#malkin!reader

"милый," (honey) Geno pauses in your doorway, "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

You tug the hoodie over your head, shaking your hair free as you turn toward your dad. "Positive," you say, grinning in a way that feels just a little too practiced. "You guys go celebrate. I’ll survive one day without hockey talk."

Geno tilts his head, eyes narrowing—not suspicious, just assessing, like he’s trying to read your expression like a play unfolding on ice. You hold your breath. Then he shrugs, tossing his keys in the air and catching them effortlessly. "Okay. Nikita’s in the car," he says, nodding toward the window where headlights glow against the driveway. "Text if you change your mind."

It’s stupid, how giddy you feel. Seventeen days isn’t even that long, not really, but the stretch of them without Ben—without his stupid jokes, the way he always steals your fries, the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours in the stands—felt like forever. You’d skipped the roadie this time, flown back to Russia with your mom instead, and the distance had twisted something inside you tight and aching. Magnitogorsk was home, but it wasn’t home, not without him there to make you laugh until your ribs hurt.

You’re halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flips. You practically skid the rest of the way, catching yourself on the banister at the last second, heart hammering. The second you wrench the door open, Ben’s there, grinning like he’s just scored the game-winning goal, and before you can even say hello, his hands are on your waist, lifting you clean off your feet. "Missed you," you mutter, and then you're kissing him, all teeth and impatience. He tastes like mint gum and the faint tang of Gatorade, and his hands slide under your shirt like they belong there.

The couch is closer than your room, and you barely make it that far anyway. Ben pulls you down with him, one arm hooked around your waist as you half-stumble onto the cushions.

His hands are everywhere at once—tangled in your hair, skimming down your ribs, gripping your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through his fingertips. You arch into him, breathing him in, the familiar scent of his stupidly expensive cologne mixed with sweat and the faintest hint of airplane air. It’s reckless, the way you kiss him, all hunger and no patience, like you’re trying to make up for seventeen days of absence in a single touch. "You're so pretty, Ben," you say, tangling one of your hands in his hair. "I love seeing you like this," Ben laughs against your mouth, low and breathless, and you bite his lower lip just to hear the hitch in his breathing. He groans, and drops his face into your neck, panting. "I missed you so much," he whispers.

The couch creaks under your combined weight as you twist, knee pressing into the cushions beside his thigh, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt. "I missed you too."

Ben’s fingers skate up your spine, leaving sparks in their wake, and you shiver even as you push closer, needing the heat of him, the solid reality of his body after two weeks of phone calls and grainy FaceTime sessions. His other hand slides under your hoodie, palm warm and rough against your stomach, and you gasp into his mouth.

The hem of his hoodie had ridden up just enough for your fingers to find the warm strip of skin above his waistband, and you dragged your nails lightly across it just to hear him curse under his breath. He arched into the touch, his hips lifting instinctively—which was how you ended up straddling him properly, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. His hands slid up your back, dragging your shirt with them, and you let him, leaning down to mouth at the spot just below his ear where you knew he’d shiver.

Ben’s laugh hitched when you sucked hard enough to leave a mark, his fingers tightening in your hair. You grinned against his skin, moving lower—the collar of his hoodie would hide this one, his jersey the next.

The thought of settling your self on his dick is suddenly the only thing you can think about. It's the perfect time: the house is empty, your dad is gone, and Ben is looking up at you with his pupils blown wide.

“We don’t have to—” Ben starts, voice rough, but you cut him off with another grind of your hips, the friction sending sparks up your spine. He groans, head thudding back against the couch, and you can feel him hard beneath you, the outline of him pressing insistently against your thigh. “Ahh,” he sighs, hands flexing on your waist like he’s torn between pulling you closer and pushing you away.

You cut him off with a roll of your hips, grinding down against the hard line of his cock, and the choked noise he makes goes straight to your core. "Ben please," you whine, shameless, dragging your teeth over his lower lip. "I need you so bad, I’ve been thinking about this for so long—"

Ben's fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he arches up against you, the friction making your head spin. You can feel the heat of him through your underwear, the way his breath comes ragged when you rock against him again. "Yeah?" he rasps, and his voice is wrecked already, rough like he's been yelling all night instead of whispering against your skin. "What'd you think about?"

You don't hear it—not the distant rumble of the garage door rolling open, not the dull thud of it closing again downstairs.

The car was parked just slightly too far forward, its bumper edging past the property line. Geno wouldn’t have noticed if Nikita hadn’t started whining about his missing sweater the second they hit the highway. Geno caught himself glancing at the unfamiliar vehicle as he pulled into the driveway. Pennsylvania plates, clean but not new.

Weird, but not unheard of.

Probably Mrs. Kowalski’s grandson visiting again, always forgetting which house was hers. He made a mental note to ask you if you’d seen anyone around—not that it mattered, really.

Looks like Ben's car, he thought to himself.

The garage door groaned open, and Geno killed the engine, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Might as well check on you one last time before heading back out.

Maybe if he popped in one more time, flashed that stupid please smile that always made you cave when you were twelve—maybe you'd grab your jacket and come along.

Tell her we miss her, eh? Sid had said it on the plane so casually, but Geno knew the way the guys lit up when you showed up at practice, how even the grizzled veterans softened when you teased them about their old-man skating.

The creak of the front door opening doesn’t register. Neither does the heavy tread of boots in the hallway. Ben’s hands are under your shirt, his palm skating up your ribs, and you’re so busy gasping into his mouth that you don’t even notice the shadow in the doorway until—

“Uh,” your dad says from the doorway, voice dry as toast. Out of all the things Geno expected to see when he walked into the living room, Ben Kindel eating his daughter's face was not one of them.

"Dad!" You fly off Ben in an instant, scuttling to the other end of the couch.

Geno’s gaze flickers between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match—Ben, you, Ben again—his expression unreadable except for the slight twitch of his left eyebrow, the one that always quirks up when he’s trying not to laugh. The silence stretches, thick enough to choke on, and you press your palms harder into your cheeks like maybe, if you push hard enough, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.

When you chance a look at Ben, his face is redder than a tomato, his hands clamped awkwardly over his lap like he’s trying to shield the evidence of what you’d been about to do. You sigh, grabbing the nearest throw pillow—some ugly plaid thing your mom bought last Christmas—and shove it at him. Ben practically lunges for it, pressing it over his lap with a gulp.

"So... Nikita forgot his sweater. Is chilly, Sid says."

You know exactly which sweater Nikita wants. "The grey one?" you ask, voice pitched high with forced casualness.

Geno blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s waiting for the punchline of a joke he doesn’t quite get. "Da," he says finally, dragging the word out.

"It's um... it's on the kitchen table."

His eyes flick to Ben, then back to you, and you swear his mouth twitches. "Is on kitchen table?"

You nod so fast your neck cracks. "Yeah. Yeah, it’s—uh. Right there. Next to the fruit bowl."

You and Ben had had lots of discussions on when you were going to tell your dad. More importantly, how. This was definitely not what you were expecting.

Geno disappears into the kitchen, his footsteps deliberately loud like he’s giving you both a chance to exhale. You hear the rustle of fabric, the scrape of a chair against tile, and then—silence. Too long. Your fingers twist in Ben’s sleeve before he laces them through yours, squeezing once. His thumb traces the ridge of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way he does when you’re bouncing your knee during away games and trying not to scream at the refs through the TV.

Then your dad reappears, hoodie dangling from one hand, and perches on the armchair across from you like he’s settling in for an interview. The plaid pillow creaks under Ben’s death grip. You shift half an inch closer to him without thinking, and Ben’s hand flexes around yours, warm and steady. Your other hand finds his, twisting one of his silver rings—the thick one with the knotted design he never takes off—around and around his finger. The metal clicks softly each time it completes a rotation.

Geno’s eyes drop to your joined hands. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. “So,” he says, draping the hoodie over his knee.

"Dad… I know that this is… um… shocking, but… I don't want you to be mad."

"Mad?"

"Yeah. This isn't just… we're not just hooking up— I mean, we haven't even— no, you don't need to know that." You look at Ben for help, and he squeezes your hand. "We've been together for a while now, and we… we love each other."

Silence.

"Da? This true?"

"Yes, sir," Ben says, voice cracking on the second word. His fingers tighten around yours. He looks terrified—like he's facing down a breakaway in overtime, not your dad perched on an armchair with Nikita's forgotten hoodie draped over one knee.

Geno's laugh fills the room, sudden and bright like sunlight hitting ice. He shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way you’ve seen a thousand times after a bad joke at a team dinner. "Ben," he says, waving a hand like he’s swatting away the tension. "No 'sir.' Still just Geno." His gaze flicks to you, lingering on the way your fingers are tangled with Ben’s, and something softens in his expression—the same look he gets when Nikita falls asleep mid-sentence during movie nights.

You feel Ben exhale beside you, his shoulders dropping half an inch. His thumb starts moving again, tracing idle circles over your knuckles like he’s reassuring himself you’re still there. Geno watches the motion for a beat before shrugging, tossing Nikita’s hoodie over one shoulder. "We talk later," he says, nodding toward the window where the headlights still glow against the driveway. "Nikita is waiting."

You expect him to leave then—just turn and walk out like none of this happened—but instead, he steps forward and cups your face in one big hand, calloused from years of gripping a stick. The kiss he presses to your forehead is familiar, the same one he’s given you since you were small enough to fit in the crook of his arm during intermission interviews. "Happy for you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it. Then he’s turning to Ben, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway. "Don’t break couch," he adds, jerking his chin toward the now-suspiciously-creased cushions. "Very expensive."

Ben’s ears go pink. "No sir," he croaks, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing because his voice hasn’t sounded that strangled since he tried to eat a whole jalapeño on a dare last season. Geno just grins, wide and knowing, before heading for the door.

The second it clicks shut, Ben collapses backward onto the couch, dragging you down with him. "Oh my god," he groans, flinging an arm over his face. "I think I aged ten years."

"Dilf."

You hear Nikita’s delighted shout before the door even opens, followed by the thunder of socked feet on hardwood. "Ben!" he yells, launching himself at Ben’s legs like a hyperactive golden retriever.

Ben stumbles back a step, laughing as he ruffles Nikita’s hair. "Hey, bud—"

"You haven’t been here in forever," Nikita accuses, clinging to Ben’s arm like he’s worried he’ll disappear again. "We were supposed to play NHL 24 last week!"

You bite your lip to keep from grinning—Nikita’s pout is legendary, all big eyes and trembling chin, perfected through years of wheedling extra dessert from your dad. Ben, predictably, folds like a cheap lawn chair. "Aw, Kita.

Nikita’s grip on Ben’s wrist tightens as he tugs him toward the living room, chattering about the new goalie stats he’s memorized. You watch from the doorway, arms crossed, tapping your foot against the hardwood. "Nik," you say, voice firm, "Ben’s here to see me."

Nikita spins around, sticking his tongue out—a reflex from when he was five and thought it was the ultimate insult. "No," he says, like it’s that simple, like he hasn’t been stealing your boyfriend for two months straight ever since the secret was out. "He’s my friend too." He punctuates this by dragging Ben down onto the couch beside him, flipping open the Xbox controller like he’s claiming territory.

Ben shoots you an apologetic grin over Nikita’s head, but you’re done playing nice. Before, when you were sneaking around, you had to let it slide—every stolen moment with Ben was a risk, so you bit your tongue every time Nikita commandeered him for video games or impromptu street hockey sessions. But now? You invited Ben over specifically to make out on your bed until your lips were numb, not to watch Nikita destroy him in NHL for the fourteenth time this month.

"Dad!" you call, loud enough that your voice carries down the hall. "DAD!"

The word barely leaves your lips before Nikita’s controller clatters to the coffee table. “Y/N! Not fair!” he whines, scrambling to his feet just as Geno’s heavy footsteps echo from the kitchen. “You always do this!”

Geno leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised like he’s watching a particularly entertaining power play.

"Daddy, she's being selfish!"

"No I'm not!"

"You are," Nikita insists, jabbing a finger in your direction while the other hand grips Ben’s sleeve like a lifeline. "You hog him all the time now!"

You scoff, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed. "I do not."

"Do too." Nikita’s voice pitches higher, petulant, and you don’t even dignify it with a response—just roll your eyes and stride across the living room, glaring your brother as you grab Ben’s wrist.

Ben barely has time to yelp before you're dragging him up off the couch, Nikita's indignant screech ringing in your ears as you crash your mouth against Ben's. His lips part in surprise—warm and familiar and tasting faintly of the cherry soda he'd been sipping earlier—and you swallow his startled laugh, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt while the other cups the back of his neck.

Behind you, Nikita makes a sound like a stepped-on cat. "Ew! Gross!"

Ben's hands hover awkwardly at your waist like he's torn between pulling you closer and pushing you away for propriety's sake, but you nip at his lower lip, and that decides it—his arms band around you, pulling you flush against him as he kisses back properly, all heat and hunger and the faintest hint of desperation.

Geno clears his throat from the doorway.

You don't stop.

Ben's hands tighten on your waist as you pull back just enough to breathe, his lips still parted and pink from kissing. He's grinning up at you, dazed and utterly surrendered, when his eyes flicker past your shoulder—then widen comically. "Uh," he croaks, pointing like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You don't even turn around. Instead, you press one last quick kiss to the corner of Ben's mouth—just to hear Nikita's dramatic retching noise—before pivoting to glare at your brother. He's sprawled upside down on the couch, arms crossed over his chest like a petulant toddler mid-tantrum.

"Nikki," you say, voice dripping exaggerated patience as you duck down to his level, "I love you—I really do—but if you don't give me five minutes alone with my boyfriend, I’m telling Dad you stole his Stanley Cup ring again to show your friends."

Nikita’s eyes widen comically, his mouth dropping open in betrayal. "You wouldn't."

You arch an eyebrow.

Nikita glares between the two of you, arms crossed so tight he might as well be hugging himself. "Fine," he huffs, flopping backward onto the couch with enough force to send a throw pillow tumbling to the floor. "But only because I’m nice."

You press a quick, smacking kiss to Nikita’s forehead—he scrubs at it immediately with a theatrical grimace—then grab Ben’s wrist, towing him toward the stairs before your brother can mount another protest. Ben stumbles after you, his fingers twining with yours as you dart past the kitchen, where Geno’s leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal in one hand.

You catch the exact moment your dad clocks the two of you—Ben’s rumpled shirt, your flushed cheeks—and braces for something, but Geno just lifts his spoon in salute, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he winks. “Door open,” he calls after you, voice thick with amusement.

Ben trips on the third step, his free hand catching the banister just in time.

“Shhh,” you laugh, shoving him through your bedroom door the second you reach it. The latch clicks behind you, and Ben’s back hits the wood before you can even turn around, his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs against your jaw, nipping at the skin there. “Better make ‘em count.”

(*smut/suggestive) (!fluff) (^smau) (&angst)

2022

2023

2024

2025 kissing friends (when your dad makes you bring Nikita to a secret date with ben, your plans to properly say goodbye to your boyfriend are entirely hijacked). -> pt 2 -> pt 3*

"You really haven’t seen IT yet?" Ben asked, pausing mid-chip-crunch to stare at you like you’d just admitted you didn’t know what hockey was. His eyebrows—dark and unfairly perfect—were practically in his hairline. You shrugged, nudging his knee with yours where they were tangled together under the blanket. The couch was old, the kind that swallowed you whole if you sat wrong, but right now it felt like the only place in the world.

The TV flickered with the opening credits, casting blue shadows across Ben’s face. He’d insisted on the original 1990 version, not the remake, because apparently Tim Curry’s Pennywise was "art," and you’d rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Now, though, with the eerie carnival music swelling, you regretted not putting up more of a fight. A floorboard creaked upstairs—Nikki’s room—and you exhaled, relieved he’d listened about not joining.

Ben’s thumb traced idle circles on your shoulder, his other hand busy with the chip bag. "Scared?" he murmured, grinning when you elbowed him. "I’ll protect you," he added, like it was a joke, but his voice dropped low enough that your stomach did something stupid.

The clown’s laughter on screen was tinny through the TV speakers, but it still made your skin prickle—not enough to flinch, just enough to press back into Ben’s chest, his heartbeat steady against your spine. His hands, warm and rough from years of stick grip, slid under your hoodie, fingertips skating over the dip of your waist.

You like the way Ben's hands slip under your hoodie—not hesitant, but not greedy either, like he's savoring the warm skin beneath his palms more than he's chasing anything else. His lips press against the side of your neck, right where your pulse jumps under his mouth, and you shiver, tipping your head to give him more room. The movie’s still playing, Pennywise’s laughter sharp and distant, but all you can focus on is the warmth of Ben's tongue against your throat and the way his fingers curl into the fabric of your t-shirt.