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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA WHO UP TEAMING THEY TEAM???!!

spiritual successor to this post AND!! updated w/larks

February 6th 2026 best hockey tweets of the day

austonnnnn picking you up & moving u around when ur in his way😖

you’re standing right in front of the fridge, one hand on the handle, staring blankly at the shelves like opening the door’s gonna make a snack materialize out of pure will. you're wearing one of his shirts, huge on you, hanging mid-thigh, no shorts, just bare legs and bedhead. you feel him before you see him, that big slow presence padding into the kitchen behind you, heat off his body radiating like gravity.

his hand slides around your waist first—lazy, warm, possessive—and then the other hooks low under your ass, all casual strength. and before you can even register it, your feet leave the fucking ground.

“auston—!” you yelp, squirming as he lifts you like nothing, like you weigh less than his gear bag, hauling you up against his chest with a stupid little grunt just for effect. the fridge door closes with a soft thunk behind you.

“you were in my way,” he says, so matter-of-fact, not even a flicker of apology. just standing there with you slung over his arm like a backpack, one big hand gripping the underside of your thigh, palm practically eating the curve of it whole. you twist in his hold, trying to glare at him, but he’s already smirking down at you with that annoyingly hot face, messy brown curls still flattened from sleep, his damn mustache twitching like he’s fighting back a laugh.

“you could’ve said excuse me like a normal person.”

he shrugs, starts walking—with you—to the counter, like you’re just part of the furniture now. “didn’t feel like it.”

you squeal when he shifts his grip and sets you on the counter like a ragdoll, thighs spreading from the motion, his hands still bracketing your hips like he owns your entire lower body. you slap his chest halfheartedly but he just grabs your wrist mid-swing, brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them, stupid soft, stupid smug, eyes glinting.

“what, you mad?”

you pout, narrowing your eyes. “you’re such a fucking caveman sometimes.”

“mhmm.” he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, voice low against your skin. “and you love it.”

he lets go, finally, but not before dragging his fingers up the backs of your thighs, slow and warm and way too knowing. and as he turns back to the fridge, you stay planted on the counter, knees knocking together, skin still tingling where he touched you, trying not to grin like an idiot because yeah—you really fucking do.