introducing . . . connor bedard x sneakylink!reader
how connor and sneakylink!reader first met [NSFW +18]
IT BEGAN ON a friday night, peak summertime, mid july, hot heat still hovering in the late afternoon. the bar doors were open in attempt to help the air conditioning out, the air sticky with empty glasses scattering the tabletops with but a shot of water from the melted ice cubes. there was a steady hum of noise, nothing too loud, and the music played at a nice level that didn’t mean you had to shout over it to hear your buddies.
downtown chicago was lively enough for the summer, bars filled with college students off on break, tourists visiting the city or locals meeting up in groups after work to kick start their weekend.
connor was just back from cabo, two weeks spent in the sun with some of his childhood friends and teammates, he was well and truly relaxed, skin clear and bronzed to prove it - and his break still wasn’t over. he’d already been and visited family back home, gone on vacation, and was now back in chicago, ready to lock in with training ahead of his second year in the NHL. he’d had a good run his first year; satisfied enough, considering he’d suffered an injury that cost him 14 games, he still successfully nabbed the rookie of the year award and allowed the high it came with. he was never one for bragging, for taking all the credit, but his friends liked to remind him of when and where it was acceptable to flex his accomplishments, like now — in bars where the people of chicago clearly recognised and already adored the new fresh face of the franchise — it was why he hadn’t been kicked out yet.
the bar he was about to walk into wasn’t the most popular bar, but a hidden gem: the kind that was fit for old men regulars or the odd group of youngsters that crowded the pool table, the decor stuck in the 1980s. he’d been in it before, and the hockeyheads always wanted to buy him a drink - and he was always too shy to argue with them.
but today was his birthday, and he was far from his usual shy state, with the security of his friends and small fuel of alcohol, he was contently confident in himself, like, he was how he usually was amongst his close circle, and not the robot the media portrayed, who’s whole existence was based around hockey.
you had been there a while, more content with this place after completing a small bar crawl around the city, not chancing your luck with the massive nightclubs - the kind of places you knew your fake IDs didn’t stand a chance. it was fine though, any bar you’d been in had been more than happy to serve your group of friends, delighted with the pretty faces livening up the place.
this bar was no different. the barmen were glad to hear the giggles and clicky heels scrambling in, allowing you to throw your fur coats and dressy jackets over your desired table in claim.
your friends had finally managed to agree on a date to meet up after being dispersed into different colleges across the states, chicago being the pick of the lot thanks to the colour wheel you found online, but even if it hadn’t landed on your city, your were convinced you’d managed to guilt trip the girls into coming, adamant your city was the best pick of the lot.
you were only students, none of you had the money to spend on frequent visits, which was why you’d all saved up for a week’s stay, only needing to pay for flights as you offered your apartment for accommodation. it was two bedroom, but you made it work for the six of you.
it was summer break and you’d planned to go out to celebrate the freedom of college. your majors were hard, time-consuming and overalll just draining at times, so, you were all pretty overdue letting your hair down and letting loose.
finance was very demanding. not in a dramatic way, just constant: lectures, problem sets, group work, and spreadsheets that followed you home every night. it wasn’t the kind of course you could half-do, if you didn’t keep up, it piled on fast. building models, analysing numbers, figuring out how money moves and grows - it’s useful, especially with what your dad does, but it takes a lot of time. most of your time is sat behind a screen, working through case studies, staring at spreadsheets, trying to make numbers make sense. it trained your brain to think ahead, to break things down. you knew it would pay off some day, that you’d set yourself up with a good career with this degree whether you worked for your dad or not, but right now, it didn’t leave much room for anything else. your weeks fill up fast, and the time that’s usually meant to be spent socialising, partying, catching up with friends or making new ones - usually turns into catching up on notes or staying on top of deadlines instead. people made their friends early on first in the first few weeks, and you sort of missed that window without meaning to.
it didn’t help that majority of your classes were still pretty male dominant. a lot of loud voices, a lot of confidence, people trying to prove something - trying to follow their daddy’s footsteps (a bit like yourself). you maybe had one or two new friends, but if they weren’t in class, they were working, trying to fund student life, leaving you the option of either spending your free time alone or hang out with some misogynistic finance bros.
so some girl time was very much needed this week.
your friendgroup were tight knit, supportive, and very loving of each other. when you were together, it was always the funnest of times. you all bounced of each other effortlessly, and didn’t care who was watching when out in a group.
they always watched anyway. you were a drop-dead gorgeous group of girls. your fake IDs hardly left your purses - it was almost illegal to throw a group of girls out who looked like you lot.
the rest of the place would probably boycott the bar if they kicked you out.
you knew you were drunk. not black-out drunk, but the perfect extent you wish to be – where everything’s funny, when it feels like it’s just you and your friends, when the songs are always good and you’re not afraid to act totally carefree. you’re singing loud, dancing in all the free space, unmeaningly putting on a performance for the whole bar with your girlfriends - and no-one is complaining.
connor had walked in with his friends, slowly, almost bracing himself for what he was about to be met with, but the music was perfectly loud, the air warm and breezy, the space open and inviting. it was the kind of bar that hadn’t changed in decades; warm amber light hung low from old fixtures, softening everything: faces, corners, time itself. the wooden floors were scuffed and soft with age, creaking under movement, tacky in places where drinks had soaked in over time. an eighties song blasted through the room, the kind everyone knew - singing, shouting, dancing in their seats. a couple of girls had climbed onto tables, arms linked, belting the lyrics like it was their stage.
the bartender didn’t even flinch, he just leaned back against the shelves, a towel on his shoulder, watching them with a lazy grin like this was routine - like this was what the place was for.
nothing about it felt strict. no one was checking, no one was watching too closely - it was the kind of place where you could get away with things just because no harm was being done. if anything, it made the place warmer. comfortable.
connor proceeded in his steps, pulling his cap down lower, not wanting to disrupt the energy in any way, just blend with it. he politely smiled at those who glanced his way, not wanting to take away from the feel of the room as he made his way to the counter, looking behind him to see if his friends were following.
and then he did a double take, something catching his eye, head flinching back on instinct.
you, up on the bar, all smiles and body movement, moving like it was only you in the room.
the song was building, that recognisable climb in the chorus, the whole bar leaning into it like they knew exactly what was coming - but his eyes were locked on the source of energy in the room.
he watched you tip your head back with the music, hair spilling loose and wild down your back, mirroring your girlfriend opposite you, both caught in the same rhythm like you’d done this a million times before to take me home tonight.
it was the kind of moment that didn’t feel real. too perfectly timed, too cinematic.
his blue eyes tracked every bit of it without permission, trying to soak up as much as possible.
the way you leaned forward into your friend like you were singing to her, brows pulled slightly together with mock intensity, like the words actually meant something.
they fall to your legs, and the way they fold as you slump down on your knees, head still thrusting your hair around the space with the belting of your performance. your moves aren’t practiced, they’re instinctive. easy.
connor feels a twitch in his stomach when you start crawling across the bar with a loose, unbothered grace, there’s something almost feline to it. he watches you move along the bar countertop, one hand flat against the wood, shoulders rolling with the rhythm, back arching when you sit up again. the biggest thing is that you’re not even thinking about it, about what you’re doing, how you look — not for anybody’s attention.
which is exactly why he can’t stop looking.
connor doesn’t miss a thing. he starts picking up small details he’s never noticed in a person before - like the faint ridges of your teeth when you drop your jaw to sing; not polished, not society’s standard of perfect – but yours. he sees the small crease between your brows, the length of your lashes when you shoot your strong gaze to your friend, and the split second you smirk at the dirty lyric you sing whilst in the position you were in: on your knees, shins flat to the surface, spread and hovering.
your eyes meet for a second, and he feels something come awake in him.
harsh.
immediate.
irreversible.
his focus locks. his body goes alert in a way he’s never really felt before, like something’s woken up under his skin. it’s impossible to ignore.
his brows draw in slightly, eyes fixed, narrowing like he’s already decided he’s not looking away - like it’s his right to stare. it’s followed by a thudding in his head telling him to move, to go closer, to get there.
like a want, but rougher.
but even through this sudden, instinctive pull, there’s still a flicker of sense sitting somewhere in him, because as much as his body urges for closeness, he can see you clearly for what you are: bright, lively, shameless and completely unfiltered. you’re completely out of his league.
still, he watches anyway. he scans you up and down as you dismount from the bar, slowly chewing the mint gum in his mouth. he tries to shift his focus elsewhere, but there’s stubbornness involved now. he forces his attention to the wall of different bottles, thinking about what he wants to drink. he tucks some hair behind his ears. scratches his eyebrow hairs. adjusts his cap. small things. restless things. like he’s trying to shake it off without making it obvious.
he tells himself it’s nothing.
it’s the atmosphere of the place. the alcohol in his underage system, fucking with his head and hormones.
it’s the music, the lights, the smell of girls — the sight of girls — him being a guy, reacting like a guy.
it’s him just being a horny loser.
because that’s easier to sit with.
because the alternative that it’s you, specifically feels like something he shouldn’t even be entertaining.
you wouldn’t even look at him.
you’re probably in a fucking relationship like everyone else his age.
although, that one doesn’t threaten him like it probably should.
you join the rest of the girls at the table, stumbling slightly in your heel as you get used to the floor again, to walking normally. they laugh and cheer at you, hyping you up as you wave them off with a smile. you reach for your bag and lift out your purse, downing the remainder of your now warm drink. “is it my round?”
“yes ma’am.”
“yeah girl.”
“wait y/n i’ll come with you.” bailey, one of your best friends, finishes off her glass and joins you, her movements clumsy as she trips on a slightly raised floorboard which sends you both into a fit of laughter. “did you see those guys that came in?”
“yeah,” you beam, the two of you sharing the look. you saw the youthful styles and troublesome smiles that told you the were definitely around your age bracket, but better yet, just looked like your type. bailey had a boyfriend, fit to her preference of a cowboy she’d met while studying in nashville, and she was desperate for you to meet somebody with boyish charm to snatch you up.
she wanted you to get a boyfriend so bad, or even laid. she was your number 1 wingwoman either way, and always on the lookout for your type. “i think there was one in a cap that looked kinda your type . .” she raised her head to try and scan the room.
“there are about 10 people in here who have a cap on, bails,” you laugh, watching her tipsy eyes flicker around the room. you’d be surprised if she could see her hand in front of her right now, the ultimate lightweight.
the place has filled since you first arrived, picking up on the increase in bodies as you slightly push yourself through to the bar. you lean on the counter, opening your purse and fish for change. you realise how drunk you are when trying to scrape loose change just to get rid of it, feeling like it’s the hardest task in the world right now. “i think we should get singles,” you say.
when bailey doesn’t answer, you second-guess yourself, snickering comically, “ok, stick to doubles.”
when she doesn’t laugh, you put your hand on her arm next to you, turning your head from your purse but still looking into it and ask her, “bailey, should i get us doubles?”
except, the feel of her arm is really fucking solid.
and big.
you have to open your hand more to wrap it around her bicep — except it’s not her bicep — you know it’s not her bicep, and your face twists in confusion as you snap your head to the arm your holding onto, knowing it’s not bailey’s - unless she’s magically grown some serious fucking girth to her arms.
your eyes snap to the culprit you’re feeling up, and you’re met with the craziest set of blue eyes that aren’t hers - bright, steady, and quietly impossible to look away from.
he’s smiling - not cocky, not smug - just friendly - like he’s telepathically reassuring you it’s ok that you’re lowkey feeling him up.
your terrorised face shifts as your brows raise, and you let go of his arm, eyes lighting up with sorrow, “oh, i’m so sorry! i thought you were my friend?” the confusion sets in again as you glance around for bailey, wondering at what point she disappeared. you spot her a couple feet away, completely endorsed in conversation with a group of total randomers triple her age.
“it’s cool,” the guy smiles, his voice deeper than you imagined. it almost makes your brain short-circuit.
you’re pretty sure you made eye-contact with him for a split second you were on top the bar. he wears a dark button, short-sleeved shirt, fashionably oversized, they come to his elbows.
the first thing you notice is his arms. forearms specifically, and how thick they are.
he’s broad all over. arms, hands, neck. you realise the oversized decision is to accommodate his size, not fashionably. solid in a way that feels unintentional, like the strength’s just there - quiet, built in, not something he ever has to show off. it’s there whether he proves it or not.
he wears a heavy, chain necklace.
bracelet to match.
his skin is clear, jawline sharp, nose perfectly proportioned with his face. he has good colour from the sun, and even his lips catch you off guard - full and soft-looking, just a little too perfect to ignore for a guy.
he knows you’re checking him out.
you know he knows your checking him out.
you don’t care.
he grabs his drink and turns to face you again, and you just look at him some more.
yeah. he’s a piece of you.
“y’come here often?” he makes it sound smooth and casual as he takes a sip of his drink, looking at you from over the glass.
you immediately assume he’s canadian from the twinge in accent, his voice warmly deep, and smooth like honey.
it does something to your bones. “not really. i live in the area but i don’t drink often. kind of a one off. my friends are in town.” you roughly explain, not taking your eyes from his, or his mouth, flickering between the two.
“oh nice. are you from chicago?”
“no, i’m from montreal, actually.”
you see him perk up, like the conversation got really interesting all of a sudden. it almost makes you laugh. “really?”
“yeah.” you do laugh, his concentration making you break with the furrow of his brows. it’s like he can’t comprehend you didn’t come from anywhere else other than somewhere mystical. “you?”
“i—same. i mean . . vancouver.”
“yeah?”
“yeah,” he smiles, lips lifting at one side of his mouth. it sends tingles to your spine.
you like the way he’s looking at you.
“why are you in chicago?” you ask, not wanting the conversation to end.
“uh, work. you?”
“college.”
“what college do you go to?” his brows furrow. he’s really facially expressive.
“booth?”
connor’s eyes widen the same time his brows narrow. he’s familiar, and he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. “the heck are you studying?”
“finance?” you inform, smiling at his bewilderment. he continues with the taken aback reaction, before shaking his head in disbelief, then checks you out, up and down. “smart cookie.”
you raise your shoulder, trying to ignore the soft simmering heat building inside you.
“i didn’t ask you your name?”
“y/n.”
“connor.” he sticks his hand out, and you take it, eyes fighting the urge to bulge at the sight of them.
they’re big—properly big.
his hand swallows yours whole, fingers long, knuckles solid, the grip firm without trying. there’s weight to it, roughness too, a quiet strength in the way his fingers close around yours. solid, steady, unmistakably masculine. it throws you more than you expect, the kind of detail your brain lingers on a second too long.
the eye-contact after watching his hand take yours is so terrifyingly thick, you could almost choke on the attraction that’s so embarrassingly present between you.
part of you swears there’s something about him that’s recognisable. the way his hair peaks out of his hat, the way he smiles. your head racks for an answer but you’re too out of your regular mindframe you know you’re at a loss, all that matters is that’s he’s fucking gorgeous and you like having his attention.
talking to you is easy. you’re so lively. so experienced of life with stories to tell and input to give. you haven’t looked at anyone else the whole time he’s been with you. caught in the rhythm of his words, taking them in a little too willingly, you’re oblivious to everything else, fully engrossed in the words leaving his mouth, greedy of the attention he’s giving.
twenty minutes pass, then another. he’s leaning into the bar, you perched on the stool between a couple of bottles, the space between you feeling smaller than it should.
you’re oblivious to anything else going on in the bar.
despite talking so long and openly, you’ve said a lot but revealing so little. you haven’t really gave away that much detail about your lives at all. it’s been a smooth establishing, getting to know each other bit by bit, exchanging stories of school in quebec, the shared childhood experiences every canadian kid endures, laughing over personal struggles in becoming a chicago resident and the new experience of living on your own. it’s too easy talking to him, as if you weren’t just total strangers an hour ago.
“—right? like . . i don’t think that’s a normal thing to do here,” you almost whisper.
“yeah, i didn’t think it was a normal thing to do either but . . who am i to judge. everybody has weird quirks, right?” his brow twitches as he says it, and it almost gives you butterflies.
the weird tension still sits between you. poignant as ever. facing him, having a conversation for the last hour has been both idyllic and torture at the same time.
connor gives you that unfamiliar thrill when you first meet someone and realise - you don’t want this to be the only encounter you have. there’s that change from noticing him to wanting to know him – not in a full-on, over-the-top way, but just with the quiet curiosity that tangles itself around you.
you catch yourself wondering what he’s actually like when he’s not stood in front of you, what he does with his time, who he spends it with, what brought him all the way to chicago in the first place. there’s something about him that feels unfinished, like you’ve only been given a small part and your brain is eager to find out more.
like, you’d totally be up for talking to him again, properly, on purpose.
his looks just happens to be a bonus.
a real big fucking bonus.
he’s distractingly hot. breathing his scent has been both exhausting and heaven, his eyes on you feel both intimidating and strangely addictive at the same time, his body heat overwhelming but not close enough. acknowledging his appearance makes your brain falter, because the reality hits that you’re talking to a guy the embodiment of your type, who’s picked you for company out of everybody else in the room, and self-doubt tries to creep its way in.
but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for any insecurities or second-guesses to grow, because his eyes watch you and you only, hanging onto every word that leaves your lips, encouraging you on. “there’s quirks and then there’s superstitions, connor,” his smile grows at the weird intimacy of you saying his name, “you said you were a little superstitious though, so that probably fits you,” you squint your eyes playfully, faking a serious front.
he rolls his eyes. “you’re funny.”
“you give me the impression you have some seriously fucked up superstitions,” you laugh, “like—you’d only text a girl back unless it was exactly three minutes past the hour or something.”
the hockey player lets out a short, disbelieving breath, his face twisting in mock offence as his hands lift slightly, “woah, ok pause—” he shakes his head, a grin tugging at his mouth, “i can be a bit superstitious but i’m not that bad . .”
a beat passes.
“i’d text at 11:11, though, so she’d think it was a sign.”
your jaw drops. “wow! — you are toxic,” your eyes widen, but you’re smiling, something a little breathless creeping in now. “zero shame, full confidence. dangerous combination.”
“you’ve got some nerve saying that,” he shoots back, checking you out. the energy shifts. he stands tall, walking closer, slow and steady, “how’re you gonna say that after what you just told me about you and your mailman?”
he stops when he’s right there, close enough that your knees brush his stomach, and it knocks the rhythm out of your thoughts completely.
heat blooms up your neck, your brain stalling in the worst way, blank and useless as he leans closer to boast, “yeah—yeahhh,” he nods, grinning when you don’t answer. “thought so.”
his cockiness is sexy. you hate that it manages to turns you on.
you shake your head in response, trying to think straight. “you’d understand if you saw the alley at the back of my apartment,” you avoid his eyes, scoffing slightly, “of course i’m gonna flirt with my mailman if it means he’s going to take my trash out.”
his eyebrow twitches, his eyes narrowing slightly. “desperate.”
“clever.”
he perks a brow, “you think you’re clever?”
“i’m very clever,” you bat your lashes, smiling confidently, “gets me what i want.”
connor’s pupils have expanded as time goes on, swallowing the blue until it looks so much darker - too intense to hold for long. even with the edge of playfulness still there, it feels like something else now — something more focused.
the smile that had been tugging at his mouth fades into something flatter, quieter, like he’s got his mind made up.
he straightens, shoulders pulling back, and before you can process it, he steps forward until he’s standing between your legs, your hand subconsciously locking onto his wrist as his hands slide up them - slow and intentional - his thumbs settling into the crease of your hips like he already knows he’s allowed to be there.
“i usually get what i want too . . but i work for it.”
his tone is condescending, it makes your heart leap.
his height puts him just above you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back, hyperaware of the low, musky trace of aftershave that settles in the space between you - or the lack of. up close, you see more — the line of his jaw, the length of his lashes, the faint texture of his skin. the way his breath settles warm between you.
his gaze drops, slow and shameless, lingering on your lips like he’s already imagined it, already picturing it and is waiting for you to catch up.
he takes your silence for anticipation.
his voice is low, quieter in a private sense as he leans a little closer, you can see the ridges on his teeth. “y’wanna . . . come back to my place? . . or something?”
your eyes are on his mouth, too cowardly to look him in the eye as you heart rate blasts, breathing quickening, heat warming your cheekbones even with makeup on - and he catches it – of course he does. his mouth pulls slightly at one side but he tries to fight it, trying not to appear cocky.
you don’t think for too long. alcohol firing in your system, your eyes just shoot from his lips to his eyes, mind made up.
“yes.”
whatever space was left between you — mentally, physically — is gone.
you don’t remember finding your friends, don’t remember what you told them, you just remember giving one of them your key before connor has his hand on your back, guiding you through the bar after seeing his uber outside. he opens the door for you to you climb in, his body sliding in after you, closing it behind him with a solid thud.
the second he turns to you, a smile breaks out between you - and you don’t waste a second more when you reach for his face and pull his lips down to yours.
he’s warm and soft and easy to melt into. you sigh into his mouth, body loosening, thoughts fading, just focusing on the feeling of his lips on yours.
he opens his mouth, welcoming his tongue into yours, exploring every bit of you, taking the lead, and you left him, soft sounds of contentment leaving you.
you feel the size of his hand moving up and down your leg, his fingers slightly cupping under your thigh while the other is tangled in your hair, moving you how he wants to meet his pace.
you like the subtle dominance. it’s not too much or too little - just enough to let tingles bloom through out you, his strength effortless and sexy - you want more.
initially, he doesn’t seem like the biggest guy in the room until you realise up close how easily he could definitely break you in half.
you sneak in behind connor to his apartment complex, reception empty, following him to the elevator in your tiny heels and coat over your arm. you keep your head down, lips burning, starving for more. connor presses the button with his knuckle and turns to you again, lips glistening, wasting no time in backing you against the wall, hands cupping your face before pulling you in for another bruising kiss.
he unlocks his door with his key, leading the way until you’re both inside, and locks it again. he slides the key onto the counter and turns around, a smirk laid satisfyingly on his lips as he’s finally ready to enjoy you in all his privacy, no distractions or disruptions.
you both collide as he picks you up, taking you in his strong, monster-sized hands where he fills his palms with flesh - shamelessly squeezing the curve of your ass. you can feel him smile into your kiss, a happy man with his tongue stroking yours.
greedy, wet kissing sounds echo the halls as he walks you both to his room, moving like his eyes aren’t closed and drops you to the bed.
he tugs his top off first, and you’re met with what feels like a rewarding sight.
you knew he was going to be in good shape. great shape. you clocked it earlier without meaning to, the way his forearms looked when he leant across the bar, thicker than they should’ve been, his shoulders wide, his waist slim. it didn’t match the boyishness of his face then - it doesn’t match now.
all width and quiet weight, he takes up more space than he should. his shoulders are intimidating, broad in a way that doesn’t make sense for him, solid and unmoving, like they’re built for impact. it’s not the lean, wiry kind you’d expect — it’s dense. grounded. the kind of build that makes you second guess how strong he actually is. it throws you off, how solid he looks. he doesn’t look like he should have that grown man build that he does – it’s almost intimidating how sturdy he is all over.
he looks like he could handle you however he wanted.
he kneels on the bed, your eyes flicking to the gold chain resting against his chest. something about it heightens the the whole thing, adds to that quiet, unspoken confidence he doesn’t acknowledge.
even his confidence is sexy, fuck.
he climbs on top of you, leaning on his elbows so he doesn’t kill you with his weight, and your hands explore his back, feeling the width of it, the muscle in it, scraping your nails down his waist to the dip in his back before his ass.
connor teases your lips, brushing them with his own before inching away, and you hook you arms around his neck, desperate for it, not in the mood for games.
he holds back, smirking, eyebrow twitching cockily. “y’want something?”
you make a somewhat needy sound, opening your eyes to meet his, irritated, and pull him down by his chain, finger wrapping around the cool metal.
in a mess of tongue and teeth, you flip over so you’re on top, pulling away for a breath. sitting at his hips, you pull your top from over your head, and connor’s eyes, like a teenage boy, immediately widen and drop to your tits, brain short-cutting, turning to mush. his lips slightly part as he fall into a daze.
head empty. no thoughts.
he looks at you then he looks at them, then looks at you and you pop your bra off, bringing his eyes back to them as you throw it to the floor with the rest of your clothes.
he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, and drags those large hands down his face, trying to stay focused. “fuck,” he mumbles against his palms before they resume back on your hips, “fuck!” he curses again, closing his eyes.
you lean down, close enough so that your breath fans his lips and smile, his reaction boosting your confidence, “are you gonna just look at ‘em or do something?”
for a moment, connor is frozen, feeling a little out of his depth. he might be portrayed like the hotshot rookie, the youngster who gets all the girls, gets his pick without even trying and knows exactly what he’s doing. it’s a role he’s worn well enough — confident, careless, not something he’s going to correct.
but in reality, he hasn’t quite grown into that version of himself yet. hasn’t had the moments to match the reputation, and now the moment’s here anyway — dropped into his hands without warning — for a split second he feels it, that small pressure of having to live up to it.
you notice his pause, and furrow your brows, running your hands up and down his torso reassuringly. “you ok?”
his eyes snap to you, alert and wide, and he nods, eagerly, fingers tightening on your skin.
got to start somewhere.
you capture his lips again, feeling him begin to move in his spot, sitting you both up on the bed. you smile at his eagerness, fingers slipping into his hair at the back of his head while his hold your ass again, and you moan into his mouth. it goes straight to his cock.
he’s been hard since he got in that cab. when you pull away for a breath, his lips chase you, settling for your jaw and trailing down your neck until they reach your breasts, and he cups them in his hands before latching onto one of your nipples.
a first, proper moan leaves you as your head rolls back. “aw, fuck.”
his mouth is hot and wet and warm and you squirm desperately closer to him, his tongue licking and sucking ‘til his spit is all over your breast. he does the same thing to the other.
“fuck . . . connor . .” you breath, chin almost on top of his head, “please . . need you . .” you force yourself away from his mouth, pressing a soft hand to his chest to stop him from following. his cheeks are flushed, lips glistening and it does something to your core.
you move around the bed, slipping off your underwear in the time he quickly leans over to rustle through his bedside table for a condom, ultimately standing up to find it.
you wait, so uncomfortably wet, it makes you cringe. you’re dripping on his bed.
you find his cap from earlier and put it on your head, patience ticking as you watch him dig in the drawer for the box.
when he turns around, your eyes rakes him in. connor is thick. he’s big enough - big for you - you can tell from his bulge alone, his black calvin kleins struggling to conceal him. he holds the packet in his mouth as he pulls them down, eyes on you as he does so, before tearing the top off and rolling the condom on.
your mouth is salivating.
he joins you back on the bed, eyes drinking in your entire naked form and he squeezes himself for some relief, eyes closed. he doesn’t need to do much else. you’re so shamelessly wet and ready, he’ll slide in no problem. “you ready?” he says between heated kisses, backing you lightly into the bed.
“mhm,” you bite your lip, watching him line himself up, hand at the base, tip hovering at your entrance. he took the cap you’d put on and put it on himself, backwards with a smirk.
a wince leaves you when he slides in, jaw going slack the more he pushes in, inch by inch, your head falling back at the overwhelming sensation.
you take him like a champ, pussy tight around him him. his own jaw fall open, mind going blank. “fuck! you’re fucking tight,” he winces, teeth clenched.
“i know,” you whine, feeling him go all the way in, stealing your breath away.
he grunts, eyes closed in concentration as he tries to get used to you. he leans down to your face again, swallowing your lips with his own. wet and warm, you moan into his mouth as he stuffs you full of his cock, pelvis to pelvis, happy trail ticking you. you moan aloud as he begins to pull out. “mmm—fuck!”
“yeah? you like that?” he breaths, beginning to move his hips more frequently, paying close attention to your face with each thrust he drills into you.
“yeah! yeah—fuck!” you whine, biting your lip as his movements quicken, his grip on your leg tightening. the sounds that leave you are the most delicious sin he’s ever endorsed. high. whiney. fast. frequent.
dirty. desperate.
connor’s convinced you’ve got to be a figment of his imagination, your moans are that pornographic, he has to try and not cum so quick.
his head spins with each cry, spurring him on as he feel his self-control begin to slip.
“fuck! like that connor, yeah—harder!” you beg, nails digging into his muscls as he rams even harder into your sopping cunt.
he pants above you, sweat glistening his forehead, hat discarded long ago, his hair falls messily to his eyes. he hoists your legs above his hips, giving him a better angle to work with, a better angle to drive into you - and it makes you see stars, feeling like he’s brushing your cervix with each and every thrust - deeper, faster, harder.
“mm, fuck, i’m not gonna last,” he grits, clenching his jaw as he tries to focus on not blowing his load yet. he can’t let this feeling end - he wants to drag it out for as long as he can.
he looks back down at you, chest rising and falling quick, running his hands every now and then along your torso; feeling your hips, squeezing your waist, palming your boobs, groping them in a hunger that fills his entire palm. you cry out, head thrashing against the pillows, holding the back of his hands.
he becomes lost, his eyes closing as he takes in the moment, takes in everything going on - you, your sounds, your warm, spongey walls wrapped around him.
he’s pretty sure this is it, like, there is nothing in the world that can top this feeling, right? the greatest feeling he thought he could ever experience would be lifting the stanley cup - and now he’s realised how much of a fucking idiot he was.
this is what it’s all about. this is what everyone’s been going on about the whole time - the life he’s supposed to be living, the image reporters try to paint for him - being the hotshot rookie who gets to live this new, bachelor lifestyle.
connor gets it now. he understands. he no longer sees it as the awkward, half-panicked, fumbling you do in high school where you mostly just hope you’re doing it right for the first time while trying not to think too much about where your hands are - no, this is different.
this is . . . ridiculous, actually, he thinks. borderline life-ruining.
in the midst of fucking you like his life depends on it, he stays there thinking, in a very real, serious way - that he could probably give up everything for this: his career, accomplishments, whatever future he’s been trying to build – just to stay exactly here.
doing this. on repeat.
which, even to himself, sounds a bit crazy, but it feels true, and that’s the problem.
because every time he looks down and sees the sinful sight of you laying beneath him, taking every inch of him sporting a craze of hair and swollen set of lips - his brain just sort of . . . shuts off. fully gone. replaced with this caveman certainty that this is what he was put on this planet to do - fuck hockey. fuck anything else. this is the best thing that’s ever going to happen to him, probably, and he’s completely fine with that — which feels a bit of a red flag, but also—he’s not exactly in the mood to unpack that right now.
he groans loudly, skin slapping through the room as he feels the all too familiar urge beginning to build, his head beginning to turn foggy.
“aw, fuckkk—” he rolls his head back, feeling his chain beat against his chest. he looks back down, teeth coming to hold the metal still, and the sight makes your pussy throb, your eyes roll.
your orgasm sneaks up on you the more explicit his apartment becomes: the sound of skin on skin. the fogging of his windows. the wet noises from your pussy. the subtle creak of his bed. connor’s grunts and grumbly moans. your head spins. the alcohol only enhancing every feeling in your body. you bite your lip, trying not to cry out. “i’m gonna come—i’m gonna come, connor.”
connor brings his lips to yours in response, swallowing up your moans.
you feel it coming. that building in belly, the coil that’s about to snap.
he suddenly tilts you on your the side, pulling out to hit it from the back while still facing you, and you shriek—a loud, pornographic cry that makes connor go to town on you, pounding relentlessly. “FUCK! connor!”
it’s fast. it’s brutal. it’s delicious and addicting, all in one. you feel possessed. “right there, right there!—FUCK!—i’m gonna come, i’m gonna come!—”
you squeal, eyes screwed shut as he slams into your ass, punishing you blissfully. you cry out a long ‘oh’ sound, experiencing that familiar, overwhelming sensation wash over you like never before, shuddering from your shoulders to your toes. it ripples all through you. your hand reaches for his stomach, grazing his happy trail to try to stop his movements, but it’s a lost cause, your release too strong, his hips only going harder - and you cum hard, squirting slightly, soaking his sheets, soaking his legs and thick thighs. you half-gasp, half-cry, unable to focus on anything but white dots littering your vision while connor watches in shock, his movements faltering.
he chases his own release at the sight of yours, dripping and splattering all over, driving him to his end reach. his hands move you to the rhythm, his jaw clenched between hefty breaths when it takes over him - finishing with a final thrust that shocks your whole body.
he spills immediately, hot and instant, filling you to the brim despite having a fucking condom rolled on. you embrace the feeling anyway, moaning selfishly as he fills you, enough that you can feel it begin to leak out.
connor breathes heavily as he steadys his movements, pelvis still pressed possessively against you, his hold on you still strong. he only begins to loosen it when he’s certain he’s completely empty, breathing with his mouth open, his eyes closed.
you don’t move.
you stay still for a second, your body twisted at that weird angle, but comfortable; content with his hands still on you, his dick still deep inside you.
you breathe exhausted, waiting for the aftershocks to pass, your cunt still thumping with stimulation.
eventually, you make eye-contact, hooded and starry-eyed, sparkling with an unfamiliar glimmer.
connor holds your hips as he attempts to pull out, and you clutch the sheets as he does so, wincing when he does.
you immediately you feel it trickle down you. the mix of his cum and yours, sticking to your thighs. you move the hair behind your neck, refusing to look him in the eye.
he stares.
he stares, fascinated.
he knows it’s wrong, knows it’s filthy, but he can’t look away.
he’s never done that before.
“i . . . the condom broke.”
you almost want to laugh because yeah, no shit, but you don’t - you can hardly look at him, feeling embarrassed and exposed. “it’s fine . . i’m on the pill, so . . .” you reassure, your voice rough and scratchy.
you feel connor’s hand tilt your hips, like he’s trying to get a better look which only flames your cheeks more. “connor,” you grunt, grabbing his wrist so he can let you go and stop moving you around like his doll. “sorry,” he mutters, snapping out of it, letting you go.
he steps off the bed, running a hand through his hair as he tries to come back down to reality - to ground himself, like, he can’t get over what just happened- what he just did - what you just did - what he just did inside you.
undoubtedly, the best sex he’s ever - and will ever - have.
he doesn’t know if that’s down to you or down to him.
he looks at you, then to his bed, and the soaked sheets all down and around your legs.
he didn’t even think that was a real thing either.
when he catches the blush blooming on your face, he smirks, confidence inching back into place. “you always do that?”
the way he says it sends a jolt to your chest, but the smugness in it sends a warmth confidence through your bones. “. . yeah,” you admit, stealing a look at him.
“really?” he looks up surprised.
you blush furiously, but stand your eye-contact. “yeah.”
connor’s brows raise, his mouth slightly open. his feet pad into his bathroom as his mind ticks over, quick and easy, just weighing it up. wouldn’t mind that again. he turns around in the doorway, eyeing you in his bed. “did i get your number?”
your chest does that stupid little jump, and you turn your head towards him, a grin tugging your lips at the sight of him standing there, shamelessly flaunting his naked body.
your tone is light and teasing, trying to hide your delight. “no . . . you want it?”
his tone is flat.
“yeah,” he deadpans.
he’s not finished with you yet.
