physical abilities?”

“You’re, ah, you’re really taking this personally,” you manage.

“Damn right I am,” he says. “Some asshole writes that I’m washed up on the same day my girlfriend calls me geriatric. I’m feeling motivated to prove a point.”

“What point is that?” You ask, even though you know exactly what point he’s making.

“That I’m not even close to done,” he says. “On the ice or off it.”

He carries you back to the island, setting you down and immediately reaching for the hem of your dress.

“Off,” he commands.

You lift your arms and he pulls it over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in just your underwear on the kitchen island.

“Much better,” he says, his eyes darkening as they track over you. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

“Do what?” You ask breathlessly.

“Have you right here,” he says, his hands sliding up your sides. “On the counter where I can see every inch of you. Where I can make you fall apart and watch it happen.”

“That’s very specific,” you manage.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” he says. “Every time you’re in this kitchen, cooking, talking, just existing — I think about bending you over this island and making you scream my name.”

The words send heat straight through you. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“Nothing,” he says, and there’s a predatory edge to his smile now. “Not a damn thing.”

He hooks his fingers in your underwear and pulls them down, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he’s pushing your legs apart, spreading you open on the counter, and you’re suddenly very aware of how exposed you are.

“Sidney-”

“Let me look at you,” he says, his voice rough. “So fucking pretty. So ready for me already.”

His fingers find you, sliding through wetness, and you gasp.

“This is for me?” He asks, circling your clit with devastating precision. “All this just from a little teasing?”

“You know exactly what you do to me,” you accuse.

“I do,” he agrees. “Just like you know exactly what you do to me. Calling me old. Questioning my stamina. You knew this would happen.”

“Maybe,” you admit.

“Definitely,” he corrects. He adds a finger, then two, and you arch against his hand. “You wanted to wind me up. Get me worked up. Well, congratulations. It worked.”

“Good,” you gasp.

“Good,” he echoes. “Now you get to deal with the consequences.”

He works you efficiently, knowing exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure, building you up fast. You’re already close, wound tight from the anticipation, and he knows it.

“You’re going to come for me,” he says matter-of-factly. “Right here on this counter. And then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until you can’t remember any of those cute little jokes about me being old. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, daddy, please-”

“That’s better,” he praises. “Much more respectful.”

His thumb finds your clit and you’re gone, coming with a broken cry, your hands scrambling for purchase on the granite counter. He works you through it, not stopping until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “But we’re not done.”

“We’re not?”

“Not even close,” he says. He’s unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down, and then he’s there, right at your entrance. “I’m going to prove to you exactly how much stamina this old man has.”

“Sidney-”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pushing in just slightly, just enough to make you gasp. “Changed your mind about all those geriatric jokes?”

“No,” you lie, just to see what he’ll do.

“No?” He pulls back. “Still think I’m ancient and washed up?”

“Maybe,” you say, even though your body is screaming at you to stop teasing and just let him continue.

“Okay,” he says, and pulls out completely. “Then I guess we’re done here.”

“What? No-”

“No?” He raises his eyebrows. “But I’m so old and decrepit. Surely you don’t want to overexert me.”

“Sidney,” you whine, reaching for him.

“Say you were wrong,” he says. “Say I’m not old.”

“You’re not old,” you concede.

“Say you take it all back,” he continues. “The geriatric comments. The museum piece. All of it.”

“I take it back,” you say desperately. “All of it. You’re not old. You’re perfect. Please-”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Please, daddy, I need it-”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, and thrusts in fully, making you cry out.

The angle is perfect, deep and intense, and you’re so sensitized from the first orgasm that everything feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

“This what you wanted?” He asks, setting a demanding pace. “This old man fucking you on the kitchen counter?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, oh god-”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not stopping until you can’t remember any of those jokes. Until the only thing you can remember is my name.”

It’s not an idle threat. He’s relentless, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding between your bodies to find your clit again.

“Too much,” you gasp. “I can’t-”

“You can,” he insists. “And you will. Come on, baby. Give me another one.”

“I just—I already-”

“I know,” he says. “And you’re going to do it again. Because you’re my good girl and you can take whatever I give you. Can’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes, daddy-”

“That’s right,” he praises, his fingers working faster. “Show me. Show me what a good girl you are.”

The second orgasm hits you like a freight train, unexpected and overwhelming. You actually scream, your nails scratching against the granite, your whole body going taut.

“Fuck, yes,” Sidney groans, his rhythm faltering. “Just like that, baby. So perfect. So good for me.”

You’re still shaking when he pulls out, and you make a sound of protest.

“Not done yet,” he reminds you. “Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

You scramble to obey on shaky legs, bracing yourself against the island. He’s behind you immediately, one hand between your shoulder blades, pressing you down.

“Stay just like that,” he instructs. “Let me see you.”

You can feel him looking, the weight of his gaze on your exposed body, and it should be embarrassing but instead it’s incredibly hot.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and then he’s pushing back in, the new angle somehow even deeper.

You moan, your arms already shaking from holding yourself up.

“You okay?” he asks, stilling.

“Yes,” you manage. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, and starts moving again.

This angle is devastating. He’s hitting something inside you that makes your toes curl, makes your mind go blank, makes you forget every coherent thought except yes and more and please.

“Still think I’m old?” He asks, punctuating the question with a particularly deep thrust.

“No,” you gasp. “No, you’re—god, you’re perfect-”

“What was that article about?” He continues conversationally, like he’s not currently fucking you into incoherence. “Something about diminished physical abilities?”

“They were wrong,” you moan. “So wrong-”

“And you?” He prompts. “What about all your cute jokes?”

“Wrong,” you repeat. “I was wrong. You’re not old. You’re not—ah, you’re incredible-”

“That’s better,” he says, one hand sliding around to find your clit again. “Much better.”

“I can’t,” you protest weakly. “I can’t come again-”

“Yes you can,” he says with complete confidence. “One more. For me.”

“Sidney-”

“Daddy,” he corrects. “And you’re going to come one more time. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper, because what else can you say when his fingers are doing that and his cock is hitting that spot and everything is too much and perfect and-

The third orgasm is almost painful in its intensity. You collapse forward onto your forearms, your legs giving out, only Sidney’s hands on your hips keeping you upright.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His rhythm goes erratic and then he’s following you over, coming with your name on his lips, his whole body going taut before he catches himself on the counter, careful not to crush you.

For a long moment, there’s just breathing. Heavy, labored, satisfied breathing.

“Okay,” you finally say into the silence. “Point made. You’re not old.”

He laughs breathlessly, carefully pulling out and turning you around. “Was there ever any doubt?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, then immediately amend when he raises an eyebrow. “Kidding. Totally kidding. You’re clearly in excellent shape for a man of your advanced years.”

“You’re incorrigible,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I really do,” he admits, pulling you in for a softer kiss. “Even when you’re being a brat about my age.”

“I wasn’t being a brat,” you protest. “I was just-”

You try to step away from the counter and your legs immediately buckle.

Sidney catches you before you can fall, his arm around your waist. “Careful.”

“My legs don’t work,” you say, genuinely surprised.

“No,” he agrees, looking far too pleased with himself. “They don’t. Wonder why that is.”

“You’re so smug right now,” you accuse.

“I have reason to be,” he says. “I just fucked my girlfriend so thoroughly she can’t walk. That’s not bad for an old man.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never,” he confirms cheerfully. He bends and scoops you up, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

“The pasta,” you remember weakly.

“Can wait,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. “You, on the other hand, need to lie down before you fall down.”

“This is your fault,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant. “I’m very proud of my work.”

He sets you carefully on the bed and you immediately sprawl out, boneless.

“I’m never teasing you about your age again,” you declare.

“Yes you will,” he says, lying down next to you.

“You’re right, I will,” you admit. “But next time I’ll remember what happens when I do.”

“Good,” he says, pulling you against his chest. “That’s the goal. Pavlovian conditioning. You make old jokes, I make you unable to walk.”

“That’s not how it works,” you point out.

“Close enough,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got thoroughly fucked on my kitchen counter,” you say honestly. “Which, for the record, was incredible.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That was the intention.”

“Mission accomplished,” you assure him. “Though I do think we need to address the real issue here.”

“Which is?”

“That article was genuinely ridiculous,” you say. “You’re having one of the best seasons of your career and they’re acting like you’re on your deathbed.”

“Sports media,” he sighs. “They’ve been predicting my decline for years. At this point it’s just noise.”

“Does it bother you?” You ask.

“Not really,” he says. “I let my play speak for itself. They can write whatever they want.”

“You’re very zen about it,” you observe.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he says. “Plus, I have other things to focus on.”

“Like what?”

“Like making sure my girlfriend knows I’m not actually old and decrepit,” he says, squeezing you closer.

“Message received,” you assure him. “Loud and clear. You are a virile, athletic specimen in the prime of your life.”

“Better,” he says, satisfied. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know,” you agree, tilting your head up to kiss him. “I’m very lucky. Not every ancient, geriatric, decrepit old man would put up with me.”

“You’re pushing it,” he warns, but he’s smiling.

“What are you going to do about it?” You challenge. “Fuck me until I can’t walk again?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says. “I’m supposed to be conserving my energy. You know, because I’m so old.”

“Right,” you say solemnly. “Wouldn’t want you to throw out your back or anything.”

“That’s it,” he says, rolling you onto your back. “You asked for it.”

“Sidney!” You squeal, laughing. “I can’t! My legs don’t work!”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to lie there and take it,” he says, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

“You’re insatiable,” you accuse.

“I’m motivated,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Motivated to prove you’re not old,” you say.

“Motivated to make you stop talking,” he counters. “Which, as we’ve established, I’m very good at.”

He’s kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your stomach, and you realize with a mix of anticipation and disbelief that he’s serious.

“We should eat dinner,” you try weakly.

“Later,” he says against your hip. “Much later.”

And as his mouth finds you and your back arches off the bed, you think that maybe teasing Sidney Crosby about his age is actually the best decision you’ve ever made.

The thing about dating Sidney Crosby is that sports media can be incredibly rude.

But the thing about Sidney Crosby is that he has very effective ways of proving them wrong.

And you’re more than happy to reap the benefits.

[just-icing]

never in my life have i wanted an older man more than i do rn good god

[just-icing]

guys i’ve messed up my knitting project two times already im going to cry

[just-icing]

i love LOVEE that kess follows the league of legends insta acc, it makes me feel less stinky

[just-icing]

guys why is my work so busy rn :/

[hat-trick-honey]

Something about this just speaks to me, alright?

[just-icing]

him w the mini mic 🥹🥹

[just-icing]

working 4pm to midnight means barely getting to see my dog n her now being attached to my roommate and her bf since they feed her and pet her while i’m working 🫩