summary: some of my favourite nhl players and their red flags—or annoying habits—that have become endearing in your relationship with them.
[word count] 2.6k
warnings: silly red flags that aren’t really red flags | mentions of relationship and relationships thingys | each one has similar vibes but are different? if that makes sense? | humor | cliches | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
[includes; luke hughes, william nylander, matt rempe, leon draisaitl, anthony stolarz, auston matthews, mat barzal, quinn hughes, nathan mackinnon, andrei svechnikov, brock boeser, seth jarvis, and jack hughes]
a/n: HAPPY HALLOWEEN LOVES !! 🦇🎃🕸️ here’s the third part of my pop girlies series. obviously, i’m not going in order because i’m a freak. anyways, enjoy :) title from bad reviews by sabrina carpenter
LUKE HUGHES: will call you ‘bro’ in all seriousness
luke will call you bro way too often for someone who also kisses you goodnight. like, you'll be half asleep, head on his chest, and he'll murmur into your hair, "love you, bro," like it's the most natural thing in the world. luke says it when he hands you your morning coffee, when you beat him at mario kart, and even when you tell him something serious and he doesn't know what else to say. and the thing is—it should be weird. it is weird, and you’re pretty sure he only keep doing it because you give him stink eye for the word nine times out of ten.
you've tried calling luke out on it, but he just grins and goes, "what? you're my bro and my girl, that's peak synergy." and instantly you’re reminded he’s a recent hockey university graduate—that’s frat boy by association honestly. sometimes it makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear you can see your brain, but then he'll tuck your hair behind your ear and whisper it again, softer this time, like a secret only the two of you get. and maybe that's the real red flag—not that he calls you bro, but that it's starting to sound a lot like a love language.
WILLIAM NYLANDER : says ‘i’m not mad’ when he’s clearly annoyed
says "i'm not mad" in that too even voice that only comes out when he is absolutely mad. or well, not mad exactly, just wound up in that quiet, simmering way where he starts rinsing dishes a little too thoroughly, and won't look at you for a full thirty seconds. he'll insist everything's fine, that you're imagining it, but the way he scrolls his phone like it personally offended him says otherwise. and you’re a little instigator—you know that—and you push things until william has no choice but to take a calming breath. or sometimes it’s simply a thing that happened at the rink that he’s not ready to talk about. either way, getting him to try and talk about what’s bothering him is like pulling teeth.
and yet, even in his fake calm, he'll still hand you a blanket if you look cold, and still make sure your phone's charging. still ask, "you hungry?" like he didn't just spend ten minutes trying to convince you nothing's wrong. it's kind of infuriating, how bad he is at hiding it—but also stupidly sweet, because even when he's annoyed, his care leaks out around the edges. you'll catch him sighing later, finally meeting your eyes, and go, "okay, maybe I was a little mad." and you'll both laugh, because you already knew.
MATT REMPE: still says ‘epic fail’ unironically
matt still says "epic fail" like it's 2010 again and he never got the memo that the internet moved on. he will drop it in completely unironic way—when he burns toast, or misses a high five, or fumbles his keys at the door. "epic fail," he mutters with that little head shake, like he's narrating his own blooper reel. and of course, he’ll shoot a glance over his shoulder to see if you’re giving him that look. obviously, you are. at first, you teased him for it endlessly. you told him no one says that anymore, that it's ancient history—but he'll just grin and go, "then I'm bringing it back." and somehow in the little world you share together, he kind of has.
now it's slipped into your vocabulary too, almost by accident. sometimes you'll say it and catch yourself laughing, because you sound just like him. usually when you see a silly tiktok or reel. it's stupid, honestly, but weirdly comforting—there's something so him about refusing to let go of a joke long after the world stopped laughing. it used to make you roll your eyes, now it makes you smile.
LEON DRAISAITL: takes two hours to pick a restaurant, only to decides he’s ’not hungry.’
it’s almost satanic the way leon takes two hours—minimum—to pick a restaurant. he will scroll and scroll through every option in a ten mile radius like he's selecting the venue for your wedding instead of a place to get dinner. you'll suggest something normal, like sushi or tacos, and he'll go, "hmm, maybe...but let's keep looking," like maybe there's a michelin starred food truck hiding somewhere you just haven't discovered yet. and by the time he finally lands on a choice, he'll sigh and say, "honestly? i'm not even hungry." and yeah, it's infuriating.
or at least, it should be. but somewhere between the indecision and the dramatics, you've learned to find it kind of endearing—the way he wants everything to be just right, even for something as small as dinner. he'll act like it's no big deal, but you can tell he just wants you to enjoy yourself, and wants the night to be good. so when leon eventually steals fries off your plate anyway, you just roll your eyes and hand him another. it's annoying, ridiculous, and completely him—and somehow, you've grown stupidly fond of it.
ANTHONY STOLARZ: refers to his car a she
since you started dating anthony, he’s always referred to his vehicle as a she—and that an always has, and always will. your boyfriend will give her a little pat on the dashboard before driving, like he's reassuring an old friend. sometimes he'll say stuff like, "come on, girl, you've got this," when the engine hesitates, or "good job, sweetheart," after a smooth parallel park. the first time you really noticed it, you almost gagged and instantly got the ick. when you asked anthony about it, he just grinned and said, "hey, she's been through a lot with me." because even if it was the beat up car he had when you met, or the expensive sports car he’s got now, anthony still uses that endearment like he’s talking to you and not a car.
there's something soft about it—how he treats even inanimate things with care, like they deserve gentleness just for existing. you used hate it, but now you find yourself smiling every time he gives that affectionate little tap before pulling out of the driveway. it's silly, it's sentimental, and maybe a little cringe—definitely cringe—but you've grown weirdly fond of it. because really, it's not about the car. it's about the way he loves things—steadily, tenderly, and like everything in his orbit deserves a name and a bit of warmth.
AUSTON MATTHEWS: owns three guitars but doesn’t know how to play a guitar
the first time you entered auston’s toronto condo, you noticed the three instruments instantly. but when you asked him if he played, he straight up said no. so yes, your boyfriend owns three guitars and can't play a single chord. not one. they just sit there, propped up against the wall like a very expensive art installation, collecting dust. every few weeks auston will pick one up, strum a few chaotic strings, and say something like, "i'm really gonna learn this time." you've heard that line so often it's practically part of the household soundtrack. at first, you thought it was ridiculous—why buy guitars if you can't play one? but then you noticed how he talks about them, how his eyes light up when he sees them in his place.
and somehow, that's become your favorite part. he's all hope and intention, dreaming out loud even when the follow through isn't quite there. you've started to find it endearing, the way he keeps surrounding himself with things he wants to be good at—like he believes in future versions of himself. and honestly? you'd listen to him play nothing forever. even if it does interrupt your rotting and reality tv time on his expensive couch.
MAT BARZAL: doesn’t believe in google maps
mat is the embodiment of one of those dads who wear their puffer vests over button ups and thinks gps maps are a waste of time. because for as long as you can remember, he’s never used the google maps app on his phone. he claims he doesn't believe in google maps because "he already knows the way." like, genuinely believes that if he just starts driving where he thinks a place is, he'll get there eventually. you've been lost with him enough times to know this is objectively false—mat has never once known the way.
and any time you suggest turning on directions, mat will just smirk and says, "trust the process babe. we don’t need ‘em," like you're on some kind of spiritual road trip instead of on your way to a dinner reservation. it should drive you insane (and it usually does), but there's something weirdly charming about how confident mat is in his completely unreliable intuition. he'll make a wrong turn, laugh, and say, "the universe wanted us to see this street," like getting lost was part of the plan all along. you used to roll your eyes, now you just shake your head and laugh, because honestly, you've grown to love his lack of social awareness and zero time management. and now you’ve just learned to leave 30 minutes before you need to—and what mat doesn’t know, won’t kill him ;)
QUINN HUGHES: doesn’t want to hold your hand because his ‘palms get too sweaty.’
quinn often refuses to hold your hand because "his palms get disgusting with sweat." like, he'll literally lean back and wiggle his index finger at you before you can even reach for him—like you’re a naughty school kid and not his affection starved girlfriend—muttering about ruining the moment with moisture. at first, you were like...seriously? it's just hand holding. you couldn’t care about sweaty palms because they’re his sweaty palms. but quinn just can’t, not matter much he loves you.
with the lack of hand holding though, you notice how careful quinn is about everything else. how he’ll still brush your hair behind your ear, tuck blankets around you, or rests his arm near yours without actually touching. it's weirdly sweet, in a roundabout, awkward kind of way. you pout and tease him relentlessly about it, and quinn will just laugh and shrug, a little embarrassed but unbothered. somehow, you've grown fond of it—the little quirk that keeps him slightly apart yet always close, a tiny, imperfect boundary that somehow makes all the moments he does reach for you feel extra special. it's ridiculous, but it's so him.
NATHAN MACKINNON: never uses emojis
surprisingly, nathan is a very good texter. even when he’s away on road trips and so busy he can barley eat, he’s making sure that you’re hearing from him. simple check ins and greetings because HE LOVES YOU OBVIOUSLY. however, your boyfriend never ever uses emojis. he’ll text you good morning with nothing else accompanying it—no tiny sun, no coffee cup, not even the lazy waving hand. just those two words, plain as day, like he's announcing the start of a global summit instead of texting you before your first cup of caffeine.
at first, it annoyed you—what kind of monster refuses the subtle warmth of a little yellow smiley? but then you realized it's kind of just the way he operates. it's like nathan’s silently daring you to feel the love without any visual hand holding, like some minimalist emo version of affection. you've tried sending him your own emojis in response, hoping he'll catch on, but he just replies, "miss you," unblinking, undefeated. now, it's almost comforting—the same rigid ritual every day, like he's the stern, loving principal of your mornings. and somewhere in that stoic, emojiless existence, you've grown fond of it. and secretly, you wouldn't trade it for a dozen sun emojis.
ANDREI SVECHNIKOV: keeps says ‘well see’ like he’s your manager and not your boyfriend
andrei is notorious for saying the simple phrase, "we'll see.” you'll ask if he wants to go out in the evening on the rarity you’re both free, or if he likes that movie you picked, or even if he's ready to order food, and without fail, andrei will respond with, "we'll see." like he’s your manager who you’ve asked to approve your time off. at first, it drove you nuts, because simple conversations felt like you were negotiating a quarterly report instead of texting your partner. sometimes you respond with mock seriousness—"should I bring a gantt chart?" and andrei just smirks, unbothered.
and maybe it’s the language barrier that never seems to slip away, or maybe andrei just likes being a little shit, but somehow, you’ve grown to accept the little phrase. there's a patience to it, a slow, measured way of deciding, as if he's really thinking about what's best for both of you instead of just reflexively saying yes. you've grown used to it, even fond of it—the little pause before commitment, the way it makes you both laugh, the gentle reminder that he's deliberate, not careless.
BROCK BOESER: thinks astrology is fake but is the perfect example of his zodiac sign
you’ve always been into the stars and astrology, so to say you were devastated when you found out that brock thinks it’s all phoney would be an understatement. he will outright roll his eyes at horoscope tiktok’s and the little section in magazines that talk about upcoming monthly goals for each individual zodiac. but despite his best efforts, brock boeser matches his horoscope chart to a tea. like, the traits, the habits, the little quirks you'd swear were written by a cosmic prankster—compassionate, adaptable, romantic at inconvenient times, ridiculously charming without even trying. he'll scoff when you mention it, but the first time you said, "wow, that's so pisces of you," he froze mid bite and just stared at you, mouth slightly open, like maybe the universe was trolling him.
at first it felt like teasing gold—you could point out his cosmic inconsistencies for days. but now, brock is kind of curious, even if he’d never admit it. the way he vehemently denies it while living it anyway, like the stars themselves are a joke he's too stubborn to admit. and somehow, you've grown fond of his lack of interest for all that witchy woo woo stuff, because that just means you get to be really hardcore about it—and because brock is a romantic pisces, he lets you nerd out with a fond grin on his face.
SETH JARVIS: has a temporary mattress on the floor…for the past year
seth jarvis calls the mattress on the floor his "temporary sleeping arrangement.” it made sense at the time, freshly called up to play for the canes, barley at home long enough to eat, never mind sleep. however, temporary has turned into a whole year. two pillows and a heavy duvet that he claims is functional. you claim it’s a recipe for a sore back. at first, you bugged him endlessly for the first couple months—"so, when's the permanent part happening?"—and seth would just shrug, all casual, like a philosopher who's found enlightenment in floor sleeping.
along the way, you stopped trying to make him get his ass and into to the furniture store. seth spends more time at your place anyways, and he’d rather spend his millions on things for you, not a bed frame that will most likely squeak anytime you sit on it. so you’ve just accepted the lower back pain, because his cheesy smile when you wake up next to him on that shitty mattress makes it all worth it.
JACK HUGHES: doesn’t watch ‘kid movies’
jack refuses to watch animated movies because he claims that, “they’re for kids.” like somehow pixar and disney can’t be enjoyed by a 6 foot something hockey player without serving prison time. one of your first movie nights together, you suggested tangled and jack turned his nose up like tangled was a gory snuff film. and it’s not just disney princess movies he refuses, you'll suggest anything—toy story, cars, or even coco—and jack will shake his head, arms crossed like a baby and say, "i’m not watching a kids movie babe. it’s boring."
your boyfriends stubbornness makes you roll your eyes so hard you swear they might stay like that. but it doesn’t stop your from trying over and over again—even sneaking in one when he wasn't looking. but he catches you, frowns, and says, "you know i’m not watching this right?” you never do get jack to change his mind about the genre of movies you love, but yet—somehow—you get him to dress up as woody to your bo peep for halloween, and honestly you’ll take what you can get. and yes, it's ridiculous, slightly infuriating, but once you have children, you get to watch jacks mind change about “kid movies.” so maybe your hard work didn’t work directly, but it does count to something.
hiiii could you please write something about protective macklin? like defending reader against a guy or something? I love your work!
what’s your why? ✶ m. celebrini
harassment? not from mack tho ofc, assumed underage drinking, but fluffy overall, i hope this was what you were looking for im not that proud of it but oh well, 1.1k words.
Going to the party was a mistake.
It was late, three hours past midnight; the sun would be up soon, but the night still felt alive. A stupid decision, really, dangerous even. Macklin was vulnerable, not in one of those “I-can’t-defend-myself” kinds of ways, but he was known, which meant he wasn’t truly safe. By extension, neither were you.
He’s pretty drunk already, with slurred speech and eyes glossed over, pupils dilated until that's all you could see. There's a flush on his face, brighter than it is usually; rosacea blooms pressed over his fuzzy cheeks. You’ve pressed many kisses to that red face, at least twenty times tonight. He grows redder with each peck and eventually stops trying to push you off. His hair sits askew, soft-brown waves hidden messily under a backwards baseball cap.
"Shit," you mutter, hands moving to stop the accidental pour of your drink. The solo cup had tipped over when you weren’t paying attention; a river of pungent red liquor spills down your shirt. By the time you scrambled to clean it up, the stain was already there. Macklin has his arm around your waist, but he’s too busy talking to someone else to notice the disaster you caused.
“Macklin, baby", you try, tugging at his sleeve. He leans over to brush his nose on the curve of your jaw, humming in a questioning tone. “I’ll be right back, okay? I got to clean this up.” You gesture to the mess on your shirt, and he gasps.
“Oh no, babe. You spilled your drink," he whines, and you laugh. He goes to kiss your cheek, the same way you've done to him multiple times this night, but he misses and just mouths at the space under your ear. The skin there grows wet as he laps at your neck; you buck him off after a few seconds and wait until he stabilises himself. “I’m just going to the bathroom; you wait here.”
He tries whining again, an attempt to get you to stay with him; he paws at your waist with slithery hands. You're gone before the manipulation works, though, because it would've worked, and then you would've spent the rest of the night with a stained shirt. As you weave through the dancing bodies of people, you try your best to remain unknown. It’s not like you're as famous as Macklin is; people don’t flock to you in the streets or cheer at the tops of their lungs whenever you do your job, but you can count on two hands the amount of times people have recognised your face.
Your socials nearly tripled in following the moment fans pieced together that you and Macklin were an item, with an array of comments and direct messages asking if the rumours were true. You never answered them and definitely blocked the ones that threatened you.
As you're two steps away from the bathroom, your shoulder bumps into another guy; he flinches when it happens, and you bear him a hushed apology, your focus trained on just getting the hell into the stall and recollecting yourself as much as you can. What you don’t notice is the way he stares at you, eyes trailing up and down your form as you hightail it out of the party.
The stain still remains on your shirt once you're done in the restroom, just a few shades lighter with the help of water and a Tide pen a girl lends to you once she notices the problem. The time spent in the bathroom was short, but you're sure Macklin is already growing desperate for your presence to be with him once more.
You bump into the same guy as you're making your way through the crowd again. Or, well, it honestly more felt like he slammed into you purposely; you have to brace yourself against the wall just to ensure you don’t end up on the sticky floor.
"Woah—sorry, that was my bad," he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Oh, that’s alright—sorry if you’ll excuse me—” The guy blocks your path by stepping in front of you. The movement makes you freeze; the look in his eye makes your heart plummet.
“Hey, aren’t you Macklin Celebrini’s girl?”
Others around you turn at the question; your heart beats wildly in your chest. Fuck. You've got to find a way out of this. He tilts his head, one-upping you again. His gaze felt strange on your body; it didn’t feel innocent at all. He wasn’t trying to figure out who you were. He knew exactly who you were; he was trying to see how far he could push it.
“Yeah, you are. He’s a pretty impressive guy. Olympian.” The guy states, taking a sip of his beer. You use that moment of distraction to try pushing past him once more, or at the very least scan around the room for your boyfriend to save you. You can’t see him; it’s too dark in the house, and he’s probably still outside.
“Why are you even with that guy? You know he’s only one drunk night away from finding someone else. Someone better. I could treat you better.”
Oh god. He’s one of those guys. The self-proclaimed “nice guy" thinks just because he knows certain stuff about women's history that means he’s entitled to your attention. You huff out a gust of air, annoyance growing more and more taut. But for a brief second, you think differently. What if he’s right? You hear the stories, the locker-room conversations and the Snapchat messages.
"Hey," a voice calls out, deep and intense. The guy in front of you turns, and from that you're able to see Macklin standing there, feet planted firmly on the ground like he’s not four drinks and one keg-stand attempt deep into intoxication. “Leave her alone. She's not interested.”
The guy backs off, surprisingly. His hands come up in mock surrender, muttering about whatever excuse he can come up with. You don’t care to pay attention; your eyes stay fixed onto Mack. He comes up to you the moment there's free space between you; his hands curl around your face.
“Are you okay? I came looking for you when you didn’t come back.”
“I’m okay,” you say into his chest, wrapping your arms around his midriff. “Thank you, baby.”
He envelops you the same way, hands sneaking around your neck until they sit in between your shoulder blades. You rock together to the beat of the music for a few minutes, breathing deep into each other's skin like you wish to mould into it. “We should get out of here. Go home.”
You're sure in the morning the press will have lit up; no doubt video footage was taken of the events. The hockey world turning sour at the mere spectacle of a boy defending the person he loves. They'll assume, theorise, lie and manipulate unsuspecting fans, but you know the truth behind all the cruel words. You know exactly what kind of person Macklin is, and that’s your why.
Just thinking about how a play fight/wrestling match with clay would end with him on top of you with your hands pinned above your head because he's cocky like that
nsfw blurb below, this ones kinda long lol
it starts dumb—like everything with clay does. you say something smart and fast with that smirk you know gets on his nerves in the best way, and he’s rolling his eyes, calling you a brat under his breath, that teasing glint lighting up behind his lashes. he reaches for you, and it’s not serious, not even close—you squeal, twist out of reach, duck behind the couch. a giggle tumbles out, involuntary, sharp and bright. he lunges again, and you’re already backing up, hands up like a shield, laughing too hard to breathe.
he gets you by the waist, fingers digging in just enough to tickle, and you buck in his arms, squirming, trying to wriggle free. “get off!” you gasp between snorts, tears pricking your eyes from laughing too hard. “you cheating bastard, that’s not fair!”
he just hums, smug as hell. doesn’t even pretend to play fair. clayton’s always been like that—he doesn’t go for showy or dramatic, he just waits you out. lets you exhaust yourself while he moves slow, methodical, watching for that one second you slip up. and you do, of course you do—he’s bigger than you, stronger too, and when you roll to the side and reach to grab his wrist, he snakes his arm around your waist and just—takes you down with him.
the couch cushions slide, your back hits them with a soft oof, legs tangled beneath his. he’s not even winded. fucker. he’s got that stupid look on his face, all victorious and calm, like he knew this was exactly where it would end up. he straddles your hips, lazy and comfortable, pressing your wrists down to the couch cushions above your head with both hands like he’s barely trying. you jerk your arms, try to wriggle free, but it’s pointless. he’s got you pinned. your laugh turns breathless, frustration barely hiding under the sound. “you’re such a smug asshole.”
his bangs fall into his eyes, that longish brown hair tickling your cheeks as he leans down a bit, chest brushing yours. “you say that like you didn’t want me on top of you this whole time,” he murmurs. his voice is low, but not in that trying-to-be-sexy way. he just says it like it’s true, because it is, and you feel the way your whole body reacts—heat curling low in your gut, that delicious throb just behind your clit, your pulse tapping too fast against your ribs.
you try to glare up at him, but he just raises a brow and presses your wrists down harder, like he’s daring you to try something again. you don’t. not because you couldn’t, but because—fuck—you like it. too much. his knees bracket your hips, his hands tight around your wrists, and he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining a dozen different ways to keep you like this. you squirm again, just a little, and his thighs tighten around you.
“yeah,” he says, voice casual, “you’re not going anywhere.”
you roll your eyes and make a show of fighting again, but it’s a weak effort. mostly you’re trying to ignore the way his crotch is pressing just firm enough against your hips that you can feel the start of something twitch through his sweatpants. not hard, not really, but not soft either. the pressure makes your thighs press together without thinking, the motion drawing a tiny noise from your throat. clay notices. of course he fucking notices.
he doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t tease. he just stares down at you, eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a crooked little smirk that’s too knowing. your shirt’s riding up, exposing a sliver of skin above your waistband, and he shifts his weight just enough to free one hand, dragging his knuckles along your belly, slow and light, like he’s tracing your reactions. you twitch, inhale sharp, and he does it again.
“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, trying not to gasp when his fingers hook just under the hem of your shirt.
“uh-huh,” he answers, not even pretending to disagree. he leans down again, nose brushing yours, lips close enough you can feel his breath every time he speaks. “say uncle.”
“fuck off.”
he grins—not too wide, just enough to flash the dimple in his cheek—and goes for your sides again. not hard, just a light pinch, the kind that makes your hips jump and your mouth fly open in another laugh you can’t hold back. “clayton!” you shriek, twisting beneath him, and this time he lets you go just long enough for you to grab his arms and roll, trying to flip him.
it doesn’t work. not even a little. he shifts with you, plants a knee between your thighs, and next thing you know he’s got you on your back again, your hands pinned, and this time his body’s settled more flush against yours. hips to hips, chest to chest. you feel everything.
your breath catches, and you know he hears it. his lashes lower just slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and something in the air goes quieter, tighter, but not in a serious way. you lick your lips on instinct, and his hips shift, subtle. you both notice. neither of you mentions it.
his grip loosens a little, not letting go, but not holding you down as tight. like he wants to see what you’ll do if he gives you just a little space. you arch slightly beneath him, and yeah—there it is. that tiny inhale. that almost-not-there push of his hips into yours. you roll them up again, and he exhales through his nose, face going still for half a second. a muscle jumps in his jaw.
“jesus,” he mutters, and you feel it—his cock, now properly hard, pressing right against you through both your clothes. you shift your hips, feel the drag, and your back arches again. it’s instinct now, needy and hot. your clit pulses hard beneath your shorts and you feel how wet you are—fabric sticking already, little bursts of warmth each time you move. and when you wiggle again, his hips press down, grinding just a little.
you moan. quiet, but real. and that changes him.
he still doesn’t get rough, but his eyes snap to yours, and his hand tightens on your wrists again. “you gonna behave?”
you lift your hips deliberately, rub your cunt against the thick bulge in his pants and whisper, “make me.”
he kisses you. not soft, not biting either—just full. lips sliding hard over yours, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s claiming it, like he’s been waiting to shut you up all fucking day. you moan into it, loud this time, grinding up while he kisses you. your hands flex in his grip, and he pulls back just enough to whisper, “still gonna wrestle me?”
you shake your head fast, dizzy and aching.
he finally lets your wrists go, but only so his hands can slide down your arms, catch your thighs, and pull them up around his waist. he dips down, mouth on your neck, biting lightly—not enough to leave a mark but enough to make your hips jerk. you wrap your arms around his back, digging in, and press up again, whining. “clay, jesus—need more.”
he drags his mouth up to your ear, breath warm. “you’re such a pain in the ass.”
“but you like me like this.”
he groans, shifts, and you feel his fingers at your waistband, tugging your shorts down slow, underwear caught in the drag. you lift your hips to help, legs kicking them off, and then his hand’s sliding between your thighs, fingers finding your slick folds. he drags them through the mess, slow and easy, before spreading your pussy open with two fingers. your breath stutters, thighs twitching, and he chuckles under his breath.
“fuck, you’re wet. all that giggling got you messy, huh?”
you want to deny it, say something clever, but he slides a finger inside you—just one, slow and steady—and your back arches off the couch. “ah—clayton,” you gasp, voice cracking on the syllables. your cunt clenches down, sucking him in deep, and he watches your face, that calm look back, but his cheeks are flushed now, and his lips are parted just a bit.
he adds another finger, working them in with a little twist of his wrist, and your legs jerk around his waist, one heel digging into the small of his back. you can’t stay still, hips rocking up to meet each push of his fingers, chasing it.
his thumb rubs up over your clit, just a light pass, and your whole body jolts.
“like that?” he asks, voice a little raspier.
“don’t—don’t stop—fuck, right there—”
he keeps it up, steady little circles over your clit while he fucks you on his fingers, watching every stutter and shake of your thighs. your cunt’s clenching over him, sloppy and hot, and your hands are scrambling to hold onto him, nails dragging down his spine, into the waistband of his sweats. he hisses, drops his forehead against yours.
“look at you,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your mouth. “my bratty girl, all loud and needy now.”
you cry out when he curls his fingers just right, your whole body locking up, the orgasm ripping through your core in a tight wave. you pant through it, legs trembling, clit throbbing so hard it aches. he doesn’t stop—keeps fucking you through it until you’re whimpering, hips twitching away, body too sensitive.
finally, finally, he eases his fingers out, slow, and kisses you again, long and sweet and stupid and perfect.
“pinned you good,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.
“shut up.”
he licks into your mouth again, and this time, you don’t even try to fight back.
I feel like Quinn would be the most romantic and creative of the Hughes brothers for Valentine's day. Like yeah, Jack and Luke are cute and romantic but Quinn?? That man would be Casanova. Writing you the utmost romantic letters, so eloquent and sweet. He'd do something every single day leading up to Valentine's day. Cooking for you. taking you shopping. Sending you flowers every single day. The man just knows love and romance. And it would all end with a romantic trip to the city of love, cause he's just cheesy and cute like that.
a/n: happy birthday to this wonderful man (and player)! I love him so much, I had to write something for his bday <3 (also, bolded sentences are from this post)
“You look good like this,” Sid breathed against your neck, bunching up the jersey you were wearing with his last name embroidered on the back.
He arrived home to find you on the shared bed on your hands and knees, swaying your hips and glancing over your shoulder with a saucy grin; something in him snapped when he discovered you in that position.
Maybe it was the way you presented yourself like a gift, ready to be unravelled and appreciated.
Or, perhaps it was the subtle ownership in wearing his jersey— like you were proclaiming to him, that your body and soul were his to take and do as he pleases.
And it's exactly what he plans on doing, as he firmly grips your hips to rut against your ass, while leaving harsh love bites scattered across your neck.
A pained whimper leaves your mouth, only to be replaced by a soft sigh as he soothes the sting with a long stripe of his tongue.
Rutger mcgoarty: Burning your tongue on hot food / The smell of fresh ice after a flood /Adrenaline leaving your body after a long game/ The sound of cracking new glowsticks / Love of one's self, family and friends / Cold air burning your lungs during bag skates / Touch as a form of affection
Is this ass be honest im trying writing for the 1st time lmao. In case you couldnt tell im basing this off of old hogwarts houses as aesthetics posts LMAO
A/N: This is from a prompt list I posted a million years ago, and I am very sorry it took so long!
Warnings: A swear word or two, alluding to sex
Freddie always loved you in red.
Bright, firetruck red was his favourite. But, really any shade worked.
If you wore red he couldn't take his eyes off you, and once home, it was his hands. Red dresses - short or long, tight or flowy - didn't matter. An all black outfit with red shoes adding a pop of colour, drove him wild. But a bright red matching set, that made him feral, a man starved for weeks.
So imagine his face when you were going out for dinner with some friends, wearing tight black pants, a matching jacket over a bright red deep plunging spaghetti strap bodysuit. As if that wasn't enough you paired it with a pair of matching heels and painted your lips in an identical shade.
Every part of you was perfect, and every part of you knew it. Giving yourself a final glance in the mirror, you run the tip of your index finger over the edge of your lips, ensuring the perfect shape.
"Hey baby," you call out, walking into the hall.
"You ready?" Fred asks mindlessly, eyes still locked on the TV, some basketball game playing loudly over the speakers.
"Yeah." Walking towards the kitchen your heels click against the polished wood floors with every step. Catching a glimpse of you from his peripheral vision, Fred's interest is piqued.
The TV is paused, and in under three seconds you feel him behind you, one hand landing high on your thigh, the other wrapping around your core. "You’re going out, wearing that?” it almost comes out as a growl.
"Hmm," you play dumb, fully aware of what your doing. Opening the clasp of your purse, you pull out your phone, clicking on the group chat with your friends.
"YN," his large frame presses you forward into the counter, an oversized hand rips the phone from your hand and places it on the counter. Trailing his finger over your stomach up towards your ribs, a shiver dances down your spine, goosebumps prickling everywhere.
"Fred," you reply, playfully pressing back to him, his dick twitching ever so slightly in his loose joggers. Wet and warm kisses find your neck, hair being brushed aside to provide further access. Rolling his tongue up your neck, he begins sucking on your lobe, fingers carving into the red fabric that covers your center. "Fred, I have to go."
"YN." Swiftly spinning you around, his large frame cages you against the counter. He stands in front of you, a pair of gray joggers and tight white shirt showcasing every curve of every muscle, his definition fully on display for you to gawk at. Hand on either side of your hip, his normally golden brown eyes ignite with fire. Ducking down his face nuzzles into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Pinpricks of arousal ripple down your spine as his warm breath fans your neck, you wrap your arms around his back. “I think you should stay home,” his voice is husky yet soft, words being punctuated between kisses. “And I can fuck you while you only wear this shirt. Twice.” A shudder wracks through you at the thought.
Hoisting you on the counter, your legs wrap around his waist. Your phone chimes and you attempt to reach for it, but Fred nips your sweet spot to halt your movements, as a hand trails up the front of your top, softly tugging on the deep cut of the red lace, beginning to reveal your hardened nipple.
“Fred,” you giggle bashfully, hearing it chime again. “I got to go.”
“Babe,” he groans, nipping even harder than before, digging his large thick digits into your hips.
You weren’t going to say the offer didn’t interest you, how could it not? The thought of his lips on you, hands wandering over your warm skin, him on you, it was enough to make you weak - especially since nights off during the hockey season can be few and far between. But your friend recently accepted a job on the other side of the country and tonight is the last time you can see her before she leaves.
“I’m going to leave,” your legs drop and you jump down, Fred reluctantly stepping backwards, creating some space. “But, stay awake and you can fuck me in this when I get home.”
word count: 1.1k
pairing: brock boeser x fem!reader
warning: mentions of drinking, drunk brock
Brock wasn’t one to go out drinking often with his teammates, usually opting to stay home with you on a Saturday; curled up on the couch with Milo and Coolie, a movie on the television and you wrapped up in his arms. After three consecutive weekends alone with Brock, you were itching to convince him to get out of the house, itching to convince him to go and spend some time with his friends so you could have the house to yourself for the night.
There weren’t any particular reasons as to why, but after spending three weekends straight with him, a little alone time was exactly what you needed. The opportunity to curl up on the couch with Milo and Coolie, a show Brock hated on the television, and food that he could definitely not break his diet plan for.
After trying to convince you that he didn’t need to go out, and he was content spending the weekend with you, you had to practically beg Petey to make up a story as to why Brock needed to come out with them Saturday night. As far as Brock knew, it was a team-only party that was completely mandatory.
He had apologized profusely, expecting you to be devastated that you were going to have to spend a Saturday alone. You acted the part perfectly, mentioning how much you were going to miss him and that you couldn’t wait until he got home.
The moment the door closed behind him, your show was playing on the television, and your favourite fast-food place was in the uber on the way to your house. Milo and Coolie were curled up on the couch at your feet, their eyes attentively stuck on the television in front of them.
Brock: Missin u hope u don’t miss me too much <3
Smiling at his words, you answered with a quick ‘Miss you too baby, I’ll be fine w/o you for a few hours don’t worry <3’, your hands greedily grabbing for the fast-food bag that was now sitting on the table in front of you.
The hours passed quickly, episode by episode zooming by as you curled deeper and deeper into the couch. Brock’s texts had slowly become more and more incoherent the longer he was out, a clear sign that it was likely one too many beers had been ingested.
That was only proven true when your front door swung open, an apologetic Elias Pettersson giving you a quick smile as he deposited your very drunk boyfriend on the end of the sectional, a pat to his knee and a wave to you before making his way back throughout the door.
Brock was mumbling to himself as his hands combed through Coolie’s fur, Milo’s tail wagging as he licked the side of his dad’s face. “You havin’ fun over there, Boes?”
“Baby! I didn’t know you were there,” smiling toothily at you, Brock tripped himself as he tried to get off the couch and closer to you, his body falling right back into the spot he was occupying before.
“You don’t have to get up, baby,” cooing as you made your way towards him, you gently pressed a kiss to his forward, his arms wrapping around your middle as he pressed his head directly against your chest.
“What a nice pillow!”
You could feel the smile take over the blonde’s face as he snuggled closer to you, a small laugh bubbling up front your throat at his words.
“Those are my boobs, B, not pillows.”
“Tomato, tomato,” grinned up at you, his blue eyes glossed over and the smell of alcohol evident on his breath as he mouth opened towards you.
He was always clingier, always more likely to keep you directly pressed against him after a few drinks, not wanting to be left alone or have to do things on his own when he was a little tipsy. You couldn’t deny that you had missed him the last few hours, not used to spending Saturdays on your own.
Pushing your hand out towards him, you gestured for the blonde to grab it. “We should get you to bed, baby. Get some Advil down your throat so you don’t wake up with the urge to kill any of your teammates tomorrow morning.”
Brock almost pulled you directly on top of him when he grabbed your hand, having to push himself up from the couch as Milo and Coolie jumped down and skirted themselves in between your legs and behind you with a wary look directed towards their dad. Drunk Brock always let loose compared to sober Brock, more likely to grin and smile and giggle, not hiding behind any hard exteriors he sometimes felt were necessary.
“I won’t even be that hungover in the morning, babe. Didn’ even drink that much, c’mon.”
Nuzzling into your neck as he followed behind you, you could feel Brock sniffing the skin above the collar of your shirt the closer and closer you got to your bedroom. His hand was sweaty in yours as you tugged him along, his feet stumbling below him.
“You gonna be able to change without falling?”
Pursuing his lips at you with a grin, you watched Brock struggle to unbutton his pants, only to throw his hands up in exasperation and rip the pants off his legs. He just smiled at you with a happy look in his eyes as he tore the shirt off his body and climbed directly into the bed behind him, his body lying over top of the comforter and his head pressed against the pillow.
Opening his arms up wide, he gestured for you to climb into bed beside him, a small pout crossing his lips when instead of going towards him, you walked towards the en suite bathroom.
“Gotta get that Advil for you, babe. Don’t wanna deal with a grumpy Brock tomorrow,” huffing as his head hit the pillow behind it, he diverted his eyes to the roof as he waited for you to come back.
Grabbing the bottle from the medicine cabinet, you quickly filled the water cup you kept on hand and walked back towards the bedroom. Stopping to smile at the view in front of you, you leaned against the doorframe as you observed Brock curled up on his side, Milo and Coolie laid at the end of the bed as your boyfriend attempted to keep his eyes open.
“Babyyy, come to bed. I wanna go ta sleep and can’ sleep without ya.”
You grinned as you made your way towards him, urging him to sit up so he could take the Advil and water from your hand which he did so, albeit a bit grumpily. Climbing into bed beside him as he downed the glass of water and the Advil alongside it, he quickly crawled under the covers with you, wrapping his arm around your body and pulling you into his side.
“Glad I got to go out tonight, but don’t go convincing Petey to take me out every weekend. Missed you too much.”
