Hey!! Could you maybe write one about Connor bedard coming home from a game that they won and being all Clingy and cuddly cause heās tired.
Pairing: Connor Bedard x Reader
Sidney Crosby Masterlist | Hockey Masterlist
The front door clicked shut just after midnight, and the sound sent a little rush of relief through you.
You were already halfway off the couch when you heard the soft shuffle of his shoes in the entryway, followed by the familiar drag of exhaustion in his steps. By the time you reached him, he was still standing near the door in his team jacket, his hair damp from the game, his face tired in a way you recognized immediately.
āHey,ā you said, softer than before.
His eyes found yours, and the whole hard edge of the night seemed to fall off him. āHey.ā
You took in the details in a glance: the loosened collar, the red in his cheeks from the cold outside, the faint shadow of weariness around his eyes. He looked like heād given absolutely everything to the game and had only enough energy left to make it home to you.
āYou won,ā you said, stepping closer.
āWe did,ā he answered, and there was quiet pride in his voice. āIt was a good one.ā
He nodded. āAnd I think Iām pretty sure I blocked three shots.ā
āOkay, maybe two and a half.ā
You laughed, and that made his smile widen, tired but real. He dropped his bag by the door and immediately opened his arms like the decision had already been made somewhere in his body.
Connor folded around you with a sigh that sounded like the end of a very long day. His arms locked around your shoulders, and the second you were in his space, you could feel how much tension heād been carrying leave him piece by piece.
āThere you are,ā he murmured into your hair.
You wrapped your arms around his middle, feeling the warmth of him under the heavy layers. āI was right here.ā
You leaned back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, but there was something openly soft in them too. Something needy in the gentlest possible way, like he was too tired to pretend he didnāt want comfort.
āYou okay?ā you asked.
āMm-hm,ā he said, even though the word came out more like a hum than an answer.
He smiled faintly. āOkay, Iām tired.ā
āThatās not shocking.ā
āI played a whole game.ā
āYes, I know. I watched.ā
Connor sighed like that had been an exhausting fact all on its own. āYou looked pretty cute in the stands.ā
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. āYouāre deflecting.ā
Then, without warning, he buried his face against your shoulder and held on tighter. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make the point unmistakable.
You stilled, then softened immediately.
āOh,ā you said quietly.
He made a sleepy sound that was almost a laugh. āDonāt say it like that.ā
āLike you figured me out.ā
You slid a hand up the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into his hair. āI did figure you out.ā
He hummed again, eyes closing. āIām not denying anything.ā
āYouāre clingy when youāre tired.ā
You smiled against his shoulder. āConnor.ā
He lifted his head just enough to glare at you weakly, which was not very intimidating considering he still had both arms wrapped around you like he had no intention of letting go. āIām being normal.ā
āThis is your normal?ā
That made you laugh, and the sound seemed to settle him even more. His face softened, the edges of his fatigue going loose and warm.
You guided him toward the couch by gently tugging on his hand, and he followed without protest, still close enough that your shoulders kept brushing. When you sat, he immediately dropped beside you and then, after a second of visible deliberation, shifted until he was half-leaning on you, head against your shoulder, legs stretched out in front of him.
It was so immediate and so completely unguarded that your heart did something stupid.
āYou are absolutely spoiled,ā you muttered.
āMm,ā he said, already sinking further into the cushions. āMaybe.ā
You reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and draped it over both of you. Connor made a quiet sound of approval, then tucked himself closer, his arm slipping around your waist like it belonged there.
Outside, the city kept moving. Cars passed. Distant sounds drifted in through the windows. Somewhere else, people were still talking about the game.
But in here, Connor was just warm weight and tired breathing and the steady pressure of his hand at your side.
āDid you eat?ā you asked after a minute.
He was silent long enough that you already knew the answer.
āI had a protein bar.ā
āThat is not dinner.ā
You turned your head to look at him. āYou need actual food.ā
The words came out so quietly that they nearly got lost.
You stilled. Then your expression softened completely.
Connor, who could be so composed in public, so sharp and focused and controlled, was curled beside you on the couch like he had finally admitted to himself that he was allowed to stop.
Your fingers brushed through his hair once, gently. āYeah?ā
He nodded against your shoulder. āYeah.ā
He was quiet for another moment before adding, voice muffled against you, āI like coming home to you.ā
āI like it too,ā you said.
That seemed to relax him even more. His hand slid over your side, lazy and warm, and he let out a breath that sounded almost like relief. You could feel the tension draining from him now that the game was over and the house was quiet and he no longer had to be anything except tired.
He tilted his head just enough to glance at you. āCan we stay like this?ā
You smiled. āWe are already doing that.ā
āNo, I mean,ā he said, the tips of his ears turning a little pink, ālike this, for a while.ā
You leaned in and kissed his forehead, a small, easy kiss that made him close his eyes again. āAs long as you want.ā
Connor fully melted into you, one arm tightening around your waist, his face pressing back into your shoulder with the kind of trust that made your chest ache in the best way. A moment later, you felt the first sign of sleepiness settle into him, slow and heavy.
He made a sleepy, content sound. āDonāt move.ā
āI wasnāt planning to.ā
His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers threading together in a loose, sleepy grip. It wasnāt dramatic. It wasnāt loud. It was just him, tired and safe and stubbornly affectionate after a win.
You kept your hand in his and listened to his breathing even out beside you.
And when his eyes finally closed for good, Connor still tucked against you like he belonged there, you smiled into the quiet and thought that maybe this was his favorite kind of victory.
