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𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 ✶ 𝙅𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 (MDNI)

MASTERLIST

───── 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗒 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗒, 𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍-𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗐𝗈 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾 !

───── modern au! college!hockey player!jason grace x fem!impliedcheerleader reader 4.1𝑘 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒, a bit 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗒, language!! , 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 very 𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍, 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽, not very explicit but still MDNI !! , NO EXPLICIT SMUT, cliffhanger :( ───── if this gets enough attention, i'll make a part 2 (smut)!!

HERE IS THE THING NOBODY WARNS YOU ABOUT before you start dating a college hockey player: it is deeply, catastrophically unfair to your ability to function like a normal person on game nights.

it's not just that jason grace is objectively, aggressively good-looking — although he is, infuriatingly, effortlessly so, in the specific way that makes strangers do a double take at him in the campus dining hall. it's that hockey, specifically, seems engineered by some cruel higher power to be the single most attractive sport a man can play, and jason, specifically, seems engineered to make the absolute most of it.

maybe it's the padding making his shoulders look even more absurd than they already are. or maybeit's the way he skates — fast, controlled, all coiled power — like his whole body knows exactly what it's doing at every second. it could also be the sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead by the second period, the flush high on his cheeks, or the way his jaw sets hard with focus right before he takes a shot.

whatever it is, you have decided, over two full years of dating him, completely unfair, and you have made exactly zero effort to hide how much it affects you.

"you're doing it again," piper says, amused, elbowing you gently in the stands as jason skates a hard lap around the rink during warmups, jersey clinging slightly at the shoulders.

"doing what."

"staring like you're about to climb over this railing."

"i'm a devoted girlfriend. i'm supporting my man."

"you're ogling your man. there's a difference."

"is there, though."

hazel, on your other side, doesn't even look up from her phone. "two years and it's never once slowed down, huh."

"if anything," you say, honestly, watching jason take a shot on goal that lands clean, the kind of controlled power in it that does genuinely unfair things to your composure, "it's gotten worse."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

by the third period, you are, by your own admission, borderline unwell about it.

it's not even the goals — though he scores two, and the second one has him ripping his helmet off mid-celebration, hair a mess, grinning wide and a little wild, and you have to physically grip the railing to keep from making a sound entirely inappropriate for a public arena. it's the smaller things. the way he skates hard into the boards to fight for a puck, all that controlled aggression focused into something so purely physical. the way he's breathing hard by the final whistle, chest heaving under his jersey, sweat dripping down his temple as he skates a slow victory lap, looking, somehow, even better wrecked and exhausted than he did fresh at the start of the game.

you spend a good portion of the third period fanning yourself with your own cheer sign, and it has nothing to do with the arena's questionable air conditioning.

you are, quite simply, not a well-adjusted person about your boyfriend's hockey career, and you've long since stopped pretending otherwise.

"they won," piper says, standing to gather her things as the final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts. "you gonna go with us to celebrate, or celebrate in..your own way?"

"i might. scratch that, i will."

"ugh, gods. fine, i'll cover for you."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

you find him outside the locker room twenty minutes later, hair still damp from the shower but not damp enough to have erased the effect of the last two hours entirely — flushed still, a little breathless from talking to a cluster of teammates, gym bag slung over one shoulder, and the second he spots you working through the crowd, everything else seems to fall away from his focus, and a low heat settles in your stomach.

"hey." he pulls you in the moment you're close enough, and even freshly showered he's warm, solid, still faintly damp at the collar of his shirt in a way that does absolutely nothing to help your composure. "you good? you look a little — "

"you looked really, really good out there tonight," you say, honestly, no attempt at subtlety left in you whatsoever.

something flickers across his face — surprised, then pleased, then something a lot more focused. "yeah?"

"you have no idea." you press your hand flat against his chest, feeling his heart still beating a little fast under your palm, whether from the game or from you, you genuinely can't tell.

he laughs, low and a little rough, arm tightening around your waist. "you're insane."

"i'm honest."

"you watch me play hockey every single week."

"and every single week i am, apparently, incapable of learning my lesson." you tilt your head up to look at him properly — flushed cheeks, still-damp hair, that satisfied, easy grin he always wears after a win, like he already knows exactly what he's doing to you and is enjoying every second of it. "it's genuinely so fucking unfair how good you look right now."

"right now? i just spent two hours sweating and getting checked into boards."

"i'm aware. that's the problem."

his grin turns into something slower, more deliberate, leaning down close enough that his voice drops into something meant only for you. "so what you're telling me," he says, low, "is that you like me best wrecked and out of breath."

"i didn't say best."

"you implied it pretty heavily."

"i implied nothing. i made an observation."

"uh huh." his hand slides to rest at the small of your back, thumb tracing slow against your hip, and the air between you shifts, warm and charged (almost electric), in the specific way it always does when two years of familiarity meets zero patience left. "you gonna keep making observations, or are we finally getting out of here?"

"depends. how fast can you say goodbye to everyone."

he laughs. "embarrassingly fast."

he's not exaggerating — you watch him cut a conversation with one of his teammates short with a quick clap on the shoulder, already turning back toward you before the guy's even finished his sentence, and something about the single-mindedness of it, the way his focus narrows down to just you the second he's technically off duty, makes your pulse pick up all over again.

"that was fast," you say, when he's back at your side, hand already finding yours.

"told you." he laces his fingers through yours, tugging you gently toward the exit. "i had motivation."

"oh?"

"you've been looking at me like that for the last ten minutes. i'd have to be a fucking idiot not to have motivation."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

the drive back is quiet in the way it always is after a win — his hand finding your thigh at the first red light, thumb tracing slow, absent circles that have nothing absent about them at all, streetlights sliding gold across his profile while you watch him from the passenger seat, still faintly wrecked from earlier, still not remotely subtle about it.

"you're staring," he says, not looking over, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"i told you. observation mode. i can't help it."

"you've had two years to build up a tolerance."

"and yet." you reach over, resting your hand over his on your thigh, feeling the warmth of it, the faint tremor of adrenaline still working its way out of his system. "i really don't think that's how it works with you."

he glances over at the next light, something heated and a little hungry in his gaze despite the easy grin still on his face. "good," he says simply. "i wasn't planning on making it easy for you anyway."

your hand slides his to make it rest an inch higher on your thigh, just enough for it to disappear under your short cheerleading skirt, deliberate, watching his jaw tighten in response, the way his grip on the wheel flexes just slightly. the sight made chills run up and down your spine

"careful," he says, voice a shade rougher than before.

"i'm being very careful," you say as you slide it higher, closer and cloer to your blue laced underwear (his favorite pair) that you wore specifically for this night.

"you are being the opposite of careful."

"i genuinely don't know what you mean."

he laughs, short and disbelieving, shaking his head as the light turns green — but his hand stays exactly where you put it instead of moving it away, which tells you everything you actually need to know about how much he means the complaint.

by the time he pulls into the lot and cuts the engine, neither of you is bothering to pretend the drive was about anything other than getting here.

"so," he says, low, turning fully toward you, "you gonna keep complimenting my cardio, or are we going upstairs."

"can't it be both? i'd like to test your endurance."

"fuck. well, it can absolutely be both."

"good. because i have several more observations."

"i'm sure you do." he's already out of his seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle, something eager and unhurried in the same breath — like he wants to take his time and can't quite manage to at once. "you can tell me all of them upstairs."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

the walk from the lot to his building takes longer than it needs to — his arm slung around your waist, pulling you into his side every few steps, your head tipping toward his shoulder even though you're perfectly capable of walking in a straight line without the assistance.

by the time the elevator doors open, you've both abandoned any pretense of a normal, respectable walking pace, his hand sliding to rest low on your ass as the doors slide shut behind you.

"you know," he says, watching the floor numbers climb, voice low and deliberately casual in a way that isn't casual at all, "you never actually finished telling me. earlier. which part got you tonight."

"i told you. the helmet thing."

"just the helmet thing?"

"and the second goal. and the way you looked skating that last lap, all wrecked and pleased with yourself." you turn to face him properly, backing him gently against the elevator wall, watching something flare hot and immediate behind his eyes at the shift.

"noted," he says, voice rough now, hand coming up to rest at the back of your neck. "extensively noted."

the elevator doors open on his floor and neither of you moves for a full three seconds, caught in exactly the kind of charged, unbearable tension two years hasn't done a single thing to dull — until he finally breaks first, tugging you out into the hallway by the hand, keys already out, fumbling slightly at the lock in a way that would be funny if you weren't equally as impatient standing behind him.

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

the door shuts behind you and unhurried stops being remotely accurate — his mouth finding yours the second the lock clicks, one hand sliding into your hair, the other settling warm and sure at your waist like he's been thinking about exactly this since before his game. he rested his forehead against yours.

"you," you murmur between kisses, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, "have no motherfucking idea what watching you play does to me."

"i think i've got a pretty good idea, actually." he backs you gently against the wall, mouth trailing warm along your jaw, voice rough at the edges. "you've made it very clear tonight."

"i have zero shame about it."

"i've noticed." he pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, something fond and heated tangled together in his expression. "two years and you still get like this over me."

"you say that like it's a bad thing."

"i say that like it's the single most flattering thing that happens to me on a daily basis." his hand slides down to rest at your hip, thumb pressing in slow, deliberate circles.

"jason."

"yeah?"

"stop talking and kiss me again."

he doesn't need telling twice — his mouth finds yours again, slower this time, deeper, one hand pressing flat against the door beside your head, the other tightening at your waist like he's steadying himself as much as he's steadying you, and you feel every ounce of that pent-up tension from the drive, the elevator, the entire second half of the game finally, fully unraveling between you.

"upstairs was a formality," he mutters against your mouth, breathless, already walking you both slowly backward, away from the door, "if you wanted to know."

"i had a feeling."

"you're not exactly subtle either, for the record."

"i told you. zero shame."

he laughs — low, rough, entirely wrecked already — and suddenly you're thankful for the fact your neighbors have been entirely desensitized to your...antics !

END (part two coming :) )

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 ✶ 𝙅𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 (MDNI)

MASTERLIST

HERE IS THE THING NOBODY WARNS YOU ABOUT before you start dating a college hockey player: it is deeply, catastrophically unfair to your ability to function like a normal person on game nights.

whatever it is, you have decided, over two full years of dating him, completely unfair, and you have made exactly zero effort to hide how much it affects you.

"you're doing it again," piper says, amused, elbowing you gently in the stands as jason skates a hard lap around the rink during warmups, jersey clinging slightly at the shoulders.

"doing what."

"staring like you're about to climb over this railing."

"i'm a devoted girlfriend. i'm supporting my man."

"you're ogling your man. there's a difference."

"is there, though."

hazel, on your other side, doesn't even look up from her phone. "two years and it's never once slowed down, huh."

"if anything," you say, honestly, watching jason take a shot on goal that lands clean, the kind of controlled power in it that does genuinely unfair things to your composure, "it's gotten worse."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

by the third period, you are, by your own admission, borderline unwell about it.

you spend a good portion of the third period fanning yourself with your own cheer sign, and it has nothing to do with the arena's questionable air conditioning.

you are, quite simply, not a well-adjusted person about your boyfriend's hockey career, and you've long since stopped pretending otherwise.

"they won," piper says, standing to gather her things as the final buzzer sounds and the arena erupts. "you gonna go with us to celebrate, or celebrate in..your own way?"

"i might. scratch that, i will."

"ugh, gods. fine, i'll cover for you."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

"you looked really, really good out there tonight," you say, honestly, no attempt at subtlety left in you whatsoever.

something flickers across his face — surprised, then pleased, then something a lot more focused. "yeah?"

"you have no idea." you press your hand flat against his chest, feeling his heart still beating a little fast under your palm, whether from the game or from you, you genuinely can't tell.

he laughs, low and a little rough, arm tightening around your waist. "you're insane."

"i'm honest."

"you watch me play hockey every single week."

"right now? i just spent two hours sweating and getting checked into boards."

"i'm aware. that's the problem."

"i didn't say best."

"you implied it pretty heavily."

"i implied nothing. i made an observation."

"depends. how fast can you say goodbye to everyone."

he laughs. "embarrassingly fast."

"that was fast," you say, when he's back at your side, hand already finding yours.

"told you." he laces his fingers through yours, tugging you gently toward the exit. "i had motivation."

"oh?"

"you've been looking at me like that for the last ten minutes. i'd have to be a fucking idiot not to have motivation."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

"you're staring," he says, not looking over, the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"i told you. observation mode. i can't help it."

"you've had two years to build up a tolerance."

"careful," he says, voice a shade rougher than before.

"i'm being very careful," you say as you slide it higher, closer and cloer to your blue laced underwear (his favorite pair) that you wore specifically for this night.

"you are being the opposite of careful."

"i genuinely don't know what you mean."

by the time he pulls into the lot and cuts the engine, neither of you is bothering to pretend the drive was about anything other than getting here.

"so," he says, low, turning fully toward you, "you gonna keep complimenting my cardio, or are we going upstairs."

"can't it be both? i'd like to test your endurance."

"fuck. well, it can absolutely be both."

"good. because i have several more observations."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

by the time the elevator doors open, you've both abandoned any pretense of a normal, respectable walking pace, his hand sliding to rest low on your ass as the doors slide shut behind you.

"i told you. the helmet thing."

"just the helmet thing?"

"noted," he says, voice rough now, hand coming up to rest at the back of your neck. "extensively noted."

˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚ ✦

"you," you murmur between kisses, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, "have no motherfucking idea what watching you play does to me."

"i think i've got a pretty good idea, actually." he backs you gently against the wall, mouth trailing warm along your jaw, voice rough at the edges. "you've made it very clear tonight."

"i have zero shame about it."

"i've noticed." he pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, something fond and heated tangled together in his expression. "two years and you still get like this over me."

"you say that like it's a bad thing."

"i say that like it's the single most flattering thing that happens to me on a daily basis." his hand slides down to rest at your hip, thumb pressing in slow, deliberate circles.

"jason."

"yeah?"

"stop talking and kiss me again."

"upstairs was a formality," he mutters against your mouth, breathless, already walking you both slowly backward, away from the door, "if you wanted to know."

"i had a feeling."

"you're not exactly subtle either, for the record."

"i told you. zero shame."

he laughs — low, rough, entirely wrecked already — and suddenly you're thankful for the fact your neighbors have been entirely desensitized to your...antics !

END (part two coming :) )

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