hello!! I adore all your work. If it’s not much, could we possibly get an Anders Cain fic. Where on the ice someone talk about the reader and Anders get in a fight. In the end he gets a lil passionate/possessive in the locker room. -🐄
hi 🐄 !!
a/n: thank you !! hope you enjoy ;) ᎒ ☈ 2.3k words mwah gif creds @neska223
◞ 🏒 𓂃 ── ⸝⸝ ───── ﹒﹒🥅
He kisses you first.
It’s barely a brush at your hairline, his hand settling at your waist, warm against the tense coil of nerves running through him. You feel him stiffen—just a little—like he’s surprised at himself for giving in to that softness before the game.
“Please don’t play too rough tonight,” you murmur, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, thumb smoothing over the edge of his nape. “Just… be smart. Okay?”
He grunts, the typical Anders answer — but he does nod. His thumb skims down to your hip on his way past you, a quiet little I heard you, before he disappears down the tunnel with the rest of the team.
You think he actually means it. You think he genuinely walked out onto that ice wanting to keep himself in check.
At first, he does.
The game is fast, tight, full of near-breakaways that make everyone suck in a breath. Twice Anders slams someone into the boards hard enough that the plexi shivers, but he skates off afterward instead of doubling back for seconds. You try to release the tension in your shoulders. Maybe he really will keep it clean tonight
THEN IT HAPPENS.
You’re seated a few feet above the glass, close enough to hear the smack of bodies and skates carving across the ice. One of the opposing players — number 27, tall, smug, the kind Anders always hates — glides up to the boards beneath you. He’s panting, helmet crooked, grin sharp with whatever trash talk he’s saving for the next faceoff.
Anders is right there. Retreated just enough to breathe, watching the play reset.
Number 27 taps his stick against the ice and laughs. “Come on, Cain! That all you got? Thought the big angry bastard would at least try tonight.”
Anders rolls his eyes, barely reacting.
The guy leans closer to the glass. “Oh, wait. Forgot.” He jerks his chin upward — right toward you. “You gotta behave now, right? Don’t wanna embarrass the little sweetheart in the stands?”
Your stomach drops.
Anders still doesn’t rise to it. He just exhales through his nose, jaw clenched.
But then number 27 keeps going. Louder. Crueler. Directed right at you.
“She’s cute! Bet she’s loud in bed, huh? Or is she one of those—?” He cups a hand around his mouth, voice going greasy-sweet: “—fake moaners who pretend they like it?”
Your face burns, nausea and humiliation mixing in one awful rush. It’s so fast, you don’t even realize you’ve flinched until Anders sees you.
He whips his head toward you. Actually looks at you. Your eyes meet for half a second — enough for him to read everything. The shock. The sting. The way your throat tightens like you’re struggling not to react.
And that’s it.
Something inside him snaps.
His gloves hit the ice with a heavy, wet slap — one, then the other — and he’s already moving.
“ANDERS!” one of his teammates shouts.
He doesn’t hear it.
Anders runs at the guy, skates cutting a deadly line across the rink. Number 27 barely has time to turn before Anders slams him backward, driving him into the boards hard enough that the whole pane shudders.
You gasp as they crash to the ice in a tangle of limbs and rage.
Anders is on top instantly, fist already cocked.
“You talk about her again—” CRACK — his knuckles connect with the guy’s cheek. “—I swear to God—” CRACK — another punch, harder. “—I’ll break your fucking jaw!”
Players swarm them. Refs whistle like their lungs are exploding. But Anders is still swinging, wild with fury, blood starting to drip from his eyebrow where someone’s elbow caught him.
“APOLOGIZE!” he roars as they wrestle him back by the arms. “LOOK AT HER AND FUCKING SAY YOU’RE SORRY!”
“Cain, CUT IT OUT—!”
“YOU THINK YOU CAN TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT?” He jerks against the hold of three players, then five. “I WILL END YOU. YOU HEAR ME? I’LL END—”
“Anders, JESUS—!”
They finally drag him upright. He’s breathing like he ran a marathon, chest heaving under his jersey, hair sticking to the blood smeared along his temple.
And he’s still looking for you.
Still furious. Still vibrating with the need to protect, to finish what he started, to defend you in a way he’s clearly fantasized about far too many times.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
You’ve seen him fight before. You’ve seen him thrown in the box for ten-minute misconducts and pulled apart by half a team.
But never like this. Never because of you.
Number 27 spits blood on the ice and mutters something, but Anders lunges again — three guys barely hold him.
“Say it again!” Anders snarls, voice hoarse. “SAY IT AND WATCH WHAT HAPPENS!”
“You’re done, Cain,” a ref shouts, tugging him toward the tunnel.
They haul him off the rink, practically carrying him. The crowd is roaring, half in shock, half in delight.
You stand frozen in the stands, hands shaking. You hate seeing him hurt — the split brow, the swollen cheekbone — but God, the way he looked when he launched at that guy—
A chill runs straight to your stomach.
The last glimpse of him before the tunnel swallows him is pure wildfire. Bloody. Breathing hard. Eyes locked on you.
Not angry at you. Never at you.
Angry for you. Possessive. Claiming. Unhinged in that dark, feral way that makes your thighs warm where you stand.
He looks at you like he’d fight the whole league if it meant protecting you.
And for the first time tonight, you understand something deep and dangerous:
You will never forget the way Anders Cain looks bleeding on the ice, dragged away by five men, still screaming for someone to apologize to you.
And you will never forget how hot it made you feel.
── . ✦ THE LOCKER ROOM ⋮
The trainers try to intercept him the second he stomps through the tunnel, blood smeared across his cheek, his eyebrow split open, his chest still heaving with leftover rage.
“Anders, sit down — let us look at—”
He shoves past them. “No.”
“Cain—”
“I said no.”
He doesn’t stop until he reaches the far corner of the locker room, slamming his helmet onto the floor with a clatter that echoes off the tile. He’s pacing — quick, sharp, furious little strides — like if he keeps moving, he won’t explode again.
When you enter, he freezes.
Just stops walking.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just locks onto you.
You look at him — at the blood on his eyebrow, the sweat dampening his hair, the bruising already forming along his cheek — and your heart twists.
“Anders,” you say quietly, “sit. Please.”
He clenches his jaw, shakes his head once like he wants to argue, then finally drops onto the bench with a heavy, frustrated exhale. His elbows rest on his knees, hands flexing open and closed, still buzzing with adrenaline.
The nurse approaches again. “Cain, let me—”
“No,” he snaps without looking up. “She’s here.”
It hits you in the chest. Because it’s not the first time he’s said it. Because ever since he met you, he’s refused medical staff unless you’re there.
You swallow and grab the small first-aid kit stored under the bench. When you stand in front of him and open it, Anders’ hands go straight to your hips, fingers slipping under your shirt, into the waistband of your pants like he needs physical proof you’re real.
Your breath hitches.
He feels it. He feels the goosebumps on your stomach. His eyes drag down, then up, then settle on your face with that same hot, possessive intensity from the ice.
But he still isn’t talking.
So you reach forward and gently tilt his face toward the light.
He’s tense all over. Muscles coiled. Breathing shallow. You wipe the blood from his cheek with a sterilized pad. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches for you.
His hands slide higher on your waist. Warm. Rough. Claiming.
After a long moment, his voice finally breaks the silence — low, still vibrating with leftover fury.
“Are you okay?”
You blink. He’s bleeding. He’s bruised. He almost got suspended for beating someone half to death on the ice.
And the first thing he asks is that.
“I’m fine,” you whisper. “Are you—”
“I asked you first.” He says it stubbornly, bluntly, like he’ll fight you on it if he has to. His grip on your hips tightens, thumb brushing the soft skin just under your shirt. “Are you. Okay.”
You exhale slowly. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m okay. He just… he caught me off guard.”
Anders’ jaw flexes again. “He made you flinch.”
“That’s not—”
“I saw it.” His voice cracks, a brittle edge slicing through the gruffness. “I saw your face, and—”
He stops. Shakes his head again. Looks down at the floor as if he’s afraid of what he might say next.
You gently clean the cut on his brow, your thumb brushing the skin afterward. “Anders. Hey.” You wait until he looks at you. “Are you okay?”
He stares at you like that’s a trick question.
You arch a brow. “Well? Are you?”
His eyes darken — not with anger, but something deeper, heavier.
“I am now,” he says quietly. “Now that you’re here.”'
You barely finish smoothing the ointment over his brow before Anders’ hands slide higher up your waist — slow, deliberate, almost testing the shiver he knows you can’t hide.
“Anders—”
You don’t even get his name fully out.
His hand shoots up, fingers curling around the back of your neck. Not rough enough to hurt— Just firm, claiming, absolutely done waiting.
He jerks you down to his level in one sharp pull.
Your breath catches—your balance tipping forward—your hands instinctively landing on his shoulders—
And then his mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss isn’t gentle. Not even close. It’s starving.
His mouth crashes into yours, hot and heavy and already open like he’s been holding this in since the second he dropped the gloves. His tongue pushes past your lips before you’re ready, before you even think to breathe, and it steals every thought out of your head.
A sharp sound slips out of you — a gasp, a whimper — and Anders growls into your mouth like it’s gasoline.
His hands move everywhere at once. Up your spine. Down your waist. Around your hips. He grips, squeezes, pulls, like he can’t decide what part of you he wants most.
You’re on your knees between his legs, and he drags you even closer, smashing your chest to his, kissing you like he’s furious with how much he wants you.
His tongue curls under yours, slow at first — then deeper, filthier, drawing a low moan out of your throat that he swallows eagerly. He chases every sound you make, breathing hard through his nose, kissing you like he’s trying to claim the inside of your mouth too.
You tilt your head for a better angle and he takes it immediately, his hand sliding into your hair, holding you there as he devours you.
He pulls back just enough to speak against your lips — voice shredded and low. “Open for me.”
You do. Without thinking. Without hesitation.
He kisses you even deeper, tongue sliding against yours in long, possessive strokes that make your stomach drop and your entire body lean helplessly into him. You can taste his breath, the faint metallic tang of the cut on his lip, the heat of everything he’s feeling.
You eat it up. Every bit of it.
Your fingers curl into his jersey, gripping the fabric hard enough to wrinkle it. He feels it and his breath stutters — his hips twitch forward just barely, his hands tightening on your waist so hard you gasp.
That gasp breaks him.
He grabs your hips and yanks you up off your knees, pulling you halfway into his lap even though he’s still in half his gear. The bench creaks. You gasp against his mouth, and Anders chases your lips instantly, kissing you again, deeper, wetter.
Your teeth bump. Your tongues slide. It’s messy. Hungry. Filthy.
He eats your mouth like he’s starving.
One of his hands slips under your shirt, fully this time, palm splayed hot over your stomach, rubbing slow circles that make you arch into him. He groans when he feels your muscles jump under his touch.
“Sensitive,” he mutters against your mouth.
You nod, dazed. “It’s you.”
That destroys him.
He kisses you harder — impossibly harder — until your breath comes out in little whines he can’t get enough of. His tongue strokes yours again, slow and deliberate, and you feel the shiver all the way through your legs.
Your hand slides up the back of his neck and into his hair, tugging gently.
Anders growls.
Not fake. Not playful. A real, low, animal sound right into your mouth.
He grabs your ass, squeezing it hard through your pants, pulling you flush against him, kissing you like he’s trying to leave marks you’ll taste for hours.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough for him to drag his lips down your jaw, open and hot, tongue leaving a wet stripe to your ear.
“You taste—” he pants, breath shaking, “—fuck, you taste like you’re mine.”
Your breath breaks. “Anders—”
He cuts you off with another kiss — deep, filthy, tongue pushing into your mouth like he’s trying to own the air you’re breathing.
You let him. You take every bit of it. You meet his tongue with your own, sloppy and hungry, and he groans sharply into your mouth, hips jerking up into you without meaning to.
His thumb drags across your lower lip when he finally breaks the kiss. He watches it bounce back into place, eyes heavy, blown wide, still breathing hard.
Then he smirks. A bruised, dangerous, extremely satisfied smirk.
“You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs, voice dark with triumph. “Look at you.”
You swallow, your lips swollen, your breath uneven.
“You’re the one who kissed me like that,” you whisper.
He cups your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip again.
“I’m not done,” he says quietly. “Not even close.”
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ anders does not play about you. like at all🎐 ⋅ @witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
