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Just Us | B. Boeser

part of kinktober kink; breeding -> 4322 words, 18+ only - contains smut -> warnings; unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of pregnancy and such. notes; def not my best work, it's really really imagery heavy with the smut being like barely there but I had to get something out and also finish this. hope y'all like it, also idk why I put the silly stuff in here it just felt right.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey fanfiction #brock boeser #brock boeser x reader #brock boeser fic #brock boeser fanfiction #brock boeser x you #bb6 #bb6 fic #bb6 x you #bb6 x reader #vancouver canucks #vancouver canucks imagine #vancouver canucks fic #brock boeser smut

•18+ Adults Only

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guilty conscience - brock boeser

part of the think later fic series

"I'll be wantin' you back 'til the cops start calling, Waist deep in the mess you started, 'Cause I need you, darling, is that wrong? All my morals shot, even it don't faze me, Lovin' you batshit crazy."

*** request: "Hey!!! Would you be able to do Brock Boeser for guilty conscience for the think later series? Thank you!"

summary: drugs, sex, and infidelity don't make a nice combination. pairing: brock boeser x fem!reader word count: 3.6k warnings: drugs (marijuana, c*ca*ne, and other unnamed), cheating (not on brock or reader), doing drugs in detail, slight sexual innuendo, substance abuse/addiction. this could generally be an upsetting read so just take care babes <3

notes:

ty for the request!

^ since there were no specific guidelines given, I tried something new and a lot darker. if this wasn't what you were getting at, I totally understand and feel free to request something different with more specific guidelines!

lowkey inspired by some dark mitch marner fics i've seen (the names escape me right now) and i love him & boes so much, so why not go out of my comfort zone like this?

also I wrote this all in a couple hours 'cause I had a free afternoon lol

***

You’re late.

You know it before you even check the time. The heavy weight of anxiety sits in your chest as you stalk down the narrow, grimy alleyway toward the motel. The streetlights flicker above you, casting broken shadows that seem to dance in mockery. It’s cold, colder than it should be, and the thin jacket you threw on does nothing to keep the chill from sinking into your bones.

As you approach the shut of the room, your heart races—not from fear, but from anticipation. Every step feels heavier than the last. You’ve been in and out of this shitty motel more times than you can count, but tonight something feels different. Something feels... off. The neon sign outside buzzes faintly, casting a sickly green hue over everything, and the silence that surrounds the building is deafening. Not even the distant hum of traffic can cut through it.

For a second, you wonder if you should just turn around and leave. Walk away from this life, from him, from the suffocating pull of it all. But then you think about his voice—low, rough, commanding. You think about the way his hands feel on your skin, the way his praise makes your stomach twist into knots, the way his touch is the only thing that quiets the noise in your head.

You’re already too far gone.

The key trembles in your hand as you fit it into the door. The faint sound of the lock clicking open sends a shiver down your spine. The door creaks as you push it open, and there he is. Brock. Shirtless, sprawled on the bed like a predator waiting for his prey. His body glistens under the dim light, muscles taut, veins snaking down his arms, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His eyes flick to the door, narrowing when he sees you, and for a moment, you think he’s angry. You’re late, after all. You can feel it in the way the air thickens, the way his gaze hardens as if you’ve disappointed him somehow.

You step inside, letting the door slam shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. His eyes stay locked on you, a silent accusation. You feel it in every inch of your skin—the weight of his expectation, his hunger.

You know the drill. You always know. It’s what keeps you coming back, isn’t it? The certainty of the routine. The high. The way he praises you when you do it right. The way you make him forget. But the feeling? That’s both of you. A lingering guilty conscience.

The bag is heavy in your hand, the contents within enough to destroy both of you. You move to the table, the silence suffocating. Brock watches your every movement like a wolf tracking its prey, waiting for the moment to pounce. You unzip the bag, revealing the neatly packaged contents—your carefully curated escape. Pills, powder, vials—everything he needs. Everything you need.

The weight of it all presses down on your chest, but you force yourself to breathe, to focus. This is your job, your life now. This is what you’ve become. You can’t remember when it started, when the line between business and pleasure blurred, when you stopped caring about the difference.

You feel his presence behind you before he even moves. His hand slides over your shoulder, warm and rough, his fingers grazing the back of your neck. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he mutters, his voice low, gruff. There’s something dangerous in his tone, something dark and twisted that pulls at the pit of your stomach. You know he’s been waiting, pacing the room, wondering if you’d finally decided to bail, if you were tired of being his fix.

But you’re not.

You turn to face him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his lips twisted into that familiar smirk you both love and hate. “I always come,” you say, your voice steady, though the tremor in your hands betrays you. His smirk deepens, and you see the approval in his eyes, that sick, twisted sense of satisfaction that always comes when you do what he wants.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his hand trailing down your arm, his fingers lingering on your wrist for just a moment too long. The words are like a drug in themselves, sinking into your skin, filling the cracks you’ve tried so hard to ignore. You hate how much you crave his approval, how much you need him to tell you that you’re good, that you’re enough.

But it’s never enough, is it?

You set the bag down, your hands shaking as you begin to sort through the contents. Brock leans against the table, watching you with that predatory gaze, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. You can feel his impatience, his need, but he doesn’t rush you. Not yet. He knows this is part of the game—the waiting, the anticipation. It’s all a prelude to the inevitable crash.

Brock wastes no time. He cuts the lines, the razor blade flashing in the dim light, and the room fills with the familiar scent of something dangerous. As you watch, he snorts the first line, his head snapping back as the hit surges through his system. His pupils blow wider, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “Fuck,” he breathes out, voice tight, like he’s already halfway to losing control. “That’s good shit.”

Your heart races in time with Brock’s rapid breathing, the tension between you thick as the blood that drips from his one of his nostrils. You watch as his body reacts—muscles taut, veins bulging under his skin like rivers waiting to burst. His eyes flash with a mix of exhilaration and dread, and you feel a familiar tug inside you. It's always the same—this heady cocktail of danger, pleasure, and the gnawing guilt that coils tighter around your ribs with every hit.

You sink back into the frayed motel couch, its stiff cushions sagging beneath your weight. The air reeks of sweat, weed, and the faintest hint of his cologne—sharp and intoxicating, like him. Outside, the world keeps spinning, but inside this dimly lit room, time bends, reality blurs.

“Yeah?” Your voice drips with amusement, a bitter edge you can’t quite shake. “Guess that’s why you keep coming back.”

Brock glances over, pupils blown wide like dark voids, his gaze unreadable. He swipes his hand through his hair again, the messy strands clinging to his damp forehead. "You know why."

Of course you do. It's not just the drugs—though those help. It’s the way his hands tremble when he touches you, the way he pulls you in like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the ground. The way he groans your name when he’s lost in it, the way he can’t seem to quit you, even if he knows he should.

“Do you think she knows?” The words slip out before you can stop them. You’ve never asked about her before. You weren’t supposed to. But the reporters, the way they screamed at you yesterday—calling you a homewrecker, a whore—it rattled something loose inside you. The ring might be absent from his finger, but you’ve seen it in photos, sparkling as he stood beside her, his perfect wife, smiling like the world hadn’t come crumbling down around them.

You need to know if this is all part of the game or if you’ve been living a lie.

Brock’s eyes snap up to meet yours, but there’s no guilt there, only that same hollow, detached look. “What?” He’s confused, or maybe he’s just pretending.

“Your wife.” The word feels like poison on your tongue, bitter and unwanted. “Does she know about us?”

Brock’s lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I told you, we’ve got an understanding. It’s not what it looks like.” He leans back on the bed, muscles rippling as he stretches out, exhaling deeply. “Don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes, though. He never does when she’s mentioned. It’s always the same vague promise, the same half-truths that keep you tethered to him, to this. It’s easier to believe the lies when you’re high, when the world fades into that familiar, soft haze where nothing matters except the feel of his skin against yours.

You wish you could believe him. God, you wish that lie felt better than it does. But the truth clings to your skin, heavy and sticky, making it hard to breathe. You know what the media says—homewrecker. But it’s more than that. You’re drawn to him, to the way he makes you feel, to the rush that comes from being with him, the same high as the drugs you both pretend don’t control you.

“Come here.” His voice is low, that same gravelly tone he always uses when he wants you. And despite the thoughts swirling in your mind, the guilt, the self-loathing—you move to him. Because that’s what you do. You always go back.

Brock’s hands are on you before you can think, rough and desperate, as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His lips are on your neck, the heat of him burning through your skin. You want to stop, want to pull away, but you can’t. The truth is, you need him too. This twisted, fucked-up thing between you—it’s the only thing that makes sense.

The sheets crinkle under you as you fall back onto the bed, his weight pressing down on you, familiar and dangerous. Your body responds automatically, arching into him, even as your mind screams at you to run, to leave before this ruins you both. “Something happened yesterday,” you whisper, the sound more like a breathy whimper.

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, barely audible over the frantic beating of your heart.

But Brock doesn’t stop. His hands roam your body, his breath hot against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in the sensation. It’s easier this way, easier to drown in the physical than confront the wreckage you’re both hurtling toward. His lips graze your collarbone, and a shiver snakes down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly. It always comes to this—a cycle of indulgence and regret, pleasure and pain.

Stop thinking. Don’t think about it. Just feel.

But your mind won’t shut off. The image of those reporters flashes before your eyes, their voices like knives, cutting through the haze you usually hide behind. Homewrecker. Whore. Slut. You can still hear it, the way they spat the words at you like venom, the way their cameras clicked in rapid succession, capturing every humiliating second.

You hadn’t known what to say, hadn’t known what to do. You weren’t supposed to care. Brock had promised—he’d said it was fine, that his marriage wasn’t real, that it was all for appearances. And you believed him. Didn’t you?

You tried to brush them off, tried to convince yourself they didn’t matter, that they weren’t true. But the truth? It’s tangled up in the sheets with you, in Brock’s hands and the way his mouth searches for release from the guilt neither of you can escape.

Maybe I am a homewrecker.

The thought sends a jolt of nausea through you, but you push it down, like you do with everything else. It's easier that way. Easier to pretend you don’t care. That you don’t feel the cracks forming, widening every time Brock touches you. But they’re there, like fissures in the foundation of your soul, threatening to split you wide open.

Brock pulls away just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark, his breathing ragged. There’s something unhinged in his gaze, like he’s already halfway gone, teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to free-fall into oblivion. And you know you should stop this. You should pull yourself back from the precipice before you both crash and burn. But you don’t. You can’t.

Why do you keep doing this to yourself? The question rings in your mind, but there’s no answer, only the cold, empty silence that fills the space between each stolen moment. You hate yourself for coming back, for letting him take you apart like this, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the shell of who you used to be.

Brock’s lips move against your ear, his voice rough and low. “You thinking about her again?” His words are slurred, the drugs pulling him under, but there’s something sharp beneath his tone. Accusation? Jealousy? You can’t tell.

You open your eyes, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the paint peeling in jagged strips like the pieces of your sanity. “No,” you lie, the word tasting bitter on your tongue. You’re thinking about everything, about all of it—about how you’re drowning, how you’ve been sinking for so long that you don’t even remember what it feels like to breathe.

He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands hesitate for just a second too long. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push, because he knows you’ll leave if he does. And he can’t let you go. Not yet.

Not ever, your mind whispers, but you shove the thought aside. You don’t want to believe that, don’t want to admit that you’re just as trapped as he is. Maybe more.

You pull his face down to yours, kissing him hard, letting your teeth scrape his bottom lip. You taste the blood, metallic and warm, and something feral stirs inside you. It’s easier like this—when it’s raw, when it’s violent, when it feels like the world is about to shatter beneath you.

Because maybe it already has.

“Yesterday,” you whisper against his lips, barely audible, your breath shaky. “They called me a homewrecker. Chased me down the street like I was some fucking criminal.”

Brock stills, his body tensing above you. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed over from the high, but there’s a flicker of something—panic, guilt, maybe even anger. You can’t tell anymore. “Don’t listen to them,” he mutters, his voice strained. “They don’t know anything. You know how this works.”

Brock’s words echo in your head, but they’re hollow—empty promises that have no weight anymore. You know how this works. He says it like it’s all so simple, like the lines between right and wrong haven’t been obliterated long ago. But you’re not sure you know anything anymore, not really.

You can feel his body start to relax, sinking back into the rhythm of his need, but your mind is spiraling, caught in the undertow of all the unspoken things between you. The darkness that swirls in your chest, that ugly cocktail of shame and desire, wraps tighter around your throat. Your heart pounds, louder, faster, in time with the fading remnants of the high.

Do you even know who you are anymore?

You shift beneath him, the sheets tangling around your legs like shackles, keeping you tethered to this bed, this man. You wonder if he’s right—if it’s easier to believe the lie. Maybe it’s better to let yourself get lost in this fucked-up dance, where the highs and the lows blur together, indistinguishable from each other. The way he touches you—it’s as toxic as the drugs you deal. But it doesn’t stop you from craving it. Craving him.

Brock’s fingers dig into your hips, possessive, leaving marks that will bruise tomorrow. You’ll see them in the mirror, like battle scars, a reminder of everything you shouldn’t be, everything you’ve let yourself become. His breath is hot against your skin, and when he leans in, biting at your shoulder, a low moan escapes you, involuntary, betraying the war raging in your chest. You hate yourself for how badly you want him, how you keep coming back for more, even when you know it’s killing you.

He’s married.

The thought slams into you like a truck, a blunt reminder of the life you’re entangled in, a life that isn’t yours. The life you’ve allowed yourself to wreck, even if you want to pretend otherwise. Your fingers thread through his hair, yanking him closer, pulling him deeper into you, because if you’re going to fall apart, you might as well burn together.

"Does she touch you like this?" you murmur, your voice low, laced with venom. You don’t know why you ask—it’s masochistic, twisted, but you can’t stop the words from spilling out. The guilt is eating you alive, tearing you apart piece by piece, but somehow, you’re still here, letting him unravel you all over again.

Brock freezes for a split second, his grip faltering. His breath hitches, and for the briefest moment, you think you’ve struck something raw, something real beneath the surface. But then his hand comes up to wrap around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you—he’s the one in control. Always.

"You want to play that game?" he growls, his voice rough, tinged with amusement, like he’s daring you to push him. "I told you, it’s not like that. You’re the only one I come to for this. I’m batshit crazy about you, baby."

For this. The words sting, more than you care to admit. This—this twisted, toxic mess between you—is all you’ll ever be to him. A distraction. A hit of adrenaline when his real life, his real world, becomes too much.

You’re about to speak again when the sound of sirens cuts through the stillness of the night, sharp and sudden. They’re close—too close. Your body tenses, every nerve firing as the blaring wail echoes through the thin walls of the motel. Brock stiffens, his head snapping up, eyes wide, pupils still blown from the coke, but now filled with something else—panic.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, pulling away from you, his hands falling to his sides as he stares at the door like it’s about to burst open. The sirens grow louder, the flashing red and blue lights casting eerie shadows across the walls. For a split second, you both freeze, the weight of the situation crashing down like a tidal wave.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the rush of adrenaline hitting you like a drug of its own. The fear seeps into your veins, icy and unrelenting. You glance at Brock, waiting for him to say something, to do something, but he’s just as frozen as you are, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“What the hell’s going on?” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

“I don’t know,” Brock breathes, running a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands as if that’ll help him think clearer. But you both know the answer. You’re dealing drugs in a shitty motel room with a married man, a famous man. This is a disaster waiting to happen, and it might have just caught up with you.

The sirens wail outside, and you can hear the faint murmur of voices, the thud of footsteps on the pavement. They’re close. Too fucking close.

“We have to go,” you whisper, but even as the words leave your lips, you know it’s too late. You’re trapped here, in this room, with him.

Brock looks at you, his eyes wild, his expression unreadable. But then something shifts in his face—a crack in the mask he’s been wearing for so long. He sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks small. Vulnerable. Human.

“They’re going to find us,” he whispers, voice hollow. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t let them find us.”

You take a step toward him, every instinct in your body screaming at you to run, to leave, to save yourself. But you don’t. Because it’s fucking Brock Boeser. And for reasons you can’t even explain to yourself, you can’t walk away from him. Not now. Not ever.

“Brock,” you say softly, sitting down next to him, your hand resting on his arm. He’s trembling. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

He doesn’t look at you at first, his shoulders hunched, his breathing ragged. The sirens are fading now, but the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he lifts his head, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed.

“I lied,” he whispers, the words barely more than a breath. “About her. About everything.”

The confession hits you like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from your lungs. Your heart stutters in your chest, a sick, twisting sensation coiling in your stomach. You’ve always known, deep down, that something wasn’t right. But hearing it—hearing him say it out loud—it makes everything so much worse.

“What do you mean?” The question comes out before you can stop it, your voice shaking. You don’t want to know. Not really. But you need to hear it.

Brock swallows hard, his jaw clenching, his hands fisting in his lap. “She doesn’t know,” he says, his voice raw, broken. “We don’t have an understanding. There’s no open relationship. I’m a fucking liar.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling, trying to process the weight of his words. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air too thick, too heavy. Everything inside you is screaming to get out, to run as far and as fast as you can from this nightmare you’ve found yourself in.

You’re a homewrecker.

The words echo in your head, louder now, sharper, cutting through the thin layer of denial you’ve been clinging to. All this time, you’ve told yourself it wasn’t your fault, that Brock’s marriage was just a façade, something to keep the media at bay. But it was a lie. A fucking lie.

And honestly? You care too much.

Because maybe, he’s not the only one that’s addicted.

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