#ax72

Arber makes no secret of his return home. Not just in terms of is entrance, he gives y/n a count down warning before he's home.

Y/n smiles looking at the texts, she love hearts each one but never bothers with a worded response knowing that's not what he's sending them for.

She hears the door open and click shut, bags set to the side before she sees his shadow over her and his large body drops down on her, expelling all the air from her as all 240lbs of man weighs presses her into the sofa.

"Arber." Y/n groans from underneath him. No matter how much she braces herself for the impact, nothing actually stops her from being crushed under him.

"I missed you so much." Arber states, intentionally ignoring her whine for help. "Are you ok under there?"

"I'm being crushed-Arber, I can't breath." Y/n wheezes as he lifts his head from where he'd nuzzled into her neck, moustache tickling her skin as it always did and she almost misses it as his head lifts.

"Fine." Arber sighs then leaning down and kissing him a couple times before he rolls to the side and wraps his arms around her, holding her tight enough that it makes sure about no difference to her ability to breathe. "Better?"

"You don't know your own strength." Y/n grunts but it's not really a secret that she is happily smothered by her boyfriend.

"Maybe I just love hugging my girlfriend."

"To death, yeah I can feel that." Y/n giggles before she looks up at him. "I hate the fact you always dress so well sometimes."

"Why?" Arber laughs really not expecting.

"Because I have to deal with seeing other women thirst after you."

"I don't care about those women...so long as you thirst after me." Arber states before rolling back onto her, squeezing the air from her lungs again. "I dress well for you really."

Y/n doesn't even bother groaning his name at the fact he's crushing her again.

"Sorry baby, but I just love feeling you all squished with me."

"I'm beginning to realise that."

Y/n wiggles her arm free and raises it up to gently push his dark hair back.

"Sometimes I think you're just so oversized for me."

"Oversized?" Arber frowns definitely beginning to think that's something to get offended by.

"Arber, you are just a huge man."

That makes a smug smirk take over his face and he presses further down on her.

"Only you would manage to make that into a complaint of some sort." Arber states while y/n grins up at him. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too, baby." Y/n smiles cupping his face and smiling as he leans into her touch. "Never did I think you'd be so cuddly."

"Why?"

"I was stupid." Y/n shrugs while he hums.

"Can you deal with me staying like this?"

"Yeah, only because it's your favourite way to cuddle." Y/n laughs deciding to just accept her fate and honestly after the initial crush, it's not that bad. Although sleeping like this might just give her back issues, she'll get concerned about that later.

Arber does end up falling asleep on top of her and y/n manages to reach his phone, since her own is not in arms reach, and capture some photos of videos just for the memories.

“It’s about the essence of Bob Ross, not a literal interpretation. He was a vibe. We are channeling the vibe,” you explain, concentrating. “The vibe is peaceful. The vibe is happy. The vibe is … slightly off-center clouds.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “The vibe is my girlfriend is a weirdo.”

“Your adorable girlfriend is a creative genius,” you correct, stepping back to admire your work. You’re already in costume, a carefully constructed cylinder of fabric painted to look like tree bark, with branches covered in fabric leaves extending from your arms and shoulders. You are, in no uncertain terms, a happy little tree.

His eyes, when they finally meet yours, are warm and crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, that too.” He reaches out, his large, calloused hand gently touching one of your leafy branches. “You sure you’re good with this? Meeting everyone at once? It’s … a lot.”

Your heart does a little nervous flutter. You’ve been dating for six months, a whirlwind romance that started with a chance meeting at a dog park and has since become the most stable, comforting part of your life. But it’s been your secret world. Just the two of you. Tonight, that world cracks open. “I’m sure. I’m just not sure they’re going to get it.” You gesture between the two of you. “Bob Ross and a happy little tree. It’s a bit niche.”

“They’re hockey players, not art critics,” he reassures you. “If they don’t get it, who cares? As long as I get to go home with the tree.”

He stands up, towering over you even more than usual. The sheer scale of him is something you’re still getting used to. He’s a mountain, and you are, quite literally, a tree. He leans down and kisses you softly, careful not to smudge the face paint.

“Okay, time for the hair,” you say, grabbing the wig. “Prepare to achieve peak zen.”

He groans good-naturedly as you wrestle the wig onto his head, tucking his dark hair underneath. You spend a few minutes fluffing the synthetic curls until they form a perfect, round halo around his head. He looks in the mirror, turning his head from side to side. A slow grin spreads across his face.

“Okay,” he admits. “This is pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” You scoff. “You look like you’re about to paint a masterpiece and tell me there are no mistakes, just happy accidents.”

“C’mon,” he says, grabbing the painter’s palette and giant brush that complete his costume. “Let’s go show ‘em some happy accidents.”

***

The drive to Nick Suzuki’s house is a blur of city lights and the low thrum of the radio. Arber’s hand is on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles, a silent anchor against the rising tide of your nerves. You’ve never been good in big crowds. You prefer quiet corners, one-on-one conversations, the calm intimacy of a shared silence. A team party is the antithesis of all of that.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Arber says, glancing over at you.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Your leg’s vibrating.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Hey. Look at me.”

You turn. His face, framed by the ridiculous wig, is deadly serious.

“You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be anyone but you. They’re gonna love you,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

“But what if they don’t?” The words are small, barely a whisper. “Arber, your job is … it’s aggressive. It’s your whole persona. The Sheriff. And I’m … me. I rescue spiders from the bathtub. I make you drive a mile out of the way to avoid hitting a squirrel. What if they think I’m just … some weirdo hippie who doesn’t get it?”

“Then they’re idiots,” he says simply. “And I don’t play with idiots.” He pauses, pulling up to a curb in front of a sprawling modern house thumping with music. “Besides, you being you … that’s the whole point. That’s my favorite part. You’re my peace, you know?”

His sincerity washes over you, warm and reassuring. You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Okay, Sheriff. Let’s do this.”

“That’s Bob Ross to you,” he winks, killing the engine. “And you’re my happy little tree.”

The door swings open before you even knock, and you’re greeted by the grinning face of Cole Caufield, dressed as a very convincing Maverick from Top Gun.

“Well, well, well,” Cole says, his eyes dancing with amusement as he takes in your costumes. “If it isn’t the man himself. Arber, my guy, you look … surprisingly peaceful.”

“Happy little clouds, man,” Arber says, clapping Cole on the shoulder. “Cole, this is Y/N.”

“I finally get to meet the mystery woman!” Cole’s smile is infectious. “It’s awesome to meet you. The costume is elite. Top tier.”

“You too,” you say, your voice a little shaky. “You have the need … for speed?”

Cole throws his head back and laughs. “She gets it! See, Arbs? She’s a keeper. C’mon in, everyone’s in the back.”

He leads you through the house, which is packed with people. It’s a sea of clever costumes and loud chatter. You spot a Ken and Barbie (Kaiden Guhle and his girlfriend), a surprisingly detailed duo of Buzz and Woody, and someone who appears to be a giant inflatable T-Rex. Your tree branches snag on a doorway, and Arber’s hand is immediately on your back, steadying you, guiding you through the crowd.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “See? You’re a natural.”

You’re not so sure. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You keep your hand firmly clasped in his, a lifeline in the overwhelming social ocean.

You’re introduced to a whirlwind of names and faces. Nick Suzuki, the host and team captain, dressed as a wizard, gives you a warm, genuine welcome. His wife, Caitlin, dressed as a matching witch, pulls you into a brief, friendly chat about your costume. Josh Anderson, Jake Evans, Brendan Gallagher — they’re all kind, curious, and seem genuinely happy to finally meet you.

The initial fear begins to subside, replaced by a low-level hum of social anxiety, which feels like a significant improvement. You find a relatively quiet spot near the massive glass doors that lead to the backyard, sipping on a cup of water and just observing.

Arber stays glued to your side, one arm draped possessively over your leafy shoulders. He’s laughing and joking with his teammates, but his attention keeps snapping back to you, a constant, silent check-in. “You good?” He’ll murmur, and you’ll nod, and he’ll squeeze your shoulder before turning back to the conversation.

“So, Y/N,” Juraj Slafkovský says, looming over you with a goofy grin. He’s dressed as a Viking, complete with a horned helmet and a giant plastic axe. “Arber never says anything about you. Is secret. We think maybe you are not real.”

You manage a small smile. “I’m real. Just … quiet.”

“Quiet is good,” he booms. “Arber is not quiet on the ice, eh?” He nudges Arber with his elbow. “He is big man, big punches.”

You feel a familiar pang of discomfort. You know it’s his job. You respect his passion, his dedication, his role as a protector for his team. But you will never, ever enjoy the violence of it. It’s a part of him you’ve compartmentalized, a room in the house of your relationship that you rarely enter.

“Yeah, well,” Arber says, his tone shifting slightly, sensing your mood. “That’s on the ice. This is real life.”

“So what do you do?” Kaiden Guhle asks, joining the small circle. His Ken costume is immaculate, down to the rollerblades hanging around his neck.

“Oh, um,” you start, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m an archivist at the McCord Museum. I mostly work with old photographs and documents. Preserving things.”

“Preserving things,” Kaiden repeats, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s cool. So, like, the opposite of what he does.” He jerks a thumb at Arber. “He mostly just breaks things. Faces, mostly.”

The guys laugh, and you force a tight-lipped smile. It’s a joke. You know it’s a joke. But it scrapes against something raw inside you.

Arber’s arm tightens around you. “Alright, lay off, guys. She’s not here for a hockey lesson.”

The conversation shifts, and you gratefully fade into the background again, listening to them talk about an upcoming road trip, a new restaurant, a terrible movie someone saw. You focus on the feeling of Arber’s hand on your back, the solid warmth of him beside you. He’s your island.

An hour later, you’re feeling more settled. The initial shock has worn off, and you’ve found a comfortable rhythm. You’re having a surprisingly deep conversation with Caitlin about historical preservation when a sudden shriek cuts through the music.

Everyone turns.

One of the younger players’ girlfriends is standing on a chair, pointing a trembling finger at the wall. “Oh my god, oh my god, kill it!”

You follow her gaze. Clinging to the white wall, just above a framed print of the Montreal skyline, is a spider. It’s not small, a decent-sized wolf spider, its long legs frozen in place, likely terrified by the sudden noise and attention.

“I got it!” Juraj announces, already rolling up a magazine from the coffee table. He strides toward the wall with the determined look of a man on a mission.

And that’s when your body moves before your brain can even process the decision.

“No, wait!”

The words are out of your mouth, sharp and clear, cutting through the party chatter. You push through the small circle of onlookers, your leafy branches rustling. You plant yourself between Juraj and the wall, holding up your hands.

“Don’t hurt it,” you say, your voice firm.

The room goes quiet. A dozen pairs of eyes are on you. Juraj freezes mid-swing, the rolled-up magazine held aloft, looking bewildered.

“It’s … a spider,” he says, as if explaining a complex scientific concept.

“I know,” you say, your eyes fixed on the small, frozen creature. “It’s just scared. It’s not going to hurt anyone.”

A few snickers ripple through the room. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you don’t move. You can feel Arber’s gaze on you, heavy and unreadable.

“Dude, just squish it,” someone says from the back.

“No,” you repeat, more softly this time. You turn your head slightly to look at Juraj. “Please. Just let me get it.”

He looks from you to the spider, then over to Arber, as if seeking guidance. Arber’s expression is placid, calm, but his eyes are locked on you. He gives Juraj a nearly imperceptible nod.

Juraj lowers the magazine, looking deeply confused but compliant. “Okay …”

You turn to the group. “Does anyone have a cup? And a piece of paper?”

A stunned silence hangs in the air for a second before Caitlin, bless her, snaps into action. “Yeah, right here.” She hands you a plastic cup and a stiff cocktail napkin.

You take a deep breath and approach the wall slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “It’s okay,” you murmur, more to the spider than to anyone else. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

With practiced ease, you place the cup over the spider, being careful not to trap any of its legs. It scurries inside, and you smoothly slide the napkin underneath, sealing the exit. The entire room is watching you, a silent audience to the strangest party entertainment they’ve ever witnessed.

You turn around, holding the cup carefully. “I’m just going to take it outside.”

You walk toward the glass doors, a procession of curious hockey players parting before you like the Red Sea. You slide the door open, step out into the cool night air, and walk to the edge of the manicured lawn. You gently lower the cup, remove the napkin, and tip the spider out onto the grass. It scurries away into the darkness, disappearing into the safety of the night.

You stand there for a moment, taking a deep breath of the crisp air, the adrenaline slowly starting to fade. You just made a complete and utter fool of yourself. In front of the entire Montreal Canadiens roster. You, the enforcer’s girlfriend, just stopped the party to save a spider.

You close your eyes, bracing for the walk back inside. For the jokes. For the weird looks. For the moment Arber tells you it’s time to go home.

When you turn around, he’s standing right there, in the doorway, blocking the view of everyone else. He’s still in his full Bob Ross costume, the painter’s palette in one hand, the absurd wig slightly askew. But the look on his face is anything but a joke.

His eyes are shining under the porch light. He’s not laughing. He’s not embarrassed. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated adoration. It’s awe. It’s love, so potent and so raw it feels like you could reach out and touch it.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward, closes the distance between you, and wraps his strong arms around you, pulling you into his chest. He holds you tight, his chin resting on the top of your head, nestled amongst your fabric leaves.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with an emotion you can’t quite name. It sounds like pride.

You bury your face in his shirt, the smell of his cologne and the faint scent of acrylic paint filling your senses. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I just … I couldn’t let him kill it. I know it’s weird.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands framing your face. “Don’t you ever be sorry for being you,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Ever. You hear me?”

You nod, your eyes stinging with unshed tears.

“That,” he says, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, “was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

A small, watery laugh escapes you. “Rescuing a spider?”

“Having a heart that big in a world full of people who just want to squish things,” he clarifies. “Yeah. That’s the hottest thing in the world.”

He leans in and kisses you, a deep, reassuring kiss that melts away all the anxiety and embarrassment, leaving only the warm, solid certainty of him. The party inside, the music, the team — it all fades away until it’s just the two of you, standing under the vast autumn sky. Bob Ross and his happy little tree.

When you finally walk back inside, hand in hand, the atmosphere has shifted. No one is laughing. The jokes have stopped.

Cole is the first to speak, a wide, genuine grin on his face. He raises his cup in a toast. “To Y/N,” he says, his voice carrying across the now-quiet room. “The official Spider-Whisperer of the Montreal Canadiens.”

A round of appreciative chuckles and murmurs follows. Juraj walks up to you, looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do not think. I just see spider, and … you know.”

“It’s okay,” you say, giving him a genuine smile. “Most people would have done the same thing. Thank you for stopping.”

“Is no problem,” he says. “My girlfriend, she would like you. She also saves the bugs.”

From that moment on, something changes. The players don’t just talk at you anymore, they talk to you. They ask you questions about your work, about your life. They see you not just as Arber’s girlfriend, but as a person — a person with a fierce, if unusual, conviction. They see the woman their enforcer, their protector, has chosen to love. And in your quiet strength, they seem to understand something essential about him, too.

***

The drive home is quiet. The city lights are a soft, comforting smear outside the window. You’ve taken off your leafy branches, which now sit in the backseat, and Arber has finally removed the wig, running a hand through his flattened hair.

You’re leaning your head against the cool glass of the passenger window, replaying the night in your head. The anxiety, the introductions, the spider. Especially the spider.

“You’re thinking loud again,” Arber says, his voice soft in the enclosed space of the car.

You turn to look at him. His profile is illuminated by the passing streetlights, strong and steady. “I’m just processing.”

“Good processing or bad processing?”

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “Are you mad?”

He glances at you, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Mad? About what? About you being the kindest person I’ve ever met? Why in the world would I be mad about that?”

“Because it’s weird, Arber. It’s not normal. Your teammates are these … titans. These gladiators. And I just stopped their party to hold a funeral procession for an arachnid.”

He’s quiet for a few blocks, navigating a turn. When he speaks again, his voice is low and thoughtful.

“Do you know what it’s like to have my job?” He asks.

The question catches you off guard. “I mean … I have an idea.”

“No, not really,” he says, not unkindly. “My entire professional life is about controlled aggression. It’s about intimidation. It’s about walking a line where, on one side, you’re protecting your guys, and on the other side, you’re … you’re hurting someone. For a living. You have to build walls around yourself. You have to find an off switch, or that stuff will eat you alive.”

He pulls to a stop at a red light and turns to face you fully.

“When I met you,” he continues, his gaze intense, “it was like … I don’t know. It was like all the noise in my head just stopped. You’re so gentle with everything. The way you talk to my dog, the way you water your plants, the way you get sad when you see roadkill. You move through the world trying not to leave a scratch on it.”

He reaches over, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

“Tonight, when you stood up for that spider … that wasn’t weird to me. That was you. That was everything I love about you, all in one moment. You have this … this relentless gentleness. And I need that. It’s like an anchor. It reminds me of the person I want to be when I take off the uniform.”

The red light turns green, but he doesn’t move. The car behind you honks, a short, impatient blast.

“You’re my peace, Y/N,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Don’t you get it? You’re the place I get to go to get away from all the noise. The last thing I would ever want is for you to be more like that world. I want you to be exactly like you.”

Tears are welling in your eyes again, but this time they aren’t from anxiety or embarrassment. They’re from a place of such profound love and understanding that it fills your entire chest.

He gives you a small, soft smile, then turns his attention back to the road and continues driving.

When you get back to the apartment, you shed your costumes in a pile on the floor — a deconstructed forest scene of bark and leaves and a curly brown wig. The night air drifts in through the open window, carrying the distant sounds of the city.

You’re standing in the middle of the living room in your jeans and a t-shirt when Arber comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you both stand there for a long moment, just breathing in the quiet.

“So,” you say softly, leaning your head back against him. “They know your secret now.”

“What secret?” He murmurs against your hair.

“That the big, scary Sheriff is dating a pacifist tree-hugger who saves spiders.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that vibrates through your entire body. “Good,” he says, his arms tightening around you. “Now they know why I’m so damn happy all the time.”

He turns you around to face him. The last traces of his Bob Ross face paint are smudged on his temples, and his eyes are full of a quiet, steady love that makes you feel seen, truly and completely seen, for exactly who you are.

“There are no mistakes,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you. “Just happy accidents.”

"Look at how tiny you are baby" Arber whispers in your ear, he has you pinned against the counter with his arm wrapped around your waist as he fucks you from behind.

"So gorgeous taking my cock like a good girl" Arber says nipping at your earlobe.

You head falls back against his shoulder as he continues pounding into you, your moans grow louder as he watches you get closer.

"Head up baby watch yourself as you cum" Arber commands.

You lift your head and make eye contact with Arber in the mirror, "Good girl" Arber says before reaching down and circling your clit.

You moan as you struggle to watch yourself in the mirror, "Arber I'm close."

Arber groans in your ear as he feels you clenching around him signaling your impending release, "Squeezing me so fucking tight baby, hold it I'm almost there."

You moan as you struggle to keep from cumming, "Arber I can't" you say as tears start falling from holding back your orgasm.

"Cum on baby, cum for me" Arber says.

You moan as your body starts convulsing with the power of your orgasm, Arber groans before stilling inside you and filling you up.

Arber slowly pulls out causing you to whine, he carries you to the bathtub and runs you a bath before placing you in the warm water. He goes and gets you both some clothes before he joins you in the tub, "you okay baby?"

"Yeah I am" you reply.