#jt compher fanfiction

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — JT COMPHER x reader (main); TYSON JOST x reader (side); COMPHER x JOST (brief) wc — 14k synopsis — what's a reunion without some groveling?

note — this takes place a few of years after part one, go out with a bang (post-college/college au — tyson and kate are now out-going seniors!) sorry not sorry for the length of this behemoth, i got carried away per usual <3 there are more parts to come, and i would absolutely love to hear any theories/predictions if yall have any!

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

cw — cameos on cameos on cameos, we're at a party so drinking and mention of dr*gs + yacking (no description), drinking games, sorority terms/processes, me getting too invested in multiple subplots and potential background ships, soft!service!dom!JT makes my peabrain go brrrrr, everybodies a bit masochistic because i, registered heathen, am masochistic, reader’s wearing a short skirt for plot reasons, slight compher x josty, oral (reader receiving 2x), unprotected piv (i know, i know, i know i need help), me letting my brat self take the kink reins, praise baby praise, angst AND IM NOT SORRY, + happy fluffy bits... possible cliffhanger??? 

Staring up at the Alpha Chi house is like stepping back in time. 

Like trying on an old pair of shoes you found while deep-cleaning your closet only to find their once-perfect fit gone. Growth is funny that way; you never realize just how far you’ve come until it pinches you.

You’ve outgrown this place, though not from a lack of love or any great tragedy. It occupies a different place in your mind, just as you’re a different person than you were three years ago. 

Your younger self would balk at this development, wouldn’t believe it’d one day feel too small. You can’t fault her for that near-sightedness. In college, your whole world existed on one street. You had everything you needed then between two stop signs.

But your world is bigger now, and your needs are different too. 

Still, it feels good to try on your past for the night. Even if it's a tad ill-fitting. 

The drive between your new life and your old one hadn’t been too bad, but that’s probably because you didn’t do much of said driving. JT got the engine going before you could even make a grab for the keys and, despite spending the last year in the literal trenches of clinical rotations and shelf exams, refused to switch at the halfway mark. Yet, your boyfriend is practically vibrating with excitement as you cross the all-too-familiar threshold hand-in-hand. 

“This is so weird,” JT remarks, his lips low to your ear. His musky cologne, warm and woody, does its best to soothe your nerves.

As you survey the crowd, you nod. 

He didn’t need to elaborate further for you to understand because you were already thinking the very same thing. Watching students, the vast majority as unfamiliar to you as you are to them, milling around your old haunt stirs an odd, uncanny feeling akin to a surreal dream. You’re well-acquainted with the setting, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and you don’t think you’re all that different, but everything still feels foreign.

All the right pieces are there, and you’re sure you’ve put them in their proper places, but the image won’t behave.

You quickly realize the only thing that’s misplaced is you. Grief hangs from your back like a wet blanket. 

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

A burst of riotous laughter shakes much of the gloom from your system.

Gabe Landeskog barrels into your boyfriend like an overgrown puppy. Gray-blue eyes twinkling under the rainbow of LEDs, he embraces you both in a warm hug, not minding that the spontaneous act of affection has just cost him an entire Solo cup.

“Compher and the missus,” the blonde addresses you both with a wide grin and a big palm to a cheek each; he gives JT’s a quick pat but merely cups yours. 

His breath still smells of spearmint and something spicy, an imposing combination your eighteen-year-old self could never find comforting. Just another thing that's different now. If you could package the scent for all the little moments of nostalgia, you would. 

“I was starting to think we’d have to drag you from the city kicking and screaming, but alas! You've left the cozy, vanilla bubble of your own volition for a weekend of debauchery with your favorite degenerates.”

JT’s affectionate eye-roll is big and dramatic even in your periphery. The levity brings a smile to your face. It grows wider and wider, enduring until your cheeks burn. If anyone deserves some light-heartedness, it's your sleep-deprived, perpetually-stressed boyfriend.

“A night, Landy. We’ve got to be back by tomorrow night to relieve the dog sitter,” your boyfriend amends with a pat to Gabe’s flushed cheek, returning the favor. 

The older man groans like the overgrown boy he is and will always be. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible. All domestic and shit. With a fur-baby and everything. I bet it’s as well-trained as your firstborn.”

Your eyes follow the line drawn by Gabe’s strong chin past the entryway through to the room used for table-top drinking games.

Half-kneeling on the rickety table you helped customize a few years back is Tyson Jost, head tilted to the sky as he guzzles down the center cup. More beer spills down his chest than into his mouth, effectively turning his white tee sheer. The crowd is comprised mostly of giddy sorority girls who don't mind a bit. 

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

Once the plastic cup is empty, he crushes it in his palm before sinking the balled plastic into the basketball hoop on the adjacent wall. The converted dining room swells with hoots and hollers so quickly you would’ve thought Tyson emerged from some mythic quagmire, blood-soaked and victorious. But there are no winners in Rage Cage; everybody loses.

Tyson’s loopy grin falters when he registers you and JT on either side of Gabe.

You would like to say nothing’s changed between the three of you over the past couple of years. That you’re just as close as you’d been in college, that distance hadn’t done as much damage as it has.

You'd be lying if you did. 

You tried your best to keep him in the loop; you really did, but that didn’t end up mattering much.

JT hardly had time to socialize with you most of the time, and you’ve practically lived together since graduation. He, like you, tried, but at some point, his bandwidth could no longer accommodate Tyson’s sporadic texts and calls. Many of which came in the dead of night, when your boyfriend’s head was either buried in a textbook or in the pillow beside yours.

Whenever you could, you invited the forward to spend the weekend in the city with the two of you. You even went so far as to offer to put him up in a hotel between your and JT’s respective apartments, knowing your adult salary could stretch further than the Atomic tips he was splitting with Tyler. He always had something conflicting going on, and it didn't feel like your place to question the authenticity of his reasons, so you just kept extending the invitation, hoping things would align eventually.

After finally taking the leap and signing a lease together, you decorated the guest room with Tyson in mind. He’s yet to see it, still.

Your little Kate, on the other hand, needs a frequent flyer program.

A small part of you felt this shift was inevitable once JT went from best friend-slash-unrequited crush to full-blown, live-in boyfriend. Despite Tyson’s insistence on you finally hooking up and “putting everyone out of their misery,” his smile didn’t meet his eyes when JT broke the news that it wasn’t a one-night thing.

Maybe his “little crush” hadn’t been so little after all. 

If that’s the case, you can't blame him for avoiding your slice of grown-up love like the plague. It just would've been nice if he hadn't left you in the dark, wondering where and how you fucked up enough to get iced out.

Tyson responded to every third or so text of yours, so you mostly kept up with him and his life through Kate, who briefly dated him between ill-fated Gunnar stints, and social media. You weren’t sure how often he spoke to JT; after several attempts that ended with your boyfriend clammed up and irritated, you stopped asking.

Judging by how tense he is beside you right now, you have a pretty good guess.

“Yikes,” Gabe drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”

You remain carefully quiet, allowing your boyfriend to decide what, if anything, to share. This—whatever it is —feels like it's more so between them two than Tyson and yourself.

JT clears his throat so hard it cuts through the music blaring through the packed house—some remix you don’t remember learning the words to. “Trouble? Nah, Josty’d have to give us the time of day for that.” 

Gabe laughs, but you know JT isn’t trying to be funny. You can taste the undercurrent of bitter resentment. It’s impossible not to without an artificial buzz.

There’s no time to dwell because a flurry of red hair darts through the crowd dispersing out of the dining room and straight into your arms. A fresh, but faintly-candied scent tickles your nose as the cool metal of a bracelet digs into your neck. 

Kate.

“Fuckin finally!” The almost-grad squeals directly into your ear.

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both. 

“Don’t look at me,” you say, beaming when she pulls back. “I wasn’t driving.”

Kate swats JT’s chest with her open palm. “And this is why we don’t let you drive anywhere, Grandpa.”

The playful jab makes your smile deepen. His driving made her tardy to a ZBZ charity gala one time over a year ago when she made the mistake of hitching a ride with you, and she’s probably brought it up a million times since. Kate pretends to hold a grudge, JT pretends to find it aggravating, and you get to sit back, enjoying the warm camaraderie overfilling your cup.

The pair have been friends almost as long as you've been friends with either of them, but since your graduation, they’ve settled into something more serious and more genuine. Where your connection to Tyson wilted outside the conveniences of college, your relationship with Kate matured and flourished. She’s more than just your chapter-appointed Little Sister to JT now, having become more of a true sister than anything else. Hence the juvenile teasing.

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

Your little snatches your hand in hers, tugging you away from JT, who feigns offense.

“And now I’m stealing your girlfriend in retribution for making me wait. Go do… whatever it is you two heathens used to do at parties. We have a pong title to defend.”

“Excellent idea, Madame President,” Gabe declares, hands roughly massaging the male ginger’s shoulders. He tosses a wink in Kate’s direction.

Before the other ginger can drag you away for good, your boyfriend catches your free wrist, pulling you back to him so his lips can find your ear. Breath hot, he drops his voice an octave, “President’s bathroom. One hour. Nod if you understand.”

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

As your respective keepers separate you, JT shoots you a wink of his own. Then, you lose him in the crowd.

Kate leads you through the sea of party-goers to the living room, her grip on you tight and comforting. Her thumb rubs small circles on the inside of your wrist as you approach the table, almost as if privy to your worry. Kate is incredibly perceptive; she can read someone’s mind without even looking at them. With you, her Spidey senses transcend county lines, so it’s no real surprise she deduced your current condition from no more than your erratic pulse thumping against her palm. 

When you reach the bustling folding table commandeered for the BP tournament, Kate does all the talking.

It’s not too hard to get on the bracket despite the late entry with two newly-minted Alpha Chi brothers manning the post. The absolute last thing they want to do is get on the bad side of the president of their sister chapter (Kate) and the girlfriend of a legendary former chapter president (you). The pairs for the current game are only a couple of throws in, so it’s going to be at least ten minutes before it's your turn.

“You, my dear, look thirsty,” Kate declares through a mischievous grin.

You let her pull you towards the kitchen across the hall but have more difficulty than you expect actually getting there. Every few steps, someone stops either you or Kate. Mostly the latter, but she’s quick to show you off to whoever’s trying to seize her attention. Apparently, Kate’s been building quite the mythos of your time on campus, and it’s very… dizzying, to say the least.

“Kit-Kat!”

Kate abandons the poor freshman boy shooting his shot (and missing fantastically) in favor of the feminine voice sliding into the conversation.

In the blue-ish hue washing over the small space, you’re having a hard time placing her, but she seems very keen on making your acquaintance.

“Blake Meyers,” the newcomer announces, extending her hand with a smile.

You take it, giving her your name and a matching expression in return. The flattened vowels are distinct and recognizable, as is the last name. 

“Meyers?” you ask, attempting to work it out.

“Ava’s younger sister,” Kate interjects. “And one of our best steals this past recruitment.”

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

You remember that feeling. What it was like to have an older member, especially someone as established and accomplished as an outgoing ZBZ president, go out of their way to make you feel special. You have zero doubt Blake will be walking on air for the foreseeable future, any of the common little doubts about whether or not she made the right choice vanishing.

“I was really hoping I’d get to meet you tonight,” the freshman tells you bashfully. “Kate gave the most beautiful speech about you and your legacy on Preference Night, and when she told me you might be coming with your boyfriend, I had to put a face to the name. And Jenny was the one who pref-ed me, so it seemed like—I don’t know, a non-negotiable?”

Jenny is one of the twins Kate took her junior year, and she couldn’t have picked better. It gave you peace of mind knowing your Kate would have good people around her once you couldn’t physically be there for her.

You won’t be surprised if Jenny takes Blake as her little. Kate pref-ed her, and before that, you pref-ed Kate. It’s basically a family tradition.

Not long after you thank Kate for her generous words and Blake for her kindness, Thomas, one of the new initiates in charge of the beer pong table, flags you down for your game. Not ready to end your conversation, invigorated by the breezy, jovial chatter your new life lacks, you tug Blake along with you.

Between exceptionally beautiful throws (if you do say so yourself), you learn more about Blake and her roommate and fellow ZBZ spring initiate, Emory. They pepper you with questions: about your first-year college experience, advice on getting the best room possible on the sophomore floor for mandatory live-in, whether or not you got anything particularly valuable in the various leadership positions you held, and what fraternities to steer clear of. You’re more than happy to answer them all. Kate sprinkles in comments and jokes occasionally, but she mostly defers to you so she can celebrate the end of a smooth second term as president.

Once Kate and you have successfully defended your title, you pass the torch to the future of your chapter. Blake and Emory make quick work of the first challengers and are close to a similar sweep with the second pair when your little remembers her earlier mission: refreshments.

This time, you both keep your heads ducked as you speed through the dancing bodies and make a beeline for the dinged-up lockers propped against the wall. You can’t help but smile when you see her reach for the lock—your old lock.

Every upperclassman (and a few select friends of the chapter, like Alpha Chi Sweethearts such as Kate and, once upon a time, yourself) is assigned a secure, personal locker in the oversized kitchen for quick access to personal items. During parties, they essentially become personal coolers. At your very last formal chapter meeting, you will-ed the hunk of metal down to Kate, along with the more sentimentally valuable items you wanted to leave behind with her.

“Wait, can you even drink?” Kate asks you from where she’s kneeling. Sarcasm scrunches her brows together.

“Hilarious,” you reply with a playful glare. “And before you loudly ask about the non-existent fetus like the devious bitch you love being, don’t. Unless you want to give JT an aneurysm."

Kate fishes out two slim, chilled cans as she grumbles about how boring you two have become in your “old age.” She shoves a ratty sweatshirt—an old favorite of Tyson’s—back into the small locker, quickly refastens the lock, and scrambles the dial. Then, she returns to her full height beside you.

“So, do you want to tell me what that wink from Gabe was about?” you ask, brow cocked.

“Do you want to tell me what your horndog of a boyfriend whispered in your ear?” Kate counters.

“Touché.”

Kate cracks open a Spindrift Spiked and slots it into your waiting palm. She taps the rim with her own, then sighs back against the cluttered kitchen island. She’s going to crack, you know it. Kate, even when she has a secret she wants to keep, never stays quiet for long. Especially not when you’re the one doing the asking.

“Okay, so, d’you remember how Tyson was, like, completely apathetic after we broke up right before Heaven & Hell last Halloween?”

You nod, recalling how irritated she was over FaceTime while you helped her pick a costume out of your box of hand-me-downs. You did your best not to laugh because Kate was clearly distressed, but it was kind of hard not to when she was buried in a heap of red and white feathers, wearing a too-small tutu dotted with rhinestones.

Kate takes a sip of the spiked strawberry lemonade before elaborating, “Well, I was understandably pissed—Don’t give me that look, okay? I know I broke up with him, but he shouldn’t have been that blasé that soon—so, I hatched a plan.”

You shake your head, laughing. Kate and her schemes.

“I wasn’t planning on taking Gabe as my date, but when I ran into him at Atomic the day before… I don’t know; I just couldn’t resist. I mean, Tyson worships the man. If anyone’s getting a reaction, it’s Landy. I had to.”

“And?” you prod. 

“And…” she stalls, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of pesky eavesdroppers, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. “…we might’ve done it in the backseat of his truck.”

“I’m scared to ask where.”

She buries her face in your shoulder. “The venue’s parking lot.”

Your eyes bulge so hard you, for a split-second, worry they’ll pop out of your head onto the sticky hardwood and land amongst the discarded cans.

“And I didn’t tell you because I was so scared you and JT would hate me,” Kate moans into your skin. She shifts to peer up at you, hesitant. “You don’t, right?”

“I don’t think I’m even capable of hating you, Katie-Kat, let alone for something as silly as banging a hot blonde,” you giggle, and she’s quick to join you. Lowering your voice, “Especially the hottest of hot blondes.”

“I’m so telling JT you said that,” she teases, pulling away.

You shrug and take your first sip. “Go ahead. He’ll agree.”

“And this is why you’re my favorite couple,” she says, bumping her hip against yours. “The worst part is Tyson didn’t even care about that either! At the post-game, when he saw my lipstick smeared all over Gabe’s neck, he high-fived him. Tyson fucking high-fived him for screwing me. His ex-girlfriend! How supremely demented is that?”

“I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t. I’m starting to think I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

Kate takes hold of your unoccupied hand and squeezes it three times.

“I’m guessing things haven’t gotten any better?”

You shake your head, eyes downcast like there’s something super interesting between the floorboards. “I know he’s busy, and we’re busy, but he’s acting like our friendship meant nothing.”

“Not to start a therapy session in the middle of a rager, but did you... did you ever actually talk about That Night? I know you said JT whispered, but how positive are you that Josty didn't hear him?"

A few months after That Night, your guilt was on the brink of hemorrhaging. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; you broke down in the middle of Talladega Nights. Fucking Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. All fat tears and snotty, incoherent spiraling, your chest heaved as JT rubbed your back. He was quiet, more concerned than confused, until you calmed down enough to explain what’d been weighing on your conscience. 

Then, your boyfriend looked clueless—because he was. JT didn’t remember his heat-of-the-moment pseudo-promise to taint Josty’s image of you.

After a scene or two, you broached the subject you’d both been avoiding since getting together. You wanted to apologize, and not that you needed JT’s permission, but you felt it wasn’t entirely your amends to make. He agreed but was adamantly opposed to operating on assumption alone. If Tyson was truly upset by the pillow talk he overheard, JT reasoned, he was old enough to be frank about it.

You found yourself agreeing, but also not? On the one hand, you could see this being an instance of your anxious mind making a mountain out of a molehill, finding fault where there’s none. But you knew Tyson, and you knew how sensitive he could be. 

Something shifted that night. You’d known then, too, even in the hazy afterglow. His despondency wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t uncommon for his dejected expression—his forced smile dipped in feigned nonchalance—to visit you in therapy sessions or in your nightmares.

But every time you typed and re-typed one remorseful novel after another, every time your gun-shy thumb hovered over his contact, every time you nearly drove out to your alma mater to track him down… You couldn’t get yourself to see it through. 

At first, it was the nerves, the fear of hearing his pain and seeing his anger. Then, it was your own temper, stoked by indignation, that rose with every sign of withdrawal. Now, it’s just plain, garden-variety sadness.

It was—is disappointing how cleanly he severed ties. There one day and gone the next, no blow-out fight or melancholic hear-to-heart. Tyson was there; he was within reach, but at the same time, not at all. The casual dismissal is worse than outright rejection; the door ajar but wholly uninviting.

"In the moment, I was certain he didn’t. Now? Fuck, the percentage drops every time I replay it in my head,” you murmur, remorse bogging down your confession. "I know you made a point not to bring it up when you were together, but did he ever, I don’t know, say anything?"

Kate shakes her head. "No, sorry. But it's not like we actually did much talking anyway."

You snort despite your woes.

“Alright, that’s enough doom and gloom for one night. How’s my nephew?” Kate asks, bright smile chasing the blues away with all its might.

It’s a distraction and a good one, too. She listens intently as you prattle on about the bi-weekly training sessions you’re starting next month to help with the leash pulling and the ridiculous pet parents you’ve met at the dog park near your apartment. She inquires about the fluffy lamb she brought over the last time she stayed with you—it lasted all of a day in his over-excited grip—then gushes over another variation she saw last week while getting litter for Salem, her diabolical tuxedo cat.

By the time Kate has your phone in her hand, swiping through the designated album and asking more questions than each picture really warranted, you’re feeling a bit better.

Noticing the clock, you stumble through a totally-not-suspicious excuse to venture upstairs—alone. Kate shoots you a knowing look but doesn’t give you a hard time. To be honest, she’s just glad you came tonight. Instead of a witty jab or half-hearted guilt trip, she slips a gold foil square into your unsuspecting palm and sends you on your way with a supportive swat to the rear.

Access to the second floor during parties is typically mediated by two to three gatekeepers, depending on the scale and projected rowdiness of each gathering. Three’s the magic number tonight: two up-and-coming juniors and an outgoing senior. They grant you passage with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.

“What? No riddle this time?” you tease over your shoulder.

The senior, an engineering major with a penchant for brain teasers, answers with a hoot. Cale Makar shakes his head, both amused and flattered you remembered his signature move. His puppy crush on you is an open secret. “I was given strict instructions to ‘keep the shenanigans’ to a minimum with you, Your Majesty.”

“JT?” you venture a guess, hand paused on the paint-chipped banister. He’s the only one who still sprinkles in the silly nickname these days.

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time the former chapter president enlisted Cale, his little, to assist in your and JT’s more salacious antics.

As soon as Gabe had the defenseman under his wing, he was putting him to work. Not that the younger blonde particularly minded, as his affinity for creative, slightly devious schemes rivaled that of Kate’s. It was Cale, you later found out, who ran interference during Semi Formal… while you were defiled on the balcony.

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

He counters with that lopsided “Get Out of Jail Free” grin. “What can I say? The man puts up a mean bribe.”

As if cued, Cale’s companions, who you now recognize as Alex Newhook and Bowen Byram, step into view. In Alex’s raised grip is a case of Labatt Blue, and in each of Bowen’s, a bottle of bottom-shelf cabernet. You doubt the trio would notice or mind the subpar quality, though. Between their happy heads, Cale fists a bottle of champagne you know he’ll misplace before he can polish it off.

“Jesus, how drunk is he?” you tease, the follow-up to an exaggerated gasp.

Sure, the quality’s shit, but their haul is far more valuable than your appraisal of their job; it’s a frat house, not Buckingham Palace.

“Not drunk enough to not see you here with us.” Cale’s voice tapers off, his pale eyes tracking someone stalking down the hall before nervously flicking up to the ceiling, “…and not up there with JTC.”

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

An anticipatory tingling erupts between your inner thighs just knowing he’s up there right now waiting for you. This is the part of your “homecoming” that excited you most and had been since the moment your boyfriend pinned the invite from the alumni association onto the fridge.

As blissfully domestic as your life together has become, it lacks the spontaneity your college life had been brimming with. Your sex life could never be categorized as mundane or clinical, but you’re finding it difficult to replicate the adrenaline rush stealing secret moments inherently provided.

Sometimes, in your more (admittedly) desperate moments, you’ve caught your fingers moving beneath the sheets to mindlessly chase the thrill of those fleeting intimacies, despite how awful the constant wondering and wallowing felt then or, maybe because of it, pain and pleasure are uniquely human indulgences sought in equal measure. When intertwined, they’ve been known to satiate masochistic cravings the way a sad movie or a sprawling, high-speed rollercoaster might.

However, this time, your risk-spurned euphoria will be at your own hand. The newfound agency—the ability to choose when, how, or if any risk is involved—has you darting up the stairs with a fire under your soles.

Before you round the corner and disappear down the hall, you make sure to call out, “Thank you for your service!” accompanied by a two-finger mock salute. You don’t stick around to catch their responses, though.

As you make your way down the dim corridor, you run smack into a very giggly Sarah Jones, just shy of your destination. Eyes distant and wide, she attempts to apologize for something—Something about sabotaging the Big-Little pairings your senior spring?—but it’s more bubbles than actual words. You nod along, still not quite sure what you’re accepting an apology for but too antsy to forge ahead to play detective. Your purposeful strides went unnoticed in her cloud of intoxication and nostalgia, but Erik Johnson, who’d been JT’s vice president, mercifully ushers his inebriated fiancé out of your path by the shoulders.

You offer him a faint smile of gratitude as they head in the opposite direction.

Over the music, you faintly hear Sarah begin chattering on about something unrelated, your reunion long forgotten already. You can’t help but chuckle a little on behalf of your younger self, who would’ve gawked at snobbish Sarah Jones drunk and voluntarily slumming it in a ramshackle house on Greek Row. And sporting a rock from a Degenerate on Ice (her nickname for your brother fraternity, not yours), too? That would’ve been the icing. But, the older, more mature, once-weekly-therapy iteration of yourself is happy she’s happy.

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

As you reach for the tarnished doorknob of the president’s suite, the rickety door flings open to reveal your boyfriend, all flushed cheeks and frenzied eyes.

JT pulls you inside, lips easily taking possession of yours, the heel of his lived-in/loved-on sneaker nudging the door shut. The hinges groan in protest to the rough treatment. Still fussy as ever. This house is a goddamn time capsule, you muse. Neither of you has the patience for benevolence. If it jams, it jams. That’s a future-self problem. Diligence now would only slow you down.

And would a prolonged stay on memory lane really be all that bad?

Your boyfriend cages you so close that when he manages more than panted praise between hot-and-heavy touches, the words barely fit in the gap between your mouths. “I was beginning to think you stood me up, sweetheart.”

The light-hearted accusation is semi-whispered, somewhat hoarse, in the way his voice always sounded when he came home from a long shift at the hospital downtown or post-game at the height of his collegiate career. JT isn’t a hard person to read—downright wolfish when he’s homing in on a target—but the low, raspy tone makes his intent glaring.

Your body thrums with anticipation.

“Never,” you croon back. A breathy moan sweetens your voice, courtesy of the calloused hand inching up the back of your bare thigh, bypassing the hem of your skirt with no effort or resistance. Arms looping around his neck, you make an inquiry: “Is there a reason we’re in your old bedroom instead of, I don’t know, the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite you insisted we spring for?”

Tufts of faint copper tickle your cheek. Your boyfriend lands a kiss on your crowd-warmed forearm. Then, much to your displeasure, he steps out of the tight embrace.

“Y’know, I remembered something earlier when I was downstairs,” JT supplies in an apparent non-answer.

He guides you, as understanding rises in your mental periphery, through the barely-lit space toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom between this room and the next. Then, he flicks on the secondary light, the dimmer of the two, before tugging you over yet another threshold. His fingers twitch at his sides, lascivious.

You stare back at him expectantly, vision tunneling as you wait, wait, wait.

The latch might as well have been a starting pistol; the subtle click ringing in your eardrums like the sonic crack of a live round; his breath a plume of smoke from a charged muzzle well beyond its flash point. Pent-up, needy tension burns hot and burns brighter. Residue from the night prior aflame; you, a moth seduced.

JT drives forward. Stalking, like a cat on a bird, until he’s pinned you to the door. His dash was easy, made short and hasty by the starting block eagerness in your dilated eyes.

Mouth descending on your sensitive neck, hips grinding his want into your squirming form, harsh belt buckle nudging just right with each sharp rut.

“There’s still one thing left on my college bucket list.”

He sinks the candor in with his incisors. Not hard enough to break the skin, but that was never his intention. The sting is a reminder. Of your shared past, of his unwavering desire—of who is in charge.

Message received. Loud and clear.

JT leans away to admire his handiwork. One big hand poised at your jaw, and the other braced beside your head, keeping your shyness from blocking the perfect view; you’ve never been able to hide from him and never will.

His curious thumb deviates from the original objective to caress the skin, now splotched violet and angry. Softly, at first, like he’s committing the damage to memory. Then, emboldened by a sudden piercing hiss forcing itself from your throat, JT pushes down on the tender spot. The cruel, unexpected pressure pulls pitiful bleating cries from your undulating chest.

This is no longer an expedition to gather intel; it’s a primal instinct.

For a few moments, he just holds you like this. A cloistered existence made worthwhile by him occasionally digging deeper into the column of your throat, the pressure taking on a raptorial quality. Your boyfriend wears his herald grin at a rakish angle. It unfurls with refined delicacy, an effective diversion for his next endeavor. Breathe like a precision instrument; the sharp phantom-edge fans across the sucked-raw skin with unhurried ease.

There isn’t enough alcohol in your system to dull the twinge — and you’re glad for it. It’d be a crime to dilute a burn this good, this all-consuming. You crumble between him and the door, your world only this big. His name tumbles out with a pulled-candy moan, completely devoid of dignity.

JT’s chest rumbles beneath your clammy palms. “You gonna be a good girl and help me tie up loose ends?”

His strawberry-blonde crown dips to nuzzle your cheek. Hot tongue tracing an experimental line, JT groaning as it does. The muscle trawls for tears you didn’t realize you shed, humming through the pursuit. The low-pitched moan sends a chill straight down your spine right to your toes.

The hand gripping your jaw lowers so his fingers are able to coil themselves around somewhere more advantageous — your neck. Your eyelids flutter, woozy. His firm squeeze, just enough to make everything spin and keep you still, has become blissfully familiar over time, but your breath still hitches like it’s the first.

“Hm, sweetheart? Don’t be rude. I asked you a question.”

Your lips part, a barbed retort to his condescension on your tongue, but all you can push out is the strangled yelp of a wounded animal.

The hand by your temple no longer rests against the door. In the fog, it snuck up under your skirt; JT never meant to get an answer out of you; he just likes to watch you squirm. Likes to have something to reprimand you for.

His nimble fingers dance over the thin, sodden material pulled taut over your heat. Less touching, more hovering. Small, lazy movements that betray how well he can play your body. They float above the tingling bundle of nerves, further movement pending, contingent upon your obedience.

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

“Focus for me, pretty baby. Tell me what I want to hear. Come on, let me make things easy for you. I can feel how badly you want to — and you aren’t in a position to be difficult, are you?”

You give in, and though the words you babble are largely unintelligible, JT’s ultimately satisfied.

“Such a good listener I’ve got myself. But you’re always to eager to please, aren’t you? You might throw stones from behind that tough girl act, but it’s just that: an act. I have a puddle in my hand to prove it.”

His frankness sears your face.

You’ve acquired a tolerance for his raunchy silver tongue through months of close proximity, but the mechanism is shoddy at best. Stalls and misfires galore. Against all odds (said “odds” being his fingertips toying with the edges of fabric between your thighs), you summon up a tawdry retort from the growing arsenal. “Don’t l-let it go to waste, Compher.”

It's not your best work, but much better than the slurred gurgle that preceded it.

He loves how you manage to be any sort of cheeky with him, even with your head swimming, stuttering and all.

“I don’t think it matters, sweetheart. I know there’s no shortage. Plenty more where it came from.”

With your knee, you nudge his hard-on and supply some honey-tongued snark of your own. “Is that your ego, or are you just excited to see me?”

Your boyfriend chokes out short-lived mirth. Then, with an accompanying smile, his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Amused, but by the sting of the remark’s undeniable truth, not your cleverness. The protrusion moves just below his bottom lip as he swipes the muscle over his teeth, a half-second sardonic gesture. It calls attention to your impudence without dignifying it with a verbal reply.

His brow lifts to negate any confusion, feigned or otherwise. “Are you going to keep being a brat, or are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

“Nothing to say now?” JT taunts. “Funny how that works.”

Fuckin’ wisenheimer. His voice is so haughty you have to bite your lip to keep your foot out of your mouth, unwilling to jeopardize your impending pleasure for short-term gratification.

Your boyfriend’s smugness—and your subsequent annoyance—becomes irrelevant when your panties are roughly pushed to the side, and his thick finger slips past your taut entrance. Tip to knuckle in one succinct trust; your startled gasp drowns out the noise rising up through the floorboards.

Hips bucking forward—you just can’t help yourself—you're in search of some friction to marry with the blinding stretch. He’s made the tensile opening accommodate far more in length and thickness, but not like this. Rarely does he create space where there is barely any, having forgone tenderness. Slowly widening a gap with gentle pressure, not demanding room like it’s already his to occupy.

Your surprise drips down his hand.

The bliss—the relief, is palpable. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, and the gravity of the situation felt for the first time.

Before, you didn’t see any substance in a tipsy frat bathroom hook-up. The older you got, the more pointless it seemed, especially with an established, long-term partner. The novelty wasn’t lost on you, of course, but that’s all you’d written it off as.

Countless collegiate nights were spent imagining one like this one. A moment where your inescapable feelings for him would be matched outright. When the pressure of his stifled emotions would build too fast to keep them from boiling over, too mighty in stature. Suddenly overcome by unrequited feelings of his own, unable to uphold all the ridiculous unspoken platonic conventions with the same authority he commands now.

This is important. For your past and present selves. The significance of this overdone, soapy teen drama scenario cannot be overlooked because it underscores the progress you’ve made together. Years of dancing around one another, the unconventional catalyst and nontraditional timeline, every hushed conversation in the wee hours before responsibilities wake, the sleepless nights and the snooze-filled afternoons—this ostensibly clichéd moment is an amalgamation of it all.

One thought rises above the frenzied rest: Was this here all along?

Is this what was waiting on the other side of the aimless pining and the confusion and the hurt?

The journey might’ve been fucking hell, but the view from here is pretty damn heavenly.

Overwhelmed by your epiphany and his dexterous motions, you moan into his skin far louder than your pride would’ve otherwise allowed outside your shared apartment.

His arrogant laughter grates before it really registers. Venom secretes from your salivary glands when it does, but the melted retribution never makes it past your lips. His second finger robs it of the opportunity, and the third sends all thoughts out your ears. The light circles over your clit cloud your vision, nails digging into his jersey-clad back—I’m feeling nostalgic, he’d said. In more ways than one, apparently.

“S’good—wanted this for so long, Compher—k-kept wishing it was you that night, not Miles.”

JT seethes at the admission, curling his fingers until your knees buckle and you’re entirely reliant on him to keep you off the floor. Even as your mind slips further and further away, your hips manage to move in time with his hand. Meeting each stroke with equal hustle and vigor, a clear end goal on the horizon.

Then his thumb drops away, his hand coming to a halt, and he steps back. 

Away.

Frustration pushes the amassed tears waiting in the wings down your cheeks. Emotion runs down your face; a heavy spill indeed.

“I don’t ever want to hear another man’s name outta your mouth when it’s my fingers buried in your pussy.” His jealousy is well-polished. Manicure-smooth, like he’s been maintaining its luster in preparation for this very occasion. "—'specially not the motherfucker that made sure I heard all your pretty sounds through the walls.”

You’d grin if you weren’t so miserable.

That’d been your intention. It wasn’t anything Miles had or did that made him different from the rest of the chapter (who all, at one point or another, tried their luck with JTC’s hot best friend), just simply when he decided to shoot his shot. The only reason you’d been out in the first place was because you reached your breaking point, no longer able to stomach what you felt for JT, and you made sure Miles knew this before you let him call an Uber.

Despite playing for the same team, the pair shared a touch-and-go rivalry. You never knew if the intensity would result in a sweeping victory or an in-house, all-out brawl. If they ever saw eye to eye, you’d of never known. Miles needed no convincing to push JT’s buttons.

There was some heavy petting, nothing more. The only time Miles saw you undress was to change into the pajamas he lent you before knocking out on his futon, leaving you to take the bed. But JT didn’t know that. If sitting in their chapter house’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning didn’t raise suspicion, the non-Compher borrowed t-shirt and ruffled hair certainly did.

Back then, he refused to ask. Even though you could see how badly he wanted to pry. Miles didn’t have anything he worth sharing, so JT was left to fill in the blanks.

You’d tell him the truth later, but right now, you wanted to see what milking his assumptions could get you.

“Did you like what you heard?”

His jaw ticks. Your hips push against his with a knowing simper.

You lean forward, closing the space he forced, lips barely brushing his ear, “Did you get off on it? Fuck your hand picturing yourself in his place… wishing it was my pussy instead?”

You hear the thud before you feel your head against the door or his hand back around your throat, his fingers deep between your walls again. The everywhere-throb makes you laugh. Giggle, really.

He squeezes until you’re no longer capable of mockery. His pace hastens, leveling out only once your thighs have started shaking around his wrist, knees cutting off his circulation elbow-down. Somehow, he keeps going despite the icy tingle. His determination overrides physical discomfort, knowing how close you’re getting. Feeling it in the distinct fluttering around his digits, seeing it in your trembling, swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so full of shit.” His mouth twitches at your throaty moan. A defiant hint of levity circles his pupils; he never stays riled up for long when it’s you yanking his chain. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him then, messy and crude, love-drunk. He tastes like your chapstick and gin, with a biting citric aftertaste —Grapefruit, maybe?—and you suck it in like you haven’t had a drop of water in days. And, in turn, he drinks down every choked sob and nonsensical half-thought you babble, every drop shooting straight to his loins.

He drives into you with fervor, humming as his tongue slips against yours, iron bulge omnipresent. The hand around your neck loosens but never leaves its post, thumb stroking your pulse point. I know everything about you, his movements whisper. Over and over, in and out. He, just as much as you, gets lost in the repetition.

“Don’t want him, never wanted him. Jus’ you—Always you.” It comes out slurred, mushy like your head, like your heart.

JT’s cock isn’t immune to affirmation and twitches through his too-tight jeans. Groaning, “Go on, sweetheart. Scream my name. I want every single person in this house to know exactly who’s fucking you this good.”

You do just that, writhing on his hand, eventually burying your face into his warm neck when it gets to be too much. He continues fucking you, and you continue crying for him, the pathetic little whimpers muffled now by his body.

JT guides you through the rest of your orgasm, as he always does. He watches your face carefully on the comedown, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort. When he finds none, he cradles your shaking form against his solid chest, the hand that, only moments ago, tore you apart, soothing you back down to earth. Once you’ve settled, he walks you back and away from the door.

A startled yelp falls from your lips when you feel the chilly edge of the countertop. You pull away from your boyfriend, brows furrowing with confusion.

His hand taps the outside of your thigh. "Up."

You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open, let alone stringing thoughts together, so the command is met with inaction. Impatient as ever, JT wordlessly hoists you where he wants you and sinks down to his knees, big hands cupping yours.

“What’re you doing?” Strained, barely above a whisper.

He stares up at you with dopey, lovestruck eyes. “Come on, Compher. You can gimmie another one, can’t you?”

You aren’t an idiot. Often sleep deprived beyond belief and, more often than not, fucked-out on JT’s… Well, anything—but definitely not an idiot. You knew exactly what that loaded gun of a pet name implied the moment he used it. It first slipped out during a frantic supply closet rendezvous midway through your company’s holiday party, then a few more times in the months after.

It hasn’t lost its sparkle. It does make you more and more impatient each time he flashes it, though.

Fuckin’ tease.

Your fingers burrow in his hair, tugging from the root until his eyelids flutter prettily. “As long as you let me return the favor after—need to taste you so bad.”

“Deal,” he mumbles into your skin a half-second later.

His hands push your already-short skirt up, bunching it atop your hips and out of the way. Your boyfriend takes the time to remove the fabric barrier this time, and you don’t miss the way he tries to slip them into his back pocket without you noticing. Likely because it’d normally be a tease-able offense.

But not tonight, not right now.

Instead, you let a shiver speak for itself. The risqué gesture reminds you of the pair he used as a pocket square when his parents took you two to a celebratory dinner following his white coat ceremony. The rumble of his chuckle tells you his mind went there, too.

JT leans in, big eyes never moving from yours, his warm exhale fanning over your swollen folds. The tooth-marked bruise forming on the side of your throat pricks in tandem response. The action, a repeat of your boyfriend’s earlier antics, naturally yields similar enough results. He catches on, inching forward to—

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

“Occupied!” your boyfriend barks, hands paused but gripping you tightly. He looks like he’s on the verge of exploding.

A full, lilting sound barrels into the door—too-good-to-be-true laughter. His breathy timbre is an unsteady balance of cocksure and skittish; a preference for one side or the other is blurred by the wood in its way. “It’s me, dickhead.”

Then, the curtain is lifted. A pocket of silence ushers in a stillness that cracks like a bolt from the blue.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel right now. You most definitely suffered a concussion somewhere in all JT’s reprimanding; you’re hallucinating right now. That, or the singular seltzer in your system magically turned psychotropic after consumption.

Waiting in the threshold is Tyson Jost. A quarter-drunk fifth of Jack in one hand and that goofy, irrepressible smile plastered on his face. Almost frozen in time—good-humored, untouched. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Suave, and standing there like he hasn’t ignored you for months on end, like your and JT’s absence in his life wasn’t felt the way the Tyson-sized void in yours was.

Idle and morose, his eyes are the only defectors to his blasé demeanor. Timid and downturned, akin to a kicked puppy, they beg you and your boyfriend to assuage his guilt. An olive branch, a white flag in the wind. Amid their vulnerability, they still manage to cut into you in a way that feels too intimate, too honest—too much.

The worst part of this charged maelstrom is knowing Tyson isn’t capable of being cruel on purpose, then or now. It's bittersweet.

Careless or callous, it hurts all the same. It’s difficult to sift through the muck and decide which feelings should guide your actions when there’s no easy place to lay blame.

A gnarly, muddy morass of emotion climbs out of your gut and fills your throat, threatening to make an appearance each time you dare to exhale. You’re nervous and confused, elated and optimistic, angry and reproachful. The burn of betrayal rushes up your neck and across the bridge of your nose, but all the words you’ve stockpiled for this rainy day stick to your tongue like tar. Dark, thick, and flammable—your silence is probably for the best.

Bronze eyes, somber beneath the fan of flaxen lashes, adopt a strange aloofness that doesn’t suit his face. Lacquered just so as to protect the gooey softness beneath, the finish does nothing to obstruct or disguise his desirous longing or a brand of blues you’ve never seen in him before.

The intensity of your braided gazes is sanguine at best, duplicitous at worst, but disorienting all the same.

Anxiously, you chew on time; you’re trying your best not to swallow minutes and hours in big gulps. Your attempts to savor their confounding guilty-pleasure flavor are as futile as hoping the animosity would dissipate on its own. Or wishing the distance was just a nightmare you were on the verge of waking up from.

JT’s pulse races against your skin. He’s just as affected, just better at hiding it.

“Took you long enough,” is what JT says in greeting from the floor, dry words flung over his shoulder to curb the growing tension. Blithesome and biting and far more hospitable than you imagined.

All you can do is blink, slack-jawed; there are pieces you’re missing.

JT chuckles at your expression. He pecks your inner thigh to regain your attention. “Fuck now, talk later. Sound good?”

His words crack any and all inhibitions. Like opening the door to a cage, his reassurance grants your mind and heart the permission to succumb to the wave of emotions—lust overtaking the pack with ease.

Eyes still stuck on the ghost in the doorway, you nod your head in agreement. It’s as if you’re afraid your voice might rupture the bubble.

“Figured you’d be a little parched, baby.” Tyson, voice becoming jocular as ever, wags the bottle as he shuts the door behind himself. His tone might be light-hearted, but his gaze is anything but. Starved is the only way you can think to aptly describe the shadow. “And we can’t have that, now can we?”

You barely register JT vacating the prime real estate to accommodate his best friend, and subconsciously, you scoot closer to the edge. You knew you missed him, but you underestimated how needy you’d become if he ever stood before you again.

Both men notice.

Grinning, Tyson takes hold of your jaw. His hand emits a small tremor of unease, hesitant where JT had been demanding. The accidental brush of his fingertips over your boyfriend’s trailed claim rattles free a melancholic whimper. Your eyes glaze over, watering as your neck cranes up at him. He gently tilts your face to the side to assess the damage. You can feel his eyes raking over the marred skin, a sensation akin to your boyfriend’s weaponized breath. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

In reference to the Neanderthal surveying you over his shoulder, Tyson sniggers. “Filthy bastard.”

Charming as ever.

“She deserved it.” JT’s nonchalant shrug is more dismissive than his verbal nod.

Wicked eyes twinkle. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

You pinch his side, offended. Nevertheless, you purr at the certitude dripping from his husky vibrato.

He yelps and bats your hand away. “Got you good, didn’t he?”

You nod.

The baby talk-adjacent voice is demeaning, but with your only shield burning a hole in your boyfriend’s back pocket, lying about the effect it's having would be pointless.

Propriety is becoming increasingly moot, as this conversation circling around you carves space for new possibilities.

“Poor thing,” Josty hums, his thumb coasting back and forth over your jaw. His breath is smokey-sweet, honeyed. “M'gonna make it all better. Open up, baby.”

It’s something straight out of an early aughts raunchy teen comedy, the way he holds your mouth open to pour whiskey straight down, doing so without the lip ever touching either one of yours. The thin stream drags slightly as it goes down, but you’d never know watching the pillowy spirit disappear into you. You’re too eager to impress them both to give in and react—to the burn in your throat or the circumstances of this affair. You guzzle the oaky vanilla-clove flavor, smiling dumbly at the toasted aftertaste, all too happy to take anything and everything you’re given.

Still, either by virtue of Tyson’s lingering tipsiness or your inattention, some of the amber liquid escapes over your bottom lip, dribbling over your chin and down in between your cleavage. There isn’t enough time to consider wiping it off; Josty’s mouth is sucking you clean before the bottle even hits the counter beside you.

“Would be a shame…” Tyson starts, briefly interrupting himself with a succession of wet, open-mouthed pecks he’s decided to spoil your décolletage with, “…to let it go to waste.”

JT’s begrudged scoff cuts through the trance. “Jesus, kid. Where’d you learn that? What the fuck have you been doing? Or should I be asking ‘who' you've been doing?"

Tyson flinches at the coarse overtone the questions carry. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of reaction only you’re close enough to feel. He just laughs into your neck rather than humoring JT or feeding into whatever he’s implying.

You’re too woozy to toss in your two cents in favor of either side.

Cold countertop lapping up your wetness, the burning palm cupping your face to aid the pursuit of sugary lips, the memory of his tongue gliding over your sticky skin—your boyfriend a few paces away, watching. That’s more potent than any liquor, mixed or straight. It doesn’t take long for you to pull away, in a there-but-not state of mind, to slouch against Tyson’s chest. Head heavy, warmed and spinning.

Happy.

“Somethin’ special, aren’t you?” Tyson muses as he kneads the tender spot where your hairline meets your neck. You peck his forearm.

“As sweet as this reunion’s been, you came up here for a reason. Get to it; we don’t have all night. I imagine La Tornade will be wanting his bathroom back eventually.”

You whimper at the sharp edge of his voice, even though you weren’t the intended target.

JT’s dark drawl was laden with protective affection for you, his devotion hardened by a hue of discontent reminiscent of a paternal chide. An outsider looking in might not see beyond the mediator-in-shining-armor ruse, mistakenly pruning away JT’s thorny pain and rotted grief, but you know better. The situation and him. While genuine, his defense of your bruised feelings is a trojan horse for his own. He’s conveying his rage how he can: under the guise of selflessness.

Tyson gulps, eyes downcasted, then nods. He understands as well as you do. When he finally looks up, the shadow’s fallen over his face once more, cloud drooped low overhead.

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

This makes him laugh, his mood brightening a tad. “If anyone should be scared, it’s me.”

In your periphery, you catch JT urging him to continue with a stiff glare.

“I-I’ve been such an ass. I—I just care so damn much. About you. About Compher, and our friendship. When you graduated, m-my whole world changed. Like someone gutted my life, scooped out all the good, comfortable stuff and left me with the shell. I felt like I lost my people. Like I was left behind. And then I had to watch you two get closer than ever—without me. It fucking sucked, and I didn’t cope well. Didn’t cope at all, really. Kate’ll tell you, she took the brunt of my tailspin.”

You can’t help but snort despite the thick emotion welling up behind your eyes. The boys smile, too. Things look up.

Tyson takes your hand in a tight squeeze; his pulse jumps into your palm. “But that’s no excuse for what I did—didn’t do. How I treated you. You were trying so hard, and all I did was punish you for it. For constantly reminding me you guys are there and not here. For moving on with your life like you’re supposed to.”

He claims JT’s old spot knelt between your parted knees. “And I’m sorry. So deeply sorry, baby. Please let me make it up to you—let me apologize properly.”

Tears of his own shine up at you from his flushed cheeks. Gently, you take his face in your hands, rubbing away the spilled emotion with the soft pads of your thumbs.

A silent pardon.

The walls throw back the echo of his low, audible content—of relief.

“Is this okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, dwindling to a hush as the question tapers off.

Too determined to quiet his audible fear of rejection—and to have his mouth on you as fast as humanly possible—to bother with words, you nod immediately.

“With how much she’s been dripping onto the counter since you walked in, what do you think?” JT interjects, mood vastly improved.

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

The younger forward chuckles, hands massaging up and down your sensitive thighs, gripping them as if holding himself back from lunging too soon.

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. Didn’t want to embarrass her.” He winks up at you, confidence rising to the surface once more. You have to fight to maintain eye contact; he’s that stupidly attractive. “ —was try t’be a gentleman.”

You’re a flurry of butterflies, a whimpering mess.

Tyson wants to tease your body; it’s in his nature. But he won’t. Namely, because he can’t. No matter how good some old-fashioned edging would eventually make you feel, he’s already on JT’s shit list as is.

Besides, he’s only been fiending for a taste since you introduced yourself to him. And there's no time like the present...

Your guttural scream—an appropriate, albeit mortifying reaction to his baby pink lips enveloping your swollen clit—pumps his chest full with pride. Tongue flat, he charts the length of your heat with a gentleness you hadn’t thought your collective excitement would allow for. His hands coast over your legs, syncing with his mouth, until he physically cannot wait any longer. One final pass, one so agonizingly slow your greedy hips thoughtlessly vie for more of anything, brings his wistful, fidgeting digits to rest at the apex of your thighs.

“Pause.”

JT’s clipped command is a bucket of ice water.

Your vocal annoyance is matched by Tyson’s, but you both know how delicate a game you’re playing.

With his thumb still lazily swirling to your clit, Tyson’s inquisitive head begins to turn around. Before he gets anywhere worthwhile, it’s swiftly spun back into place by your boyfriend’s firm hand.

You can’t even convey how hot you find JT’s fingers casually twisting in his friend’s curly mop—just the way you love; all you manage is a warbled, mostly airy cry. Your distressed state worsens watching the show unfold between your lax, parted knees: reluctant, fluttery lashes over neon cheeks; a rosy, glistening bottom lip sacrificed to cage mousy whimpers, his ragged breathing betraying all effort toward feigning indifference to JT’s self-assured manhandling.

Your boyfriend snickers at your expression, a fish lingering open-mouthed for a surface sip, an ill-attempt to supplement a natural mode gone inadequate. No matter how much oxygen your widened jaw draws in, it never feels sufficient. A bottomless pit, a balloon with a fatal puncture wound. Gone before your depleted brain could make use of it.

“Have to make sure he does it right, don’t I, sweetheart?” JT’s voice is smooth and low, charring by the second; he’s enjoying the view as much as you are.

Tyson rolls his tawny eyes. Half-hearted annoyance. “Controlling much?”

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

And the growl JT hurls back, a low-pitched rumble permeating the tight space with little effort on his part, is just plain mean.

His attitude could not be more arrogant. The cavalier persona makes you shiver, and Tyson’s breath hitch. Humming, your boyfriend tugs on his curls until the two’s eyes are locked. Inescapable. The brunette gasps as he tries desperately to hold his eyes open, waiting with bated breath.

JT licks his lips, triumphant. “Open her up for me, will ya?” Mischief catches in the light as quickly as it falls into your boyfriend’s lap. His grip tightens, and Tyson whimpers like a naughty puppy caught red-handed. “Don’t screw around, ‘kay? She needs all the help her tight pussy can get, and we don’t have all night.”

Panting, his nod is the only affirmative he can muster up. And the only one his limited range of motion will allow for. Smug and pleased enough, JT all but throws his friend into your fire, his nose bumping where you’re most sensitive. 

You actually yelp.

Holding your torrid gaze, Tyson dips his marriage and middle into you. You groan out what you meant to be his name—But who knows? And who fucking cares?—unable to control yourself while he’s finally touching you like this. Finally back.

Tyson finger-fucks you at an even pace, steadily pushing you up the hill. His satisfaction is tangible when he pulls out and away, so very delighted by your wonton hiss of annoyance. Even more so when the volume hikes up in response to the slippery pads of his fingers circling your clit. Your lewd whines harmonize with your audible arousal as he works it back into your fragile skin, playing with your wetness, utterly fascinated.

“What d’ya think, baby? Think you’re wet enough to take another finger?” JT’s tone is as cocky as his stupid rhetorical question. He, however, made no move to conceal his growing impatience.

“Mhmm,” you murmur, head like a rubber ball hitting the pavement. Still, you remember your manners. “Please—c-can I? Can I have another?”

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

JT’s reverent eyes stay with you, but his words pour down over the eager man on the floor as he coaxes you halfway to heaven. “You heard her, kid. Give the lady what she deserves.”

Kid—Tyson hates when people call him that, but he especially loathes JT's usage. There’s barely an age difference, but with the way everyone acts, it might as well be decades. It seems like no matter what he does to prove himself, he’s still the baby. Every additional candle is like an annual slap in the face, a mockery that won’t end.

He can feel anger and frustration curdling low in his stomach just thinking about all the attempts that fell flat, and he decides to put the grumbling to good use. The vibration is red-hot and deliberate against your responsive, slick center, irritation like lighter fluid.

He gives you more than just three fingers. He splays all three—wide. Even as they stroke your soft inner walls, Tyson keeps you stretched so as to leave no slack. Your boyfriend wants you open? Tyson will fucking tear you apart, happily. (Yes, spite is a factor.)

Highly sensitive and spread to the limit, you ascend far quicker than usual. Fisting a bushel of golden-brown curls, nails digging rapt half-moons, you guide his willing face to the necessary places to see yourself through. Every slight adjustment has your entire body jerking haphazardly as it struggles to process the rocketing shockwaves.

JT’s hand retreats—only slightly—to make way for yours, to give you more leverage to fuck yourself through it. Less than a foot away, your boyfriend’s chest heaves in time with yours, his eyes pits of lust you dive into with clumsy enthusiasm.

During one particular, delicious pass, the tip of Tyson’s tongue catches your strained entrance, and when you unexpectedly gush against his mouth in response, he begins lapping over and around your carnal connection.

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

The denouement of your climax is nothing short of glorious, as rude of a sentence interruptor as it was. Half-mewls and purred praise rain down from your loosened lips, eyes screwed shut.

Tyson melts over the way you take control of your orgasm, so unabashed and authoritative. You go after what you want; he respects that majorly. And getting to feel and taste what makes you tick doesn’t hurt either.

Neither do you and your pretty, throbbing walls cutting off blood flow while your boyfriend tugs his hair from behind.

“Just like that, keep fucking her through it. Did so good—doin’ so good for us.”

JT’s praise sends the brunette’s unoccupied hand right to his bulge.

This is the best he’s felt in months.

There’s the mythical balance of bliss-to-tension to key up his senses, shooting white-hot tingles of want from his head to his feet and flaming between his ribs, affection for you. You forgive him, JT forgives him, and, most importantly, he forgives himself.

He feels buoyant with his face coated in your climax, so much so that it runs down from his chin to his neck, staining the collar of his beer-soaked tee; he hopes you might return his favor later.

Josty’s guilty hand is knocked away by a firm toe.

“Y’haven’t earned it, bud,” his mentor chides.

The delinquent appendage flops lamely at his side for a split second, then lifts beside his nose to join its partner at your slick core. As if remembering there’s work to be done, a goal to attain. Beneath this new asset, your achy, spent clit pulses, egging him on with every thump, thump, thump.

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

He thinks about it. Fuck, does he think about it—you can see the tape winding in his eyes.

JT can read Tyson’s mind through his skull, apparently. “Don’t even think about it, kid. Her last one’s mine, but you’re more than welcome to watch from right here.” —Your boyfriend points to the remaining space between the sinks, knowing it’ll be close quarters for you both— “Just remember: I only said watch. This is groveling, not a treat.”

And Tyson does. Without question or complaint, he’s just fine sitting next to you, sitting pretty.

He’s always been the perfect teammate. Always willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the role. The only difference is he no longer wants his anxiety to be the sole motivator behind said selflessness.

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

Immediately, your attention fractures. Split between messy brown curls and lust-blown pupils and your own disheveled appearance: smudged makeup, knotted hair, mauled neck, and spit-stained, bruised lips. Thank fuck you’re graduated and gone. Otherwise, you’d never live this down—Kate might treat you to a taste of would-be campus humiliation later if she’s feeling particularly charitable, though.

Your boyfriend’s grip is heavy on your hips. Happy to have you back. You feel one hand coast over your lower back and down to grope your ass as if trying to keep you in the palm of his hand. White-knuckle hold withstanding, JT presses his chest flush to your backside and uses his free hand to yank every remaining hindrance to your navel.

He wants you on display.

Your gasp is rivaled only by Tyson’s pitiful whimper and twitching, touch-happy fingers.

The ginger’s chuckle is molten and deep, mouth barely a breath from your ear, his eyes pinning Tyson still.

Your mind rewound back to when he made this proposition, wondering how the hell you got from there to here.

“Bend over, sweetheart. Arch that back nice and pretty so we can show Josty what a good girl he’s been missing out on—what a filthy thing you’ve turned into.”

As soon as you’ve done just that, your boyfriend drives home. It’s fast and dirty; primal. He knows there’s no need, but JT marks his territory anyway.

You watch Josty’s mouth part like he’s about to ask you something. Staring through his eyes as if ducking into his pesky daydreams and up-too-late musings, all specifics watery and indistinct.

Ultimately, you wind up disappointed by silence. But, with the slow return of your boyfriend’s bare cock between your soft inner walls, it dawns on you; JT had used a condom last time. Even made Tyson retrieve it for him. The depth of your relationship is sinking in; that’s what you’re now watching. He’s mulling over the information, caught somewhere between wanting to swallow his guilt one go and choking on his own assumptions.

JT follows your charged concern, performs a similar triage, and then gives you a concise nod through the fogged-up mirror.

I’ll handle it.

At that, your walls noticeably ease, and he shudders, groaning as even more of him sinks deeper to occupy the newfound space. He gets a few strokes out before Josty slots his body between your palms to lean in. Here, he does something that collapses the simple but effective status quo. 

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

“Such a fucking mess, baby. Don’t know how Compher gets anything done with you there, sweet and ripe for the taking.”

The two halves of Tyson’s demeanor are antithetical, and infuriatingly so, a saccharine smile split open by filth. It paints a sordid picture that must stand for itself, as you find it impossible to pluck out of thin air any coherent thoughts.

Be that as it may, your friend did not set out for a reply. At least not one other than the befuddled stuttering you’re doing.

A familiar palm shoots to your raw neck—tender, inside and out—lightning quick. You're yanked up before you can blink. JT mercilessly nips at the gaps in between his tight grip, hips pushed just as firm against the swell of your backside.

Still, he furthers their madcap banter. “I dunno either, Josty. And, believe me, the little vixen sure as hell doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I think she’s tryna milk me dry for good.”

If Tyson Jost were ever going to cream his pants—post-pubescence, it would be now.

Like, right fucking now.

The proclamation of your third orgasm is wondrous. Proud. Grateful. One of your hands flies back to catch the nape of JT’s neck to steady yourself as he continues pistoning in and out of you. Tyson's generous touch stays, too.

Your back arches this go around, head rolling against your boyfriend's shoulder before slipping back down towards the counter, free palm absorbing the impact of the abrupt sway. Too much, too much—it’s all too much for your tender muscles and soupy brain to handle. You surrender to the plethora of sensations, each more overwhelming than the last—half-collapsed back against into your boyfriend, half-crumbled forward into his best friend’s damp, tented lap.

“Not gonna last, sweetheart—y’feel too damn good, s’tight and warm, always strangling my cock—know you’re close, too. Gonna give me what you promised, Compher? Please, pretty girl—need to feel your perfect pussy squeezin’ me dry.”

It's refractory; your world goes from washed-out to vivid and back, over and over, as though impatiently flipping between channels.

You’re a tangle of sticky limbs and physical reverie, blanketed by a warm afterglow and cleared air. Body scaffolded by muscular forms on either side, your mind gives your body permission to slacken at last. JT’s arm winds around your midsection when it becomes clear the all-consuming exhaustion is giving way to the relaxation that eluded you for so many months. Tyson massages your arms, your hands still cemented to his knees. Your head drops to his shoulder, too heavy for your bruised neck.

For a long while, no one says a thing. Not intentionally or for fear of disturbing the peace; there’s simply no need. No words exist to shoulder that much weight, none able to capture precisely what emotions swirl between you. Silence says enough—silence says it all.

Banging cuts through your sex-drunk stupor. Again. The abrupt sounds function like metaphorical smelling salts, restoring consciousness and rousing decorum laid dormant. Your mutual, unadulterated bliss circles the drain in the absence of a psychological plug, ripped free, half-baked.

JT reluctantly leaves you empty and dripping, tucks himself away, and cracks open the door—only as wide as is necessary. Behind his imposing physique, you remain hunched over Tyson, waiting for your boyfriend to make the problem go away; you’re too tired to take any initiative.

Golden hair and familiar grey-blue eyes fill the gap, shining in your periphery. Barely a sliver, that’s how much of this your boyfriend’s willing to share with the world. You like that, and judging by his lopsided grin, so does Tyson.

“Paging Mrs. Compher!” Gabe hollers over JT’s head. “Clean up on aisle ‘Kate.’”

Just hearing her name puts you back in action. Damn you, maternal instincts.

You scramble to right twisted fabric and smeared makeup to a soundtrack of expletives. It’s pointless, though, because nothing settles how it should. No amount of smoothing, brushing, or tucking seems to help. Hazy vision and the legs of a newborn fawn don’t exactly lend themselves to effective primping.

And it’s not like you’ve got a hickey-remover magic wand stashed in your purse, either. 

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

Tyson does a piss-poor job muffling his laughter, which lands him a crisp swat to the chest.

As you stumble over, you catch the end of your boyfriend’s irritation. “—and you’re sure there isn’t anyone else to hold her hair back? Why can’t you do it?”

The gears in Gabe’s skull clank so loud you can hear them over the audible chaos seeping into your haven—he’s intoxicated, not stupid.

“CupKate wants her mommy.” The blonde winks at you over JT’s shoulder. His tongue gives a knowing click of approval at Tyson’s equally disheveled state. “And what do you care, Compher? Smells like you three already made your express trip to Pound-town, USA. How was it? I hear the weather’s hot and steamy this time of year.”

“Real mature, Landy, real mature,” JT scoffs.

The sound just revs him up. “Says the fucker who’s locked in a frat house bathroom with his girlfriend and his best friend. One of whom, might I add, looks like they got mauled by a hormonal freshman after a high school dance.”

“Can you two go measure your dicks, I don’t know, anywhere but in the way? I have a child to tend to.” 

You almost have to laugh. At the situation and at the words coming out of your mouth. At Kate, sick to her stomach like a kid who ate too many sweets on a holiday. 

Years have passed, but you’re all still the same.

“Me-yeoh!” Gabe sing-songs while miming what you assume are claws scratching at nothing.

Again, his drink is the sole casualty of his jubilation. A golden wave sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. The spray makes JT’s jaw tick.

The former winger offers a sheepish grin in repentance. “Whoops?”

Your boyfriend steals a glance to check that you’re decent, then side-steps out of your way with an exasperated sigh. His dilated gaze flits over your ruffled appearance, shamelessly drinking in the state of your throat but tripping over the questions dancing in your eyes.

He juts his head in Landy’s direction with a sardonic eye-roll. “Go on. Save your damsel, Mother Hen. I’ll fill you in on in the Uber back to the hotel.”

“Meet you out front?” You ask, and he nods.

You dart back to Tyson, plant a chaste peck on his flushed cheek, and then repeat the gesture with JT and his peeved lips. It’s faint, but they instantly soften for you.

Before they know it, you’re slipping out the door. Gabe gets an affectionate pat on the shoulder as you squeeze by him before you disappear in the direction of the Girls Only bathroom; no significant differences, only marginally cleaner and occasionally stocked with helpful accouterment—chivalry isn’t dead!

Lingering in the wake of your departure, Gabe sways like an inflatable man on the curb of a car dealership. A smirk twists his lips. “Nicely done, boys. Nicely done. Can’t say I thought we’d see the day—or that either of you had it in ya—but I feel like a proud father.” He wipes a phantom tear, the final straw. “Makes you wish you listened to Daddy Landy sooner, huh? Think of all the lost ti—”

JT slams the door in his face. Through the wood, Gabe cackles.

The two men slip back into sync as they wordlessly scrape themselves back together with the time and privacy you were not afforded. 

As JT yanks his jeans back into place, his belt clanking around like a bell’s hourly chime, a black velvet box tumbles to the floor, and Tyson’s stomach along with it.

The air shouldn’t, but it turns on a dime. Their progress is seemingly more fragile than expected.

“If—uh, wow.” A crunchy, anxious bark of a laugh cuts his thought in half.

JT doesn’t interrupt; he holds space for the blossoming discomfort.

Tyson rubs the tense knots along the back of his neck as his eyes drill into the floor. “If I’d known this would be our swan song, I would’ve tried to enjoy it more. I don’t know—savored it, I guess?”

“This,” JT says, scooping up the dud he hopes isn’t hanging fire. “— is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”

Before they got into it in the garage, before they’d been forcibly separated by Erik and Nate. Before they, punch-drunk and drunk-drunk, teetered between tears and anger in the shadowy, too-quiet backyard.

They spun in circles until they had nowhere to move but on. To make amends, to stumble through chary half-apologies that mean more than they say.

JT’s alleviation was short-lived; his calm trepidation squashed before it could fly. Tyson now understands why.

Tyson balks. “Me?”

Your boyfriend sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge. He’s bidding time. Digging for the right words but knowing there are none.

“I love her—and I know you do, too. I’m not upset; she makes it hard not to fall for her.”

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

JT continues, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. Without making sure you’d be okay. Eventually. The last thing I wanted was for you to be blindsided or to feel even more left out.”

Tyson can’t help but snort at the sheer absurdity. “Left out… God, how pathetic am I? Getting all butt-hurt over a relationship that isn’t even mine.”

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

Josty winces. He doesn’t argue because he has zero ground to stand on.

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

“I didn't—don’t want to take her from you. You have to know that, Compher.” The hurt’s been hammered from his voice. Left behind is softened sincerity.

JT’s smile is just as downy. “I do, and you’d be wasting time by trying.”

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

You love JT Compher so openly and ardently it might as well be a neon sign plastered to your forehead. He’s always been it for you. There’s never been any competition, Tyson Jost included.

“Thank god we got this ironed out before the wedding,” the older forward chuckles as he leans back against the counter.

They’re side-by-side, as they should be.

“Why’s that?”

JT digs into his other pocket and pushes something into the palm of his best friend, whose cheeks flame tout de suite in response. With a bump of his shoulder, your boyfriend tacks on, “Something to remember tonight by.”

Tyson shoves the memento into his own pocket, then raises a quizzical brow.

Your boyfriend grins.

“The best man pining over the bride while giving the groom the cold shoulder would make for an awkward wedding, don’t you think?”

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[comphy-and-cozy]

unforgettable - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 3.1K

Author's Note: This is fully the most self-indulgent and personal fic I have ever and will ever write, so if no one likes it I'm still not gonna be sorry. This is wildly contrived and barely passable as realistic. It is quite literally Y/N's Story (C's Version). You'll know what I mean when you read it. Thanks to @smileysvech for listening to me be unhinged about this for like two months straight - you a real one. And in case you are wondering, this is the fic in question.

Warnings: Suggestive/adult content (18+ recommended), discussions about sex/sexual implications, alcohol use/consumption, full insanity. Like a medium burn/banter that's basically foreplay but no actual sexy times.

series masterlist | nhl masterlist | part 2

November 2021

Meeting a personal idol is always a special experience, full of excitement, nerves, anticipation; hopefully making a connection to tell them how much you admire them or what they mean to you. Even if it’s the intention, it feels a little embarrassing to be at a fan event put on by the team, like you’re too old to be at a function for the sole purpose of meeting professional hockey players, and the concept of being perceived is, frankly, almost overwhelming.

But then they turn out to be kind, funny, and courteous; not at all what you expected. They smile at you, ask you your name, thank you for coming, engage with you like you’re a regular human being. Like they’re a regular human being. (They are, of course, but it’s difficult to comprehend that when you’re used to them being little men on your television screen with ice knives strapped to their feet.)

When you get to your favorite TV Ice Man, he’s beautiful, and it takes you a moment to get rid of the shakiness in your voice when you hear him say your name for the first time. The warmth of his hand on your back when you pose for a photo together lingers long after he pulls away, smiling at you as he says, “Tag me in that on Instagram.”

It’s exhilarating, enough to have you bouncing from cloud to cloud as you leave, heart soaring. Still, after walking out on shaky legs with the most precious memories and photos tucked safely into your phone, you’re in need of a drink to settle the nerves that have been floating in your belly since the night began. 

As soon as it touches your tongue, the drink helps to calm you down, and you’re in a dreamland as you reflect on the evening behind you. A real conversation with JT Compher, the man you’ve had a crush on for years—and he talked to you! He is aware you exist! And though you’re sure it’s a figment of your imagination, you’ll remember the warmth in his eyes when they connected with yours for the rest of your life.

Luck is on your side, it seems, when you catch a group of tall, muscular men walking in out of the corner of your eye; the aura of the room instantly changes in their presence, like the room automatically got ten degrees hotter. In the middle of the pack is the unmistakable red hair, styled meticulously, only now he’s lost his tie in favor of unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. He looks good, dressed down in a way that makes him look even more delicious than before.

His aura is different now that the event is over, like he’s able to remove the mask he put on for the public at a work event; now, he’s just a normal guy out on a Friday night with his friends. Other than the Gucci belt and Tom Ford suit, one would have no idea that he’s got an extra digit at the end of his paycheck, and he loves that.

Until he sees you. You, who knows exactly who he is, who is fully aware he’s unwinding from a long and tiring fan event with his friends. He’d have to be an idiot to forget your face, the one that made him pause when you told him your name, his breath hitching in his throat just for a moment.

When he sidles up next to you at the bar, the last thing you expect is for him to greet you, let alone remember your name. You look at him in surprise when he offers to buy your drink, gaping for a little too long until you’re nodding shyly. 

“Have fun at the event?” he asks after sliding his card across the bar to open a tab, leaning up against the ornate marble as he faces you. 

“It was incredible,” you reply with a blissful smile. “They—you guys—are always so nice.”

The corners of his lips curl upward, just slightly, pleased at your positive review. “I’m glad to hear that. The fans are so important to us, so I—we—like to be able to give back when we can.”

“It doesn’t get exhausting? Talking to all those people?”

Something shifts in his eyes, and briefly you wonder if he’s toying with the line of talking to a fan versus just a stranger, contemplating if he should drop a layer of his public persona. Eyeing the extra sliver of creamy skin peeking out from his unbuttoned collar, you’d say he’s already halfway there.

“It can be a lot,” he admits. “But it really is fun. And very humbling.”

Your drink is placed on the bar in front of you, and the bartender nods at JT when he asks to keep the tab open. Your heart does a flip, but you remind yourself he’s here with friends.

“How long have you been a fan?”

“I’ve been watching hockey since I was a kid,” you say, and he nods in understanding. You tell him of the photos of you as a toddler, standing in your neon windbreaker next to the Stanley Cup; you note the way his eyes glitter when you mention it, like he’s wistfully envisioning the day he’ll lift the trophy himself. You note the way you like it.

“Let me guess. Your favorite player was Joe Sakic.”

“Actually, you might hate this, but my favorite player was Steve Yzerman.”

JT’s eyebrows raise as he shrugs. “Hard to argue with that, even if he did beat the Avs. Are you a Wings fan?”

“I went to U of M, so I went to a lot of games when I lived in Ann Arbor. So I think I am by default.”

You can see his eyes shift at the mention of his alma mater, like something’s permanently altered in the dynamic between you. He doesn’t need to tell you that he went there, too, but he does anyway. “Go Blue.”

With a smirk, you raise your glass and clink the base against his as you say it back. Your eyes flick to the group he arrived with, upstairs in the VIP area, surrounded by pretty girls in tight skirts.

“Do you need to get back to them?”

JT takes a sip of his own drink, an Old Fashioned, then licks his lips again like he knows it’ll catch your attention. Then he shrugs, nonchalant. “Would rather stay here with you. Have to make sure the drink I paid for doesn’t go to waste.”

He’s too smooth, you think, warning yourself to keep an eye on him or you’d be swooning at his feet. Not that you aren’t already ready to, your own willpower barely holding up under his gaze and your Amaretto Sour weaving its way into your senses. 

“What’s a Wings fan doing in Denver?”

It’s a simple question, the logical one, but you’re still surprised that he asks, that he wants to know more about the one of many fans he met tonight. Still, you answer, explain that you’re visiting friends who are big Avs fans. You don’t have it in you to tell him that you’ve had a crush on him for years, that you timed your visit to coincide with the event. That you’re having an internal meltdown just existing in his presence and trying desperately hard to remain cool and composed. 

And you can’t tell if he’s flirting with you, or if he’s just being nice, which makes you panic even more, gulping down the remainder of your drink in an attempt to calm your nerves. Do his eyes keep shifting down to your cleavage, or is that your imagination? Is he letting his cheek brush against yours when he speaks into your ear, or is it just an accident? 

Another round of drinks later, and he’s still here, and now you’re sure he’s at least some kind of interested. His friends are upstairs, loud, rambunctious, and he hasn’t even given them so much as a glance, instead focused on you and making you shiver under his attention.

The conversation has been steady, making its way through hockey, past childhood, and college, and jobs, and now you’re onto hobbies. And you may have accidentally let it slip that you like to write. 

It’s against your own will that your mouth announces, out loud, to a professional athlete, that you write hockey fanfiction. Or, wrote. Have written. Either way, it’s the alcohol’s fault, and you’re tempted to dump the remaining contents of your glass on the ground to avoid saying anything else.

His eyebrows raise in amusement, a grin breaking out onto his face. “Oh, now you have to tell me more.”

You’re shaking your head no, face sweltering hot when you realize what you’ve just admitted. “Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I just said that. I think this conversation is done.”

“Aww, come on, tell me,” he prods, nudging your knee with his. “Was it about someone I know?”

You draw your lips tight, shaking your head to tell him your lips are sealed. 

“It was!” he exclaims, his eyes lighting up. “I bet it was about Gabe. Wasn’t it? All the girls love Gabe. He’s a dreamboat.”

Covering your mouth with your hand, you shake your head at him again. This cannot be fucking happening right now.

“No Gabe? Hm…” he looks around, as if he’s searching for the subject in front of him. “Oh! Josty. He’s got a whole following of fangirls.”

Part of you wants to laugh, and the other part of you wants to die immediately on the spot, buried beneath the ground without another word. He isn’t wrong, but he is dangerously close to discovering the truth.

He sees your reaction, inferring that no, it wasn’t Josty, and he takes another sip of his drink as he racks his brain. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, mulling over the options like he’s mentally running through an encyclopedia of NHL players. Then, his eyes shift, a glitter returning to them before they’re landing back on you, and suddenly you feel hot all over, sensing the end of your life hurtling rapidly towards you.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

Face scorching hot, you can’t help the defeated smile on your face as you cast your eyes away, mortified beyond belief. Why did you have to say anything? Things were going so well, and now you’re preparing for him to make a quick exit and dash upstairs to laugh at you with his teammates, a story that would surely make the rounds through the league. You’re contemplating which path to the door is quickest, which will get you out of there fast enough to avoid dying of embarrassment on the spot.

But instead of making a run for it, he just laughs, a surprised expression on his face. “Oh, my God.”

“I’m just gonna go now—”

“No, no,” he’s quick to say, waving his hand to show he isn’t bothered, and maybe an air of, please, stay. “I’m flattered, honestly. I didn’t think anyone liked me like that.”

Oh, they do, you think, but your semblance of self-control has taken over again, covering your mouth before the thought can verbalize; at least you can shut the fuck up sometimes. Instead, you shrug playfully, then take another sip, thinking that at the very least, you can drown out your humiliation with more alcohol.

“You gonna tell me what it was about, or you playing hard to get?”

His question is subtle but clearly twofold in meaning, and you nearly choke on your drink again. Is this real? This has to be a dream. 

Forcing yourself to get your wits together, you say, “I’m gonna need another drink if you want to even remotely convince me to share that.”

“I can do that,” he grins. “Say no more.”

It’s only after he returns with another drink in hand that you notice the flush in his cheeks, the way the warm mahogany of his eyes have turned a little more molten. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe—unlikely—it’s you. Probably the former. Surely the former.

He keeps the conversation light, allowing you to ask about life as an NHL star, about his favorite part about Denver, about who his funniest teammate is. He’s surprised, though, when you ask what he misses the most about life before the NHL; what he wishes he could have amidst the fanfare of being a professional athlete.

Mulling over your question, he takes another sip of his cocktail, and you seize the opportunity to admire his face, up close. The neat landscaping of his beard, the perfectly styled coiff of his hair, the deep mauvey-pink shade of his lips. God, he’s handsome.

His laugh pulls you out of your daydream, and he raises his glass toward you. “Thank you.”

You’re confused for a moment, until you realize that your thought wasn’t an internal commentary at all, but something that slipped out of your mouth by accident. You have quite literally turned into a stuttering, bumbling fool in his presence. He doesn’t seem bothered, though, swiftly moving past the moment to answer: “Honestly, I think what I miss most are conversations like this. Where I don’t have to be ‘on,’ where I can just be a normal guy with a pretty girl at a bar.”

“A girl telling you she wrote smutty fanfiction about you is ‘normal’?”

JT’s face shifts, and all at once you realize the additional descriptor you used, immediately groaning at the accidental admission. Why do you keep doing this? Why does it have to be him?

“Smutty? Like, it’s spicy?”

“No,” you lie, but the speed of your reply is a dead giveaway, and suddenly he’s grinning.

“You wrote—” he drops his voice to a whisper, “—sexy times about me?”

Your non-answer is an answer in itself, and the smile on his face is so wide, he might as well have won the Stanley Cup. Your face burns, could probably fry an egg on your cheeks, ready to slink into a hole and never come out.

“Oh, come on, now you have to tell me!” he says. “I won’t judge. I swear.”

“I’m sorry, that information is classified. It’s firmly secured under lock, key, and shark-infested waters with lasers attached to their heads.”

“Okay, fine, I can play this game,” he grins, pretending to crack his knuckles. “Was there… a blowjob?”

“Jesus, JT. Coming in hot, are you?” Then, “No.”

“That hurts, but I understand,” he places his hand over his heart. “What about… cunnlingus?”

“I am shocked that you know what that word means.”

“I have an elite education. You should know.”

“The leaders and best,” you say with a raised glass.

“Stop deflecting. Did I eat you out or not?”

The intimacy and bluntness of the phrasing makes your heart flutter, along with the area in question. The devil on your shoulder is whispering, fuck around and find out. So, with an internal shrug, you do. “You may have.”

JT beams. “Excellent.”

He rapid fires off more categories—spanking, handcuffs, edging, foot fetish?—all of which make your cheeks burn the more he inquires, as casual as asking you about what you do for a living.

“Threesome?”

“No.”

He hums. “Good. I didn’t want to share.”

The admission catches you off-guard, and judging by the way he eyes you for your reaction, he said it intentionally to rile you up. You hope he can’t see the rapid way your heart beats in your throat, the idea that this professional athlete would ever be possessive over a fan with a crush.

His last question pulls you from your thoughts and also makes you nearly snort your drink out of your nose. “Anal?”

“Jim Tim, I’m really gonna need you to cool it with topics I’m wildly unprepared to discuss.”

“That sounds like you’ll be ready at some point, though.”

“Maybe if you call me in about 100 years, I will be.”

He hums, then swirls the ice left in his glass. “What about the time it takes me to cash out and Uber back to mine?”

Your brain completely shuts down at the invitation, the proposition striking you in the face. He couldn’t have seriously been flirting with you this entire time, could he? Surely, he was just being silly with a girl—a fan—who he’ll never see again?

But he’s looking at you, and it feels like the time has long since passed if he was going to announce that it’s all been a joke. He’s waiting for your reply, for a confirmation that all of his hard work and perfect banter has not gone to waste.

So you nod, letting out a loud sigh as soon as his red hair disappears back into the crowd to pay his tab. Your hands are shaking, your heart threatening to leap out of your throat, and you glance around like everyone is going to start laughing at you for believing that JT Compher would want to take you home.

-

JT’s skin tingles as he signs his check, nodding a ‘thank you’ at the bartender before pocketing his wallet. This wasn’t what he expected when he prepped himself for the event tonight; he anticipated photos, nervous fans, hand aching from signing so many hats and jerseys—and afterward, decompressing at the bar with the guys, having a few drinks, guffawing along as Bo surely makes a fool of himself. Instead, he feels like he’s been smacked in the face, in awe of the girl he met and promptly learned he can’t get enough of. It’s only been a few hours, but he’s hooked on her smile, on her quick wit, on the way she makes his cock twitch in his pants when she laughs. 

He yearns to be with her, now, to try his chances at feeling her pretty lips on his, to get a better glimpse at the jeans she painted on over the tempting curve of her hips. Though he’s confident—she wrote fanfiction about him for Christ’s sake—it’s far from a slam-dunk, but he’s eager to embrace the challenge ahead, and equally content to just spend more time basking in her presence. 

But when he returns to the spot he left her at, she’s nowhere to be found. He scans the crowd, searching for the eyes that have captivated him so deeply. A tinge of nerves blaze through him, the thought of being ghosted flitting through his brain, but then he remembers the way she looked at him, the way her breath hitched when he leaned in close to her. 

So, he searches for her, sure she’s just stepped away for a moment. He checks the bar, the restroom, the front door, the back door—nothing. And then he finally accepts the truth: She’s gone, disappeared without a word, far too good to be true.

JT Ubers home alone, left to quell the burning in his gut in the somber solidarity of his bedroom, wistfully wondering if your paths will cross again someday.

SIMILAR CONTENT: Already Ready to Go* A Night in Paris* Adore You

Tagging: @somuchf4rstardust @laurenairay @senditcolton @fallinallincurls

[matthewtkachuk]

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last. 

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you. 

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado. 

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’. 

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count. 

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way. 

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house. 

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid. 

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely. 

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you. 

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours. 

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes. 

-

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy. 

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level. 

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law. 

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it. 

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit. 

It warms your heart. 

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate. 

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway. 

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander. 

-

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena. 

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell. 

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility. 

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier. 

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass. 

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp. 

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs. 

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy. 

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff. 

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.” 

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot. 

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces. 

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you. 

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16. 

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer. 

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move. 

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners. 

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy. 

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed. 

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire. 

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more. 

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper. 

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate. 

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently. 

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth. 

“It’ll be worth the wait.” 

And worth the wait it is. 

-

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices. 

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too. 

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you. 

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure. 

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other. 

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign. 

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan. 

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up. 

-

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed. 

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life. 

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie. 

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants. 

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is. 

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you. 

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed. 

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush. 

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss. 

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again. 

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing. 

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body. 

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast. 

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs. 

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone. 

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises. 

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too. 

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths. 

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch. 

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him. 

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better. 

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips. 

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him. 

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm. 

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too. 

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up. 

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs. 

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery. 

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall. 

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake. 

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with. 

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying. 

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap. 

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless. 

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.” 

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing. 

The reality of the situation hits you. 

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life. 

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply. 

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

-

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time. 

“He loves you,” she says. 

You’re not so sure. 

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here. 

It’s not all bad though. 

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities. 

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school. 

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat. 

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be. 

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.” 

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.” 

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away. 

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same. 

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red. 

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist. 

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded. 

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head. 

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit. 

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up. 

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled. 

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan. 

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone. 

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts. 

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked. 

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass. 

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours. 

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back. 

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again. 

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact. 

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head. 

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.” 

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist. 

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door. 

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again. 

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.” 

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial. 

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug. 

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone,  it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother. 

[powermakar]

Powermakar's master list

PLEASE DO NOT STEAL/REPOST MY WORK ANYWHERE.

! = smut

NHL/UMICH HOCKEY

Owen power

The Art of Secret Keeping: Part one Part two Part three! Part four

Keep Your Glasses On !

You Don't Need Your Glasses for This !

I love you, for you

Just not enough

5>1

In Sickness and Health

Ethan Edwards

Paybacks

Don't Say Goodbye

Brace for Impact

Luke Hughes

My Best Friend's Brother !

I'm Not Falling for That Trick

She's Busy

Nick Blankenburg

So Care for a Dance?

Kent Johnson

5>1

Jt Compher

Take a Picture !

F1

Oscar Piastri

New Sheets

Dating him

Logan Sargeant

Slut! (3+1)

This is me Trying

[zackcollins]

it’ll always be this way || tyson jost + j.t. compher

Author’s Note: Hi, everyone! I wrote this as a birthday fic for Josty. The fact that I somehow added J.T. to it so make the pairing Tyson, a reader, and J.T... yeah. It just be like that. This is my first fic about J.T. as well. So, uh. Hooray for making it about a throuple. Anyways. GIF credit to burajosty!

Warnings: The reader is described as having a broken foot that’s in a cast. I don’t make mention of how it was broken or anything. So, there’s nothing graphic. Just that it’s broken and that the cast is a little tight. And, if this needs a warning (I’m doing it to be safe), the fic is about a three person relationship. All three people are dating each other, if that matters at all??? Anyways. Feel free to let me know if anything else needs a warning. I’ll add it for you!

Word Count: 3.1k+

Title: When We’re 80 by Thomas Rhett

Additional: The reader is gender-neutral!! I made a couple mentions/references that imply they’re a hockey player but I kept the language vague so it’s up to whoever is reading whether the reader is a men’s player or a women’s player. Also, the usage of “(Y/I)” just means “Your Initials”. It should make sense when you see the context. Hope that’s okay and I hope anyone that reads this enjoys it. And happy birthday, Josty!!

There was a pillow under your foot, propping it up against the arm of the couch. You shifted it uncomfortably, grunting at how constricted your toes felt. Having a cast never got easier, no matter how many times you had broken your foot and had to wear one over the years. You figured it came with the territory of being a hockey player—injuries happened and you just had to live with them.

You shifted your foot again, huffing angrily when you couldn’t find a comfortable position. You opened your mouth to call for one of your boyfriends, Tyson or J.T., but they both must’ve gained mind-reading abilities because they appeared in the room without you having to say anything. Tyson was holding a Sharpie and a bowl of ice cream, while J.T. had a bottle of chocolate sauce and a container of sprinkles.

“What’s all this?” You asked, motioning to what your boyfriends were holding.

Tyson and J.T. shared a smirk before they walked over to you on the couch. Tyson handed you the bowl of ice cream before grabbing the bottle of chocolate sauce from J.T. and coating the scoops with a gracious amount of it. When Tyson stepped back, J.T. stepped forward and shook the container of sprinkles over the bowl. He coated the topping of chocolate sauce with a thick layer of them before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You opened your mouth but anything you wanted to say was cut off by Tyson stepping forward and pressing his lips against your cheek. You snapped your mouth shut, feeling heat wash across your face. Tyson and J.T. must’ve noticed the awkward expression that your face was displaying alongside that feeling of heat because they chuckled, smirking softly at you.

After a moment of no one saying or doing anything, Tyson pressed a kiss to J.T.’s cheek, J.T. pressing a kiss to Tyson’s cheek in turn. They smiled softly at each other, J.T. running his fingers gently through Tyson’s curls. Tyson’s face turned a soft shade of pink as he pushed against both of J.T.’s shoulders. J.T. chuckled before he pressed a kiss to Tyson’s cheek. You noticed Tyson smile softly as he looked fondly at J.T.. Chuckling, you rolled your eyes at how amusing your boyfriends had just been before taking a spoonful of the ice cream into your mouth. You bristled at how cold it was but lit up when you tasted that it was your favourite flavour. You gave Tyson and J.T. a thumbs up as you scooped another spoonful into your mouth. Tyson and J.T. smiled fondly at you, each giving you a thumbs up of their own.

After a moment of comfortable silence, J.T. grabbed the bottle of chocolate sauce from Tyson and disappeared towards the kitchen. Tyson grabbed one of your hands and squeezed it gently, brushing his thumb across the pulse point on your wrist. You felt your heartbeat pounding simultaneously in your wrist and your ears when Tyson removed his hand. You looked intently at your wrist, half expecting your heart to burst out through the skin. Tyson smiled fondly at you before he sat at your feet on the couch.

J.T. walked back into the room at that moment, holding a Sharpie much like the one Tyson still held in his hand. You raised an eyebrow as you scooped more ice cream into your mouth.

“What are you two planning?” You asked after swallowing the ice cream. “You both have Sharpies and I don’t know what to make of that.”

J.T. chuckled as he walked across the room and sat next to Tyson on the couch. Tyson uncapped the Sharpie and hovered it over the cast on your foot.

“We wanted to doodle on your cast,” Tyson said, somewhat sheepishly. “If that’s alright?”

You smirked and huffed a disbelieving breath. You shook your head dismissively as your smirk turned into a full-blown grin.

“Yes, you dorks. Doodle your worst.”

J.T. looked at you incredulously, shaking his head.

“With puns like that,” J.T. said, pushing on the knee that didn’t have the casted foot, “you’re lucky that you’re cute.”

Flashing a confident—almost cocky—grin, you chuckled happily. Tyson rolled his eyes and lightly smacked your calf. You only grinned harder as you scooped more ice cream into your mouth.

Tyson had the smallest smile on his face as he turned away to start doodling on your cast. J.T. had a similar smile on his face as he uncapped his Sharpie and went to town doodling his own designs on your cast.

The three of you fell into a comfortable silence while Tyson and J.T. doodled away on your cast turned their art canvas. You continued to eat your ice cream, hoping to catch a sneak peek of whatever it was that your boyfriends were doodling for you. Every time you thought you were going to get a glimpse, one of them scolded you for looking before you were supposed to. It was beyond you how they caught you every time. Then again, the three of you had probably been dating long enough to reach that “mind-meld” stage where people just know what their significant other—others in the case of you three—are doing. It made you grateful that you had them both; being able to connect with them on that level made you feel safe, feel loved, feel whole. You didn’t want anything else in the world—except maybe to win a championship—than to be with Tyson and J.T. for the rest of your lives. You wanted to raise a family with them��kids, dogs, whatever. You didn’t care how unconventional it was to have a throuple as parents. All you cared about was the fact that you were ready for that next step in your relationship with your boyfriends. You just hoped—beyond hoped at this point—that Tyson and J.T. were as well.

“Done,” Tyson said, pulling your focus back to the reality in front of you.

“Hmm?” You mumbled, only half checked into your surroundings. You were still halfway focused on the thoughts that had been running through your head before you heard Tyson say something. “What was that?”

“We’re done doodling on your cast.” J.T. was the one to reply to your question.

You blinked, clearing your head of the thoughts that had plagued you while your boyfriends had been doodling away. You smiled weakly and placed the empty bowl of ice cream on the table behind you.

“Can I see what it looks like?”

Tyson and J.T. both nodded as they stood up. They both stepped back from the couch, putting their hands in their pockets. You raised your eyebrow at that before looking down at the cast. You felt your heart skip a beat when you saw what was doodled there.

There were a bunch of little hearts, which you somewhat expected. You would’ve probably doodled hearts on Tyson’s or J.T.’s cast if they had one. No, what surprised you was the fact that there were words on the cast. More so, you were surprised by what the words said.

You bring colour to an otherwise dull world -TJ

You make my heart grow to the size of a Boulder -JTC

Will you marry us?

JTC + TJ

You felt the corner of your eyes getting wet as you sat on the couch staring down at the cast. Cautiously, you looked over to Tyson and J.T.. They were both looking at you with hopeful expressions. All you could do was nod; you didn’t trust yourself to talk right now. You were afraid that if you opened your mouth, all that would come out would be a litany of sobs because of how elated and relieved you were that Tyson and J.T. felt the same way as you did.

Tyson and J.T. shared a look that you could only describe as immense relief before they sat down on the couch and pulled their hands out of their pockets. Both of them were holding ring boxes. You blinked, mouth slightly agape.

“Are those both for me?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at the boxes in your boyfriends’—no, fiances’—hands.

J.T. chuckled and passed the box he was holding to you before reaching into his other pocket. “That one is yours,” J.T. smiled. “The one Tyson is holding is mine. And…” He pulled out another ring box; it was Tyson’s turn to blink and hang his mouth agape. “This one is Tyson’s.”

“You…” Tyson started, trailing off when his voice audibly caught in his throat. “You didn’t tell me that you got one for me.”

Tyson and J.T. switched ring boxes before J.T. pressed a soft kiss to Tyson’s forehead. Tyson kissed the tip of J.T.’s nose as he was pulling away. J.T. patted Tyson’s cheek and rubbed his thumb briefly along Tyson’s jawline. Tyson hummed and leaned into the touch. You felt your heart swell as you watched the display of affection between Tyson and J.T.. You were so grateful that the three of you were all dating each other because you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you had to pick one of them over the other; you loved them both too much for that. Thankfully, Tyson and J.T. loved each other as much as they loved you, meaning you wouldn’t have to find out.

“I think J.T. wanted to surprise you, Tys,” you said, almost absentmindedly because neither of them seemed to be paying attention to the fact that J.T. had secretly gotten Tyson a ring at this point.

J.T. hummed, though, proving he affirmed what you were saying. You smiled at your fiances as you opened the ring box you had almost forgotten you were holding. You blinked when you saw the ring inside of it.

The ring itself wasn’t anything special. It was a simple silver band, the standard engagement ring. What made you blink was the fact that there was something black set into the band. You touched it but all you felt was the smooth top of the ring. Whatever it was had been embedded in the ring and then overlaid with a clear topper of some kind.

Tyson and J.T. both examined their rings, each having a puzzling look on their faces. You went to ask what was wrong but they both showed you rings identical to yours, mysterious black setting and all. You all slipped your rings on and pressed kisses to each other’s foreheads. There was a brief pause before Tyson and J.T. looked at each other, eyes comically wide.

“You didn’t,” they both blurted at the same time.

You sat there, face contorted into one of confusion. You looked between Tyson and J.T., hoping one of them would say something.

Tyson pinched the bridge of his nose and patted J.T.’s knee. J.T. sighed and shook his head, playfully punching Tyson in the shoulder. You were as confused as ever.

“Care to inform me what the hell is going on?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

J.T. smiled cheekily, before kissing the corner of Tyson’s mouth. Tyson swatted J.T.’s shoulder but kissed his temple in return.

“I had a piece of my first goal puck and a piece of your first goal puck set in J.T.’s ring,” Tyson said. “It looks like Professor X over here used the same idea for mine and your ring.”

“Jesus Christ, you two,” you mumbled, looking down at your ring. “You’re both saps.”

“Tyson is Canadian and has maple syrup for blood. And maple syrup is literally made of sap. I think it filtered into my American system because of how much he likes being touched and kissed,” J.T. stated, grinning like a fool the whole time.

Tyson and you both groaned. Tyson swatted J.T. on the shoulder and you lightly kicked him with your good foot. All that served to do was make J.T. laugh like he was pleased with himself.

“Who has the bad jokes now,” you deadpanned, staring right at J.T.. “You’re lucky you’re cute, too.”

J.T. grinned pleasantly as he leaned over to give you a soft kiss on the lips. You brought your hands up, cupping J.T.’s face as you kissed him. This kiss felt incredible. It felt amazing to finally be kissing J.T. with the context that you were going to be getting married. It made a part of your dreams come true. Kissing J.T. felt like playing hockey—something you loved doing and never wanted to stop. It felt like home.

When J.T. pulled back, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You smiled fondly and squeezed J.T.’s wrist. J.T. squeezed back before he switched positions with Tyson. Tyson wasted no time in leaning forward and capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. You loved the difference between J.T. and Tyson in that aspect. J.T. was a soft, sweet kisser who craved intimacy when he kissed you, while Tyson was the type of kisser that went for passionate and bold; he craved satisfaction from you.

As you kissed, you let your hands roam across Tyson’s body. Your hands found every crevasse, every protrusion. Your hands found everything that they were so accustomed to finding. Kissing Tyson was like playing hockey—something you could do all day every day and never grow tired of doing. It felt like home.

When Tyson finally pulled back, you were both panting. Both of your foreheads were sweaty from the mini-workout you had just put in. You even noticed that Tyson had a few of his curls stuck to his head from how sweaty he was. You smirked, feeling accomplished that you had worked Tyson up enough to get him sweaty enough to the point that he had hair sticking to him. When he looked at J.T. to gauge his reaction to all of this, you saw that he had a look somewhere between fondness and desire on his face. You smirked again, this time because you felt accomplished for garnering such a reaction out of your other boyfriend. Deciding that you weren’t going to address the state of both of them—you knew it would lead to places that you were in too much pain and discomfort to handle right now—you grabbed the Sharpie out of Tyson’s pocket instead. Tyson simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, not saying a word of protest.

You leaned your upper body forward and started scribbling on your cast. Tyson and J.T. watched you intently, sharing a look you knew all to well when you finished. You tossed the Sharpie onto the coffee table, bristling when you heard it clatter against the glass top. When you regained your composure, you motioned towards your cast.

“So? What do you think,” You asked, biting your lower lip nervously.

“It’s perfect,” Tyson replied, squeezing your calf.

All J.T. could do was nod, squeezing your knee to show his support.

“I love you, both.”

“I love you, too,” J.T. mumbled, his voice sounding like he was about three or four seconds from breaking down into tears.

“I love you, three,” Tyson said. He sounded a little more chipper than J.T. had, though you thought you detected the faintest indication that he wanted to break down much like your shared fiance was wanting to.

Tyson and J.T., both suddenly looking about ready to cry, crawled onto the couch and aligned themselves so you were all spooning. J.T. was the one in the middle and Tyson was on the outer edge, with you pressed against the back of the couch. If this was a bed instead of a couch, this would be the normal arrangement for your cuddles—Tyson being the small spoon, J.T. being the medium spoon, and you being the big spoon. You slung your arm over both your fiances, sighing happily when they both cuddled up against it. You pressed a kiss to the top of both of their heads relishing in the fact that they both mumbled a soft ‘thank you.’ You showed your appreciation by commanding Alexa to play some of Tyson’s favourite country music, seeing as it was Tyson’s birthday today so he deserved the treat.

“Happy birthday, Tys,” you said, stroking your fingers gently along Tyson’s ribs. “Asking Alexa for your yeehaw music is my present to you.”

“And that engagement ring was mine,” J.T. said, though it was muffled against Tyson’s neck.

Tyson mumbled his thanks as he hummed along to the song that was playing. You were fairly certain that you even heard J.T. humming along to the song. You chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of J.T.’s head, amazed that Tyson’s country music was able to crack the likes of someone like J.T.. J.T. mumbled his thanks before he yawned and wiggled backwards to be closer to your body. Tyson paused his humming to yawn for himself; you felt him wiggle a little bit, presumably to get himself closer to J.T.. To help make everyone more comfortable, you did the best you could to wiggle yourself closer to the back of the couch. The only response you got from your fiances was their soft snoring. You chuckled as you listened to Alexa filter Tyson’s playlist through the living room.

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey

Tell me it'll always be this way

You'll be even more beautiful when you're grey and crazy

We'll still kiss and we might cuss

Just tell me that we'll still be us when we're 80

When we're 80

You smiled softly as you felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes. That’s exactly what you wanted. You wanted to grow old and grey with Tyson and J.T.. You wanted to be with them for as long as the universe allowed the three of you to be together. The three of you loved each other more than anything and you wanted it to last forever.

As the song played in the background and your fiances slept in front of you, you looked down at what you had written on your cast. You smiled again as you felt the tears spill from your eyes and track down your cheeks. Hearing those song lyrics made everything about it ten times more important to you. You couldn’t wait to get married to Tyson and J.T. and start the next chapter of your lives together.

You bring colour to an otherwise dull world -TJ

You make my heart grow to the size of a Boulder -JTC

Will you marry us?

JTC + TJ + (Y/I)

You two are my happily ever after; my all-star forwards. Nothing makes me happier than being by your side every day. I want to have a family with you. I want to grow old with you. I want everything and more with you. I love you both so much. Thank you for loving me as much as you do. It means the world to me. -(Y/I)

[dembenchboys]

Don’t - Tyson Jost

AN: this has been in my notes for like 6-7 months now I hope you enjoy! It’s based if the song don’t by Ed Sheeran.

Warnings: cheating and a mention of sex nothing detailed at all.

Word count: 1.9k

I met this girl late last year

She said, “Don’t you worry if I disappear”

“Yes.” That's the response Layla whispered in Tyson’s ear after he asked her to spend the night with him. As he planted more open mouth kisses to her neck, Tyson could feel her breath quicken and her plus racing up.

Tyson wasn't expecting to be taken back by the stunning brunette with green eyes who he locked eye contact with as she was busy dancing in the corner with her girlfriends when he went to the local bar Monday night with the boys for a simple night of relaxing. When they bumped into one other at the counter and she introduced herself to him while grabbing a drink, he wasn't expecting his heart to race a little quicker. He hadn't expected to be bringing her home at the end of the night, yet here he was, holding her hand as they climbed into the car he had booked for them.

What Tyson really wasn't prepared for was the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he woke up to an empty bed and a piece of paper on his nightstand with only 11 numbers scribbled on it.

I told her I’m not really looking for another mistake

I called an old friend thinking that the trouble would wait.

Tyson realized he should've tossed the little letter away as soon as he got off the phone with JT who reminded him to think with his head and recommend throwing it away. But Tyson, on the other hand, was always one to follow his emotions rather than his mind or gut instincts. After all, he was known as a softy for a reason. His head was telling him that he should simply toss the paper away since it was just going to cause him misery. His emotions, on the other hand, were reminding him of how he felt last night when he made eye contact with her. They were reminding him of how his heart raced and how he felt a nervous pulse in his stomach for the first time in a long time.

So, four mornings after waking up to an empty bed, he decided to take the plunge and message her. He realized that texting her at 11:00 a.m. would not lead her to believe it was a booty call. Tyson opted to keep it short and sweet, only saying, "Hey, how are you?" And before he could back out, he sent the message, not realizing how drastically those four words would impact his year.

It was 10:45 p.m., according to the clock. Tyson had become increasingly nervous as Layla had yet to reply. He was thinking to himself, what if he had waited too long, what if she had just left the note out of kindness and didn't mean it? But his phone vibrated in his hand just as he was about to turn it off and put it away for the night. And there was a text message from Layla on his phone screen, saying, "I'm okay, what's up?" “Have you finally missed me enough to send a text?” Tyson felt the blood rush to his checks at that moment, as he hoped she didn't realize how long he had been waiting, but she did. Tyson decided to make up for the fact that he hadn't spoken to her in four days, so he spent the rest of the night getting to know the lovely woman he thought had a good heart.

But then I jumped right in a week later, returned

I reckon she was only looking for a lover to burn

Tyson decided to invite Layla over after about a week of talking with her through his phone and tossing the idea around in his head. He had all of the spare time in the world before heading to Alberta since the Avs season had just ended.

Tyson had discovered recently she was a CU Denver student. So when they agreed on a Saturday, Tyson realized she wouldn't have classes, so he wouldn't have to worry about her cancelling, but he was still worried that she wouldn't actually show up. When a soft knock came to his door around 1:00 p.m., those nerves faded.

When Tyson awoke to an empty bed on the Tuesday morning he was supposed to leave for home, he wasn't surprised. Tyson found himself going to bed with someone and waking up alone more often after that Saturday afternoon spent with Layla at his place.

Then I put it on pause until the moment was right

I went away for months until our paths crossed again

After waking up alone on that Tuesday morning when he had to leave, Tyson wanted to put some space between himself and the situation. Tyson knew that if he went down that particular road with Layla, his heart wouldn't be able to heal if anything bad happened. Tyson tried not to think about her during his time in Alberta, but it became more difficult with each passing day. Tyson found his feelings growing towards her each day. He found himself thinking about her at odd times throughout the day, hanging with his family? Layla. Sitting around the fire pit? Layla. in bed right before he closed his eyes? Layla. She was an addiction, the kind you get when you try a new treat and can't stop thinking about it.

Tyson promised himself he wouldn't message her again until he returned to Colorado, and he kept his word. He'd been back in the city for about three weeks before he decided to pick up where they'd left off.

She told me, "I was never looking for a friend

Maybe you could swing by my room around ten

Baby, bring the lemon and a bottle of gin

We'll be in between the sheets 'til the late AM"

After several late-night phone calls to catch up, Layla eventually told Tyson what this meant to her after he invited her to dinner. “Around 1:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, she muttered to him, "I'm more into the friends with benefits situation right now." Tyson was definitely devastated but he was willing to take whatever Layla had to offer.

Tyson was unprepared for the feeling he got when he glanced down at his phone after leaving JT’s apartment to see a text that said, "baby, I'm swinging by your place with a bottle." Tyson knew that meant he'd wake up alone in the morning, yet he didn't care at the time.

Tyson and Layla had been seeing each other more and more in recent weeks. Tyson’s feelings for Layla became stronger over time, but he never expressed them. He just loved her company, and if that meant getting lost in the sheets more often than not, so be it.

And for a couple weeks I only wanna see her

We drink away the days with a takeaway pizza

Tyson was in a slump, he wasn't producing on the ice as he wanted to, and the media was branding him a draft bust because of it. As a result, he found himself blocking others out, with the exception of one individual. Tyson discovered that Layla was the only one he truly wished to be with. She didn't mention hockey at all, because they could easily lose themselves in each other and block out the rest of the world. They'd eat as much takeout pizza as Tyson's diet permitted.

Yet something changed between them in those few weeks. Layla confessed to developing feelings for the curly-haired boy. As a result, they opted not to label what they were doing, but they did promise not to see other people. Not that Tyson was doing so before.

Wish I'd have written it down, the way that things played out

When she was kissing him, how I was confused about

Now she should figure it out.

Tyson should have known something was wrong when Layla started staying at school longer than usual, but he didn't think much of it, assuming it was just finals. Tyson should have known something was wrong because she took longer to respond to his text messages and began avoiding his phone calls, but he was so wrapped up in the feeling she gave him that he didn't notice. When Layla failed to pick him up from the airport on Sunday morning, Tyson should have known something was wrong, but he just convinced himself she slept in.

But two things happened when the car he ordered from the airport arrived in front of Layla's apartment and he saw her kissing the kid from her biology class: one, Tyson's heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach, and two, something clicked and everything made sense to him.

That afternoon, at Tysons' place, he had to have a conversation he would never forget .Layla explained that she genuinely wanted to be with him and that she was just messing around with Tyler, the name of the kid from biology, because she wanted to be official with Tyson. And in a relationship, she puts a significant importance on trust and respect.

So they agreed to become an official couple that day, and the eight weeks that followed were some of the happiest memories Tyson had managed to make.Tyson grew more and more in love with Layla with each passing day, and he indulged in it. He treasured the cuddles and long conversations late at night. Tyson was certain he was in love with Layla, or Ly as he began to refer to her. He was about to reveal her to the group of people in his life that he held in high regard: his teammates.

She was crying on my shoulder, I already told ya

Trust and respect is what we do this for

I never intended to be next

But you didn't need to take him to bed, that's all

And I never saw him as a threat

Until you disappeared with him to have sex, of course

Tyson wasn't expecting to see Layla on the sofa on top of Tyler from biology when he stepped into Layla's apartment on the morning of the 23rd, three days before their three-month anniversary, ready to celebrate because he'd be on the road. But that is precisely what he saw.

Layla didn't know she'd been caught until the beautiful white roses fell to the ground and the door slammed shut  from behind her.

As the knock on Tyson's door rang through the silent apartment, Tyson knew that all that had occurred in the previous year, his best days, and the one person  he could turn too would all be gone in less than 20 minutes.

Tyson had never expected to have a conversation like this one in his dark, relatively clean apartment. When Layla cried on his shoulder, he reminded her of their compromise on trust and respect, telling her, "If you were unhappy, you should have left, I never saw him as a threat, well, before you slept with him of course."

But after all of the screaming and pleading, Layla gathered her belongings and closed the door to Tyson's apartment; the sound that echoed in the house was almost close to Tyson's heart beating in his chest.

As Tyson came into the dressing room the next morning, feeling dishevelled, he grumbled to JT that he should have just thrown it out.

[jiggyloveshockey]

The Athletic:

Hockey tumblr:

[gourdeous-vladdy3790]

Jost Adventures

https://www.wattpad.com/story/240301353-jost-adventures

Tyson Jost, fresh into the Colorado off-season after a painful playoff loss, bumps into the infamous Travel Channel's Ghost Adventures crew: Zak Bagans, Nick Groff and Aaron Goodwin, who are in Denver, Colorado to search the Pepsi Center.

He joins the crew as a celebrity-guest, aiding in the mission. But, when they check out a separate building on the hotel's property rumored to be harboring a demon, Josty activates a portal and is possessed by the demon. 

In order to get rid of it, he embarks on a four-part mission, visiting four other key haunted locations around the U.S. Together with a few players from each NHL team, he hunts for ghosts and a cure. 

But what happens when there are some who are out to make sure he NEVER gets cured...

[starshine-hockey-girl]

I forgot to comment. I just loved the sweetness of their interactions.

breathe me in, breathe me out - JT Compher

Summary: a reunion with JT at a summer wedding brings you more than you could have ever expected.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: fluff, mild pining, summer wedding.

A/N: this is my entry for @antoineroussel​’s summer fic exchange, and I have written this JT Compher fic for @fallinallincurls​! I really hope I captured everything you asked for Bre, and I hope even more than you love reading it as much as I loved writing it!

Fic title from Watermelon Sugar, by Harry Styles

Keep reading

[draikaesehoch]

1) How long have you been a hockey fan for. 2) Do you write or read NHL fanfiction? 3) Favorite NHL player of all time? 4) Have you been to an NHL game?

1) How long have you been a hockey fan for?

I started really getting into hockey in late 2019. the first time I paid real attention to hockey was in 2018 at the Olympics (Germany was killing it)

2) Do you write or read NHL fanfiction?

write, not really. read, sometimes. I’m just super picky when it comes to fiction, I used to read Bennguin fics but Jamie turned out to be an a**hole, so there’s that. i might have read some grilled cheesby and mattdrai in the past 

3) Favorite NHL player of all time?

idk, i don’t really have a favorite, I really like Leon Draisaitl, JT Compher and Korbi Holzer (ex nhler count too, right? 😉)

4) Have you been to an NHL game?

not yet, I’ve only been to one del game. I definitely want to attend more del (and hopefully some nhl) games in the future though.

How about you? I saw you are a Detroit fan?

[comphy-and-cozy]

the guy on the team - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f) - A Dream Come True universe

Word Count: 4.2K

Author’s Note: rediscovered the three paragraphs of filth i wrote after seeing this dude play (and score) in his first ever home game as a detroit red wing, then went buck wild writing about it. that's all you really need to know. 🎶 karma is the guy on the wings coming straight home to me... 🎶

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Unprotected sex, oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering (f receiving), brief masturbation (f), very minor spanking, creampie, me being a huge fucking simp series masterlist

October 2024

The goal horn—restored from the glory days at Joe Louis Arena, reminiscent of legends and lore and well-decorated history—blares through the arena, the sound nearly swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Don’t Stop Believing plays over the speakers, the “born and raised in South Detroit” chant almost deafening as 19,000 of Hockeytown’s finest pay a proud homage to the city.

The energy is palpable, infectious, and your eyes fall to the sea of red jerseys at center ice, sticks raised in appreciation and celebration of their first win and first home game of the season. They’re smiling, a few of them clapping each other on the back or tapping padded knees with their stick, circling around as they soak in the joy and promises of a strong season.

The 37 on his back stands out proudly, the bright white stark against the rich red. He offered to get you a jersey, identical to the one he’s wearing right now, but you’d declined and opted for an old sweatshirt from 2002; wearing his name still felt a little too cheeky. Your eyes follow his movements, almost subconsciously, and your gaze slides to the winged wheel embroidered on his chest when he circles around.

There’s a burn in your cheeks as you shamelessly check him out, anonymous in the sea of fans who are starting to make their way out of the arena. No one there knows you from any other admirer, that you know what he looks like beneath his pads and his gear, underneath the delicious slate gray suit that the Red Wings’ socials posted. 

You’ve barely made it to your front door when the text buzzes your phone in your pocket. 

[JT:] You free tonight? [JT:] Feel like celebrating [You:] Why, did something happen?

You don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking at your comment. The text bubble pops back up, and you do your best to summon the chill, cool girl and not squeal when you see the response.

[JT:] You want to come over later?

Despite the effort, you can’t help the smile that emerges on your face. His next text informs you that he’s out getting post-game drinks and dinner with his family who came to town to see his debut in Detroit. You’re not offended that you didn’t receive an invite—just excited to have received a text. The status of your relationship is still up in the air, floating somewhere between casually dating and something with benefits. Meeting his family is far from your bucket list. At this point, anyway.

Though your makeup was already done for the game, you decide to reset in the shower. You exfoliate, shave, and take your time moisturizing until you’re squeaky clean and your skin is smooth. Your pre-dick appointment ritual is practiced, having perfected it in the last six weeks that you’ve been involved with JT Compher. He doesn’t expect perfection, has told you on multiple occasions in so many words, but the routine makes you feel like you’re worth his time, his affection, his attention—that’s something you’ll deal with in therapy, though. 

After the body prep comes a quick blow dry, a light layer of fresh makeup (you learned your lesson with too much makeup after JT made sure that the entire sultry eye you’d worked so hard on ended up smeared all over the sheets), and then the undergarment selection. By no means do you have an expansive luxury lingerie collection, but you’ve found yourself glancing at the intimate wear section when you’re out, anticipating the reaction of a certain redhead as you run your fingers over the various pieces on display. 

Tonight does feel special, you admit, with plenty to celebrate: a debut, a win, and two points for JT. The lacy red bralette feels fitting, perfect for a little ‘wow’ factor without feeling like you’re trying too hard—and, of course, a nod to his (and your) team. Cheeky red panties finish your look, hidden by a pair of yoga pants and a cropped zip-up hoodie: the quintessential dick appointment outfit.

By the time you’re spritzing on your perfume, the come over text comes through. Slinging a small overnight bag over your shoulder with a few essentials, you lock up your apartment and head on your way. Nerves flutter in your chest the way they always do, anticipation building as you pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex.

JT hasn’t changed out of his pregame suit, the takeout box sitting on the counter an indicator he hasn’t been home for long. Your heart flutters at the realization that he must’ve texted you before he’d even left dinner, that he was thinking of you even while sitting and celebrating with his family. 

After closing the door behind you, he moves in to greet you with a kiss, and once his lips touch yours, it’s like the floodgates of desire have opened up and you lose all self control. Without warning, your hands tug at his neck to kiss him fervently, quickly pressing your body against his and sighing at the warmth. 

He groans, returning the kiss with equal ardor as his hands find their home on your hips. As you’re turning your attention to his belt, pulling your lips away from him for a moment, he murmurs, ��Not that I’m not really, really appreciating this welcome home, but is there a reason for the extra enthusiasm?”

Clink. The belt’s hit the floor, and you waste no time getting your mouth back on his. Your hand slinks up his thigh, palming the half-hard appendage in his slacks eagerly. Involuntarily, you feel a needy throb between your thighs, the low thrum in his chest adding fuel to the fire.

“Really liked you in that jersey,” you purr. 

“Oh yeah?”

Your bottom lip slips between your teeth and you nod, glancing up at him. “Yeah.”

JT smirks, allowing his ego to inflate just a bit. He doesn’t say it, but you know it drives him wild how much of an impact he has on you. How little he has to work to have you desperate for him. “Anything else?”

“I really liked it when you scored,” you say, wistfully recalling the way it sounded hearing his name announced over the loudspeaker at Little Caesars Arena. “You should do that some more.”

“How much did you like it?” 

With just one sentence, he’s managed to increase the temperature in the room by at least 20 degrees; the words themselves are innocent, but the rumble behind them offers a filthy, sinful promise. His gaze is hot, predatory even, following the movement of your hand as you unzip your hoodie in response to his question. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches at the peek of red lace, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when you shrug off the fleece.

Tension is thick in the air as you stand before him, heart pulsing in your throat. With a blink, he seemingly regains his composure, though his eyes linger on your cleavage between the lace cups. “That much, huh?”

Another nod, shivering under the heated way he watches you sink to your knees in front of him. Breaking eye contact with him is difficult, but you’re met with an equally pleasing view of his firm length pressed against the rich material of his dress pants. 

Your hand works at the zipper of his slacks, the other slipping between the metal teeth to press your palm against him. He’s throbbing under your touch, growing more and more solid as your hand strokes him through his boxer briefs. 

Words aren’t necessary—or capable, for that matter—once you finally fish out his length and lap at the tip. The only thing exiting his mouth are strangled curses mingled with the sigh of your name, hand slipping into your hair when he slides further into the hot cavern of your mouth. He’s fully hard now, resting heavy on your tongue as you trace the vein that throbs on the underside of his shaft.

JT grunts, tilting his head down to watch the way his cock slides between your lips. Your hands hold yourself steady against his strong, muscular thighs—one of the more underrated parts of his body, in your opinion—as you bob your head back and forth, wetting every inch of him with your mouth. You wrap your fingers around the base, twisting and setting a cruel rhythm that earns a loud whine from his throat, followed quickly by a long, “Fuuuuuuuck.”

Nails scratch lightly at your scalp, like maybe he’s searching for purchase, his chest starting to heave a little more frantically the more you work him to a state of dizzy bliss. It’s the least you can do, you think, to congratulate him on his first ever home game in Detroit. And, maybe, there’s a little piece of you that wants to reward him, because you still haven’t quite thanked him thoroughly enough for selecting your city as his final destination in free agency. For coming home to you.

A wet, frothy mixture of spit and precum coats your chin when he finally tugs you back with a groan. His eyes are dark pools of umber, arousal seeping out of them as he drinks in the sight of you on your knees, lips shining with the lewd evidence of your worship.

“Bedroom,” he husks, helping you onto your feet and pressing his groin against the swell of your ass as he gently nudges you down the hall toward his room. 

Falling forward onto the mattress, you glance at him over your shoulder and catch him admiring the view before his fingers are digging into the hem of your pants and tugging down. The sharp intake of breath tells you he likes your choice of panties, left as a sneaky surprise for him to unwrap as his reward. “Oh, she really likes it when I score goals.”

A wiggle of your hips earns a slap to your ass. Soon enough, you’re flipped onto your back, feeling the weight of him settled between your legs and his mouth slotting over yours. His lips are sure, certain, plush against yours, lazily commandeering control. Kissing him never gets old, not even when his erection is bumping against your lace-shrouded pelvis, silently begging for entry. 

One of his hands runs over your neck, down your chest, palming your breast through the bralette. He toys with the scalloped hem, admiring the feel of it beneath his fingers. The low rumble of his hum vibrates against the spot on your jaw that he’s paused to mouth at while his hands explore, hot breath cascading down the sensitive skin of your neck. “Y’look so pretty, I almost don’t want to take it off.”

“You like me in red, too, hm?” 

“I like you in anything,” he muses, allowing his tongue to trail along the thin strap that rests on your collarbone. It’s a sweet comment that you don’t have time to dwell on when his attention moves to the swell of your breast, then flicks at your taut nipple through the lace. “But red definitely suits you.”

JT punctuates his statement with a gentle nibble, tracing the floral pattern with the tip of his tongue until the fabric is damp with his saliva and your back is arched off of his sheets. Your fingers are threaded through his hair, knees pressed into his sides when your hips start to roll against his thigh that’s slotted between your legs. 

“Can’t decide if I want to taste you or fuck you first,” he murmurs against your breast. A hand slinks down your body, eventually settling on the fabric between your thighs; a pleased hum leaves his throat, presumably at the moisture he finds there. The breath in your throat catches when he brings two fingers to his lips. “A taste can’t hurt, right?”

The sight of JT Compher gazing lustfully at you from between your legs is one you’ll never take for granted, nor is the feeling of his hot breath against the inside of your thighs. Even better than that is the sound of his groan when he tugs the lace panties down your legs, eyes never leaving the dripping heat in front of him.

His hand draws to the apex of your thighs, and you brace yourself to feel a finger slipping past your lips; instead, you only receive the ghost of his touch, drawing up the slick that’s dribbled out of you.

“J,” you whine, hips bucking impatiently. You’re not sure you’ll survive his teasing antics—not tonight.

“Jus’ wanna enjoy my treat,” he says, cheeky, popping the finger in his mouth with a groan. “I love when your pussy drools like this.”

Soft, pillowy lips press against your core, and you aren’t sure who moans louder: you, from the feeling of his mouth finally touching you where you need, or him, at the taste of you on his tongue. He sets to work, devouring your cunt with his usual practiced precision; long laves of his tongue paired perfectly with gentle sucking of your clit. It isn’t until he pauses for just a moment to wrap your legs around his head that you realize he’s grinding himself against the mattress.

“JT, let me—”

“No, baby,” he pants, barely parting his mouth from you, his voice muffled by your skin. “Y’taste way too fucking good.”

You’re in the process of wondering what you did to deserve a man who enjoys eating your pussy more than you do when his hand slips between your legs, joining his tongue to aid in his quest to bring you to climax. He alternates between dipping his finger into your heat and using it to circle your clit while his mouth continues its sinful magic. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, spine peeling off the mattress when he curls his finger, striking at the spongy spot inside of you. The pleasure is blinding, radiating from the place where he strokes diligently. “Don’t stop.”

For being a man, JT is good at following instructions, especially when it comes to making you come. It doesn’t take long for your legs to quiver and a loud moan to rip from your throat; he hums in encouragement, fingers pumping relentlessly until you’re spent, slumped back against his pillow. You’re pretty sure your bones have disappeared and your body is now just a floating, ethereal being. You know, status quo with him.

“One for the assist,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips are glistening with your slick and his spit, coating the auburn whiskers of his beard, and you draw him up to taste it.

His contented hum that vibrates against your lips when you kiss him makes your heart warm, like he could kiss you all day and not get sick of it. The feeling is mutual, you think, savoring the way his mouth fits perfectly against yours along with the heady taste of you on his tongue. His hand moves to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing gently as he swallows your sighs and comedown whimpers eagerly.

“You gonna fuck me now?” you ask into his mouth, once you regain the ability to speak. Sometimes, he has a habit of kissing the thoughts straight out of your brain. You love it more each time.

JT’s smile curls up against your lips. “Greedy girl, aren’t you?”

The sense of satisfaction watching his smile falter when your hand reaches between your bodies to stroke his erection is unmatched. Anything to render him speechless, too; the guttural moan is just a bonus. “Been waiting for this since warmups, when I saw you skating around in the winged wheel.”

“That’s a long time,” he says smugly, sitting up with a grunt and urging you to follow. When you turn your back to him, he pushes you down onto your elbows playfully, then offers a slap on your ass. “Your poor, poor pussy. So deprived.”

Turning your head, you watch him discard the rest of his clothes before his fist wraps around his cock, dragging up and down a few times. It’s a struggle to resist the whimper that threatens to bubble up in your throat. He runs the tip through your folds, coating it in your slick with a tsk. “So pretty. Should I give her what she wants?”

Instead of giving in, begging him the way you know he wants you to, you lean forward, ensuring he has an even better view of everything you have to offer. Your hand slithers between your thighs, fingers flattening as they rub at your clit. You part your folds before allowing your finger to dip into your entrance. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice dripping with a mixture of desire and awe. You swear you can feel the heat from where his eyes are burning a hole in you, staring at the way you touch yourself. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Preening under his praise, your marriage joins your middle finger, moaning loudly when the two plunge into your heat. The sound of your slick is audible, harmonizing with your soft sighs and his deep, ragged breathing behind you. You muse, “I’ve always wanted to fuck a Red Wing. Doesn’t really matter who. Just want to say I did, you know?”

JT’s dark chuckle behind you sends shivers down your spine. He probes the head of his dick—still positioned at your entrance, waiting patiently for its turn—against your fingers, teasing you before nudging your hand out of the way. It falls to the mattress, and you return to leaning on both elbows. “You know how much I like making your dreams come true.”

The huffed laughter that falls out of your mouth is quickly usurped by a gasp when he pushes his hips forward. Pausing halfway, he hums at the way you squeeze him tightly before he sheaths himself completely. It’s a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to; so perfect and satisfying and full. Just the touch of his skin to yours is enough to ignite a flame deeper than you’ve ever experienced with anyone else—the intimate feeling of him inside of you is nothing short of euphoric. 

You push yourself back onto him, body acting on its own and greedily taking what it wants. He makes a sound behind you, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt; whatever it is, it’s followed by a firm slap against your ass that has you moaning.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Fuck yourself on it.”

As if to accentuate his point, his fingertips trail up your spine before his hand fists into the lace strings displayed on your back. Once his hold is firm, he uses the material to drag you back against him and set a rhythmic slapping of your ass against his hips. 

JT fucks you until you’re a babbling, sweating mess, only capable of incoherent whimpers and crying out a semblance of his name. He’s steady and consistent, confidence rolling off of him even despite the way his voice falters when he’s murmuring filth in your ear, using your bralette to tug you backwards against his chest.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he whispers, beard scratching deliciously against the curve of your jaw. You nod, desperate, even your thoughts echoing the rhythm of his length driving in and out of you.

Teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder at the same time the universe explodes. Eyes squeezed shut, legs clenched tight, the air wrenched from your lungs as your body goes rigid in his arms. He hums lowly, working you through it, soft praises whispered against your skin.

“One for the goal,” he says, cheeky. You don’t have the brainpower to even roll your eyes at his hubris. Given the way your legs are still shaking, you’d say he has a right to be cocky.

Strong arms help you back down to your stomach, and you’re thankful for the soft mattress beneath you, no longer needing to hold yourself up; you’re not sure your limbs have the strength to. JT’s hands gently pull your hips back, lifting them up slightly to slide a pillow beneath them before he’s diving in face first with a groan. “Fucking love the way your cunt tastes after it’s been fucked.”

His tongue laps at you, and you squirm under his attention. Grabbing at your ass with both hands, he kneads the globes and offers a hearty smack that earns a squeal from you. “JT!”

“Sorry, baby,” he says, but the nip on your ass tells you he isn’t. You feel him shift before he’s helping to flip you over onto your back, and the sight of him smiling down at you makes your heart flutter. “Can’t help it.”

Something you’ve learned over the last few weeks with JT is that he is a thorough, meticulous lover. He worships at your altar until he’s completely absolved and your thoughts are wiped clean, pulling prayers from your throat with easy, intentional thrusts. With your legs resting in the crook of his elbows, he drives into you, solid, steady, watching the union of your bodies with a hunger that might intimidate you if it wasn’t the same one consuming you entirely.

“Look so good like this,” he murmurs, eyes roving over your body, admiring each curve as if he sculpted them himself. His gaze holds the sway of your breasts, testing the way you respond to different pulses of his hips. “Y’take dick like a fuckin’ pro, sweetheart. You know that?”

You hope the question is rhetorical, for when you go to attempt an answer, all that comes out is a garbled whimper. The praise makes your skin hot, heightens the flutter in your belly, and when he tells you to touch yourself, you blink dumbly at him. It garners a smile on his pretty lips—so fucking handsome—perhaps pleased with the way he’s fucked you stupid on his cock.

“Won’t last much longer,” he purrs. He swallows thickly, and if your brain wasn’t complete mush, you’d be very satisfied that he’s losing control, too. “Make yourself come for me. Jus’ one more, baby, please.”

And when he asks so nicely, how can you disobey?

Your hand snakes its way between your legs, rubbing at your tender clit; the action enhances the delicious, soul-altering feeling of JT’s dick delivering pleasure and promise. His eyes are glued to your movements, but your eyes are watching him.

JT Compher has always been beautiful. Handsome. Exquisite, even. But the sight of him, eyes shut, lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, mouth open as his head falls back in ecstasy? No words. Truly, indescribable. 

It’s enough that you try to stave off your own orgasm just to prolong your view—that is, until the force of it absorbs you and then shatters you, seizing every last cell and filling them with euphoria. When the fuzziness fades from your eyes, JT’s panting body is on top of you, planting kisses along your collarbone. “And finally, one for the win.”

A dreamy smile slides onto your face. Weakly, your arms wrap around him, grazing the skin on his back lightly. He feels good in your arms. Safe. Comfortable. Natural. 

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?” 

There’s a pause as you try to process what he said, sure that he fucked you so good, your hearing’s gone out, too. He nudges your jaw with his nose.

“B–breakfast?” Your voice comes out way shakier than you intended. You feel the short exhale from his huffed laugh against your skin.

“Don’t want you to think you’re just a booty call,” he says, like it’s obvious, like he’s not still half-hard buried inside of you, his cum seeping out onto the wrinkled sheets beneath you.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Can’t think about anything else about you or I’ll get hard again,” he admits wryly. The confession strokes your ego, something he manages to do without even trying. As you debate if you should, in fact, rouse a round two, your pussy flutters weakly in protest—dick too good. Need break.

JT’s hands never leave your body as he helps you walk to the bathroom, laughing at the way you waddle to avoid spilling cum all over his floor. Once you’re cleaned up, you slip on the t-shirt you packed, joining him at the sink to brush your teeth. He bumps your hip affectionately with his, and the domesticity of it all contrasted with the filthy aura from 5 minutes prior is astonishing—in a good way.

Back in his room, he eyes the bag that you place on the floor. “You can keep some things here, you know. I cleared out a drawer.”

It’s a simple statement, but one that strikes you hard; symbolic and heavy in its meaning: a place carved out for you in his home. 

In his life. 

JT sees you standing, gaping at him, and closes the gap between you before he’s tilting your jaw upward to look at him. His lips hover over yours, the ghost of his touch lingering in a way that makes your heart stop.

His voice is low, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to burst the bubble surrounding you. “If I’m coming on too strong, let me know.”

“You aren’t,” you breathe, surprised that your voice even works. His lips curl into a smile against yours before he presses forward to kiss you. It’s slow, ardent, sweet. Dizzying.

“Let’s go to bed. You can fill the drawer tomorrow.”

Tag list: @somuchf4rstardust @tpwkstiles @smileysvech @senditcolton @robindrake13 @laurenairay

[comphy-and-cozy]

must've made a mistake - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings: Suggestive/adult content (18+ recommended), discussions about sex/sexual implications, alcohol use/consumption, even more insanity than last time. Still a medium burn/banter that's basically foreplay but no actual sexy times (sorry I know it hurts me too).

part 1 | series masterlist | nhl masterlist | part 3

August 2023

The dull roar of people chattering surrounds you, speakers lowly playing some top-100 hit with a beat. It’s ignored, just background music amid the dusk sky and twinkle lights strewn among the rafters above you.

It’s August in Detroit, meaning the air is sticky and humid, and everyone is on some form of patio or rooftop drinking on this Friday night. You’re at your favorite local watering hole with a few friends, celebrating the end of another work week. The cowl neck tank you have on is thin, but your skin is still hot beneath the silk fabric. Fortunately, the sangria in your glass is perfect and the very light breeze wafting through the patio feels like heaven.

You’re on your way back from the bathroom when you see the flash of auburn hair. Your heart does a flip, suddenly pulsing faster in your chest, and you slip back to your table with a smile. With a glance back to confirm the ivory skin and thick, russet beard, you feel your heart flutter. Of course you saw he signed with the Red Wings; how could you not? His name was one of the hottest to come out of free agency, all of the chatter and podcasts hosts repeating his name over and over again to make sure you never forgot the time that JT Compher bought you a drink. 

It also brought back memories of the time you drunkenly told JT Compher that you wrote fanfic about him. Smutty fanfiction. And then left him standing helplessly in that Denver bar, running away with your heart pounding in your chest. 

You regretted it as soon as the door shut behind you, the opportunity already vanished like it never existed in the first place. Still, you never forgot a single detail about that night, about the way he gazed at you and the low, sultry purr of his voice; you’re pretty sure if you hadn’t been an absolute coward, it would’ve been one of the best nights of your life, and, quite possibly, the best sex of your life. The thought still brings a dull pulse between your legs, kicking yourself for ruining a literal dream.

But there he is, in the flesh, and for a moment your mind flits to wonder if this could be a second chance. It’s been almost two years since your run-in, an entire championship under his belt in that time. Not only will he surely not remember you, but who knows what’s changed for him—things have certainly changed for you. 

Except your burning desire for him. That has never wavered; if anything, it grew, once you learned what his hot breath felt like against your skin and the way it felt to make him laugh at something you said. Even though your following of the sport diminished due to shifting priorities, you’ve found those warm, hickory eyes appear in your dreams just often enough to ensure that he’s never too far removed from your mind.

Unfortunately, there’s also the regrettable factor that you wrote—with vivid detail—about having sex with him. He’d said he was flattered, but was he just being polite, not wanting to embarrass you? You remember the way his eyes poured into yours, the flash in them when he probed for more details, the way they warmed you from the inside out, and the flicker of hope flashes ever so quickly. He’s here, in Detroit, for five years, you think, so there’s plenty of time to see what might unfold.

You don’t have to wait long to see, for not an hour later he’s sidling up next to you at the bar with a look that tells you he remembers exactly who you are. Like maybe he never forgot a single detail about you, either. 

“You stalking me now?”

A smirk forms on his face at his own joke, and you return a smile, adding smoothly, “I was here first, Compher. So I could ask you the same question.”

He laughs at your quip and shrugs noncommittally. “I plead the fifth.”

“You’re the one who signed in Detroit. Long-term. After I told you where I was from.”

“You caught me,” he says, a faux confession paired with hands held up. But then, his cool demeanor flickers ever so slightly as his third seltzer starts to hit his system. “I’m not—I wasn’t stalking you, but I have been hoping I’d run into you.”

Your heart flutters at his admission. “Is that so?”

He pauses as he debates what he wants to say next, and your eyes are drawn to the way his tongue darts out to run along his bottom lip, a shine remaining even as his tongue disappears back into his mouth. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and you can’t remember how you got here. You really can’t remember much outside of the thick, red beard, perfectly manicured, shrouding around his perfect, full lips—

“I found it.” His voice pulls you from your introspection, and you’re thankful and simultaneously hopeful he didn’t notice you staring. 

Stealing one last glance at his lips, you rack your brain to conjure whatever it was that he said to you a moment ago. If he notices your pause, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Found what?”

“Your—what is it called?—your fanfiction.”

Your heart freezes and sinks in an instant, mortification settling into your bones. You weren’t expecting that to come up so quickly into your reunion, foolishly hoping that maybe he’d forgotten about that detail. Surely, you think, he’s about to pull a restraining order out of his pocket and ban you from ever coming to a Red Wings—no, scratch that, any NHL game again. 

JT chuckles; your face must have betrayed your emotion. “Relax. I’m not mad or weirded out or anything.”

“Oh,” is all you can say, your brain entirely short circuiting as he thrives off of your discomfort, leaning in closer until you can feel the whiskers of his beard tickling the shell of your ear. 

“Actually, I thought it was really hot.”

He what?

You swallow, hardly believing what you heard come out of his mouth; in fact, you’re sure that you misheard him, the noise from the patrons around you drowning out his voice. Words have completely slipped from your mind, the ability to speak vanished in an instant. Surely this is all just a horrific prank and he’ll laugh at you for even believing it, hidden cameras ready to embarrass you into oblivion.

But the laughter never comes, nor the cameras, instead a gentle but confident touch to the back of your arm that lights you on fire. It’s only when your breath hitches in your throat that a smile forms on his face, lips curling upward against your ear. 

“You—you did?” you finally manage to choke out, only then realizing that you haven’t actually responded to his admission.

He hums and nods, pulling away as you do your best to gasp for air without it being obvious that your lungs are screaming, heart thumping rapidly against your sternum. “But I do have to say, you got a few things wrong.”

“W–wrong?”

The color of his eyes have turned into the most delicious shade of rich brown, swimming with warmth and no shortage of hunger. He holds your gaze intently, as if he wants you to see, and get the feeling that he’s reading into your soul. It’s unnerving and incredibly sexy, joke or not.

“I would use my fingers and then my mouth to make my girl come,” he says, as smoothly as if he was asking you to pass the salt at the dinner table. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head before he adds, “But you were right that I would make sure my cum is dripping down her leg.”

At that moment, you’re positive that your brain stops working altogether. The drink you’re sipping on goes down the wrong pipe, and suddenly you’re spluttering in shock. JT hardly reacts, just chuckles slightly to himself, almost like he’s expecting your reaction. In fact, he seems to be flourishing under your bewilderment.

A few loud, embarrassing coughs later, all you can manage is, “Oh.”

“And before you ask, it wasn’t necessarily a factor in my signing with Detroit, but I won’t lie that I did think about you afterwards. Wondered if I’d see you again, somewhere.”

A second bullet, straight to your chest, shock blooming in its wake. He had thought about you? He remembered you?

“You’re cute when you’re confused.”

A third bullet. Call the ambulance. Alert the authorities. Cardiac arrest is surely not far away, not if he keeps making admissions that are more shocking than pigs flying. 

Finally, your senses find their way back to you, like a cold splash of water to pull you out of your daze. “Okay, so when does Ashton Kutcher come out?”

He laughs at your Punk’d reference, all teeth and the sound syncing with the beat of your heart. “Why do you think you’re being pranked?”

“Because guys like you… they don’t–” you stutter, gesturing lamely between the two of you in lieu of saying, ‘Guys like you don’t go for girls like me.’

“Why not?” he poses, as if he’s privy to the thoughts in your head, and another wave of embarrassment washes over you as you imagine him reading all of the explicit thoughts running through your mind. “You’re beautiful.”

“Okay, first off, you’re not supposed to have this much rizz,” you say. “It’s not fair.”

Another laugh that cuts at the edges of your soul, simmering the heat in your chest. There’s a beat of silence, a pregnant pause that holds so much more than you can even fathom. 

“You gonna come home with me this time?” he asks. His eyes glitter as he teases you, subtle and comfortable.

“Do you even have a home yet?”

Maybe—okay, definitely—you’re deflecting, but you’re enjoying the banter, liquid courage giving you more confidence to tease him back. Even more than that, you’re enjoying the feeling of making him laugh, prepared to say anything to keep his eyes on you, enveloping you in warmth that you’re pretty sure has nothing to do with the sangria. The look in his eyes makes you shiver, wanting to bathe in the feeling it casts over you.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

You look at him, eyebrow raised, expectantly waiting for more. Then his expression turns bashful, and he says, “Okay, so I’m staying in Larks’ spare bedroom while I wait for my apartment lease to start next month. So technically I didn’t lie.”

“Big bucks Compher can’t cough up the cash to buy a house, huh?”

He snorts into his drink, shaking his head as he laughs. “I don’t know the area outside of Ann Arbor and where I’ve stayed for games. Could use a tour guide, actually.”

The implication is clear, hanging like a big, shiny mistletoe between you. He looks at you hopefully, waiting for you to take the bait.

“And you want me to be your tour guide, I’m guessing?”

JT shrugs, sending you the most innocent look he can muster. “I mean, I’m not going to say no to having a pretty girl show me around my new city.”

You shake your head with a laugh, doing mental gymnastics to come to terms with what he’s saying: he wants to see you again, wants to spend time with you outside of a dimly-lit bar or a sterile, modest fan event. You’re not even going to address him calling you pretty for the second time. 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply in your best nonchalant attempt. Against your better judgment, unable to resist, you ask, “What’s in it for me?”

He smirks, and you can practically see all of the filthy thoughts running through his mind. He holds his cards close to his chest, though, instead tossing the ball back in your court, like he’s testing to see if you’ll play. “What do you want?”

At his question, your mind is surely echoing the same ideas he has: flashes of bare skin, heated kisses, whispers of his name in the darkness. You feel another pulse between your legs at the mental image it draws. “What a loaded question, Compher.”

JT smiles into his drink, debating his next step. There’s a beat while he waits for you to contemplate, but no words come out—you can’t give in, not yet.

“Would it help if I told you something I’m embarrassed to admit too?”

Oh. He’s good. And it would, you admit, help to even the playing field. So you nod, yes, and he smiles in a way that tells you he was hoping you’d agree, that he has something he wants to share with you.

With a dramatic glance around, he leans in closer to you, the scruff of his beard sliding against your cheek. His cologne is the same, that same delicious and woody scent that instantly has moisture pooling between your thighs. It’s the depth of his voice that nearly makes your legs buckle first, and then you’re registering what he said.

“I jerked off to what you wrote.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, belly doing a triple-axle flip before heat courses through your body. The sound of his low chuckle is in your ear, and you realize your hand is gripping his bicep to hold yourself upright. And damn, if it doesn’t feel even better than you expected beneath your fingertips; strong and firm and something you want to see bracketed around your head while he— 

“Can I tell you one more?” he asks, and you’re nodding so fast you want to kick yourself, but you can’t help it. You’re completely under his spell, all willpower marching out the door; you’d jump off a bridge if he asked you to. 

“I thought about you.”

The whimper that leaves your throat is involuntary, stomach lurching, and you can feel the way his lips curl on his face at your reaction. 

“So is that a yes?” he asks. Then his confidence falters slightly, his eyes darting around. “You don’t–you’re not–you’re not seeing someone, are you?”

It takes you a moment to regain the strength of your voice, still completely struck by what he said. How could he possibly behave normally when he’d just flipped your entire world upside down and set it on fire?

“No,” you shake your head after a moment to get your words together. “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

JT hums in approval, his hand lingering on your waist even when he pulls away to sip at his drink. The fairy lights on the patio have turned on, glowing in the now-dark sky, and the hue illuminates the gold in his hair. He’s handsome, even more so now than he was before, maybe now that he has the confidence of winning a Stanley Cup. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at you, like he’d devour you right now on the spot if you let him. You would, if he asked. 

Another beat passes before you’re nodding, finally, agreeing wordlessly—to everything. For real this time. “I do have one caveat, though.”

“What’s that?” There’s a flash in his eyes, brief, that says, anything.

“Your tour of Detroit starts tonight, because, no offense to Dylan, I’m not going back to his house to… well. I’m just not.”

He grins, filling in the blanks of your pause, pleased that he’s been successful in his endeavor; you try not to think about the last time you agreed to leave a bar with him. “Deal.”

A little while later, your drink is finished and your heart is beating in your throat at the prospect of the rest of the evening, half expecting him to bail on you, the way you bailed on him. He doesn’t, instead introduces you to the guys he came with, and you smile shyly, hoping that he didn’t tell them everything. The look on Dylan’s face when JT tells him he won’t be home tonight makes you want to hide yourself behind his large frame, allowing the heat in your cheeks to consume you until you melt into the floor. His eyes flick to yours with a knowing smirk, all too pleased that his friend is getting a proper welcome to Detroit.

Your friends react less, a nod and a practiced smile after you give them the code word for, ‘I’m going home with this guy and I’m good.’  You watch Kelly’s eyes flick to JT standing behind you, closing his tab, and she sends you a glance of approval. 

It isn’t long before you’re on the sidewalk, the door closing behind JT in a strange display of finality as the loud chatter from inside the bar gets shut in. Suddenly, standing beside him is so much more intimate in the quiet street, without the other people and noise surrounding you in a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. 

JT pulls out his phone, seemingly unfazed by the change. “Should I call an Uber?”

“I’m actually only a few blocks away,” you explain. “Besides, you asked me to be your tour guide, didn’t you?”

His phone is pocketed with a smirk, and he gestures for you to lead the way. You’re nervous, more than you were inside, feeling the way he steps into stride beside you. His feet are heavier on the ground than yours, his gait much wider, though he slows his pace to match yours.

Unable to bear the silence—comfortable though it is—you point to the buildings around you, showing him where some of the best restaurants and bars are, briefly touching on some of the history of the city with your explanation. His eyes take in everything you’re showing, listening attentively, and you almost stop dead in your tracks when you feel his hand graze yours, loosely entwining your fingers together. The action nearly makes your heart melt, suddenly faced with an onslaught of not just lustful feelings, but romantic ones as well. 

This bitchy ginger is going to be the death of me.

The rest of the walk back to your apartment is pleasant, nice even, though it affords you the opportunity to fantasize what it’d be like to do this with him every night, his warm hand in yours as he tells you about his day. 

As you step in front of him to badge into the door to your apartment, feeling his gaze on your ass, you remind yourself that there won’t be an every night; there’s only going to be one night, so you better make it one to remember.

Tag list: @somuchf4rstardust @smileysvech @senditcolton @fallinallincurls

[comphy-and-cozy]

Pls I am begging for a fic where the reader works in team’s front office and literally any avalanche player 😌😌😌😌😌

Something to Dream About - JT Compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Summary: Secret relationships are messy. They’re even messier when your boyfriend is a professional athlete playing for the organization you work for. Surely nothing will happen when you have to spend the evening together at the charity gala that you’ve been planning for months… right?

Word Count: 5.5K

Author’s Note: I don’t know who I am but JT Compher has taken over my life. This fic came out of absolutely nowhere.

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Secret relationship, brief alcohol use/mention, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, risqué sex (do I have a thing for this???)

Part 2 / Moodboard / Masterlist

The sound of your heels clicking on the cement echoes through the halls, your pace quickening to reach the door. Your mind is flooded with checklists, to dos, trying to keep all of them straight to write down so they don’t get lost in the abyss.

Reaching your destination and opening the double doors, you look around Ball Arena, amazed at the transformation that’s come over the building in the last 24 hours. The ice has been covered with a wood flooring, decorated further with carpet. Cocktail tables covered in elegant black tablecloths are scattered around, the stage erected on one end of the arena, lights and balloons outfitting it nicely. Above you, two men stand on ladders as they erect a large banner, another man standing on ground level and shouting left, a bit further, that’s too far. Your eyes trace over the words at the center, Avs Fight Cancer, the logo standing proudly at the center of the banner, symbolizing all of your hard work the last few months putting together the annual charity gala. 

Tonight is the night, and all of Denver’s finest will be there, schmoozing and — hopefully — donating even minuscule fractions of their wealth to support the cause that the Avalanche have rallied behind. The entire Avalanche organization will be there, including Joe Sakic and Stan Kroenke, as well as all of the players and coaching staff, mingling with fans and donors alike. As the Executive Director of Community Engagement, the bulk of the coordination falls on you to manage and ensure everything runs as smoothly as possible, and as the hours wane down until the doors open, you’re certainly feeling the pressure.

Pulling out your phone, you jot down the few remaining notes that bounce around in your brain before you’re called to sign off on the liquor delivery. The next few hours pass quickly, you and the events team pulling the last pieces together before the event. When you finally leave to head home to get ready, you’re exhausted and aching but satisfied with the way things had come together and excitedly anxious for the night to come. 

The dress you've selected for the evening is a one-shouldered floor length black number, with a slit going mid-way up your thigh, elegant for the occasion and still classy enough for a professional event. Your hair is done up in a neat bun, keeping it out of your eyes for the running around you’ll undoubtedly be doing. You’re pleased with your appearance, and although looking good tonight is a secondary priority, you’re motivated to make sure you impress in more ways than one. 

The event kicks off, and people begin flooding in, checking coats and perusing the items for the silent auction. You’re doing rounds, glancing over everything even though you’d double and triple checked it all before you’d left. 

A pair of russet eyes catch yours, a smile sent in your direction beneath a thick, freshly groomed auburn beard. You return the gesture, unable to prevent your eyes from sliding down the body attached to that smile, tailored suit hugging the well-kept muscles that lie underneath. 

It’s not the first time you’ve checked out JT Compher in public, but it is the first time you’ve seen him dressed to the nines for a black-tie gala. There’s a moment between you, across the room, temporarily thick with longing, for you can’t cross the floor to be with him the way your heart wants to, kissing him in front of everyone the way you wish you could.

As you glance at him, admiring how good he looks with the rich black of his suit complementing his creamy skin, the conversation you had with him three months ago floods your mind, flashing before your eyes.

You were leaving the office for the day, keys in hand as you walked toward the exit. There was food in the fridge, but you didn’t feel like cooking, so you were debating what you should order for takeout on the way home.

“Y/N, hey, wait up,” a voice called from down the hallway. You paused, turning to see JT Compher jogging toward you, sporting sleek black Colorado Avalanche warmups and a backwards baseball cap. 

“Oh, hi, JT. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, um, I wanted to talk to you about something… if you have a minute?”

You smiled and nodded, placing your phone in your purse and turning to face him to give your full attention.

He swallowed nervously, and you noticed that he was fidgeting a bit, shifting from foot to foot. “Will you — would you like to go out with me sometime?”

You stared at him, defense mode kicking in and immediately assuming he was playing a prank on you. “What?”

“You know, like, for dinner or something.”

“JT, are you asking me on a date?”

A blush rose to his cheeks, accenting the red in his hair, and he shoved his hands in his pockets bashfully.“Well, yeah.”

You were unable to help the way your eyebrows rose in surprise. This man was a millionaire athlete, playing in the best league in the world, traveling from city to city every night — and he wanted to take you out on a date?

He was attractive, you couldn’t deny that, always having a soft spot for the depth of his brown eyes and the way he always managed to stop and say hello to you, his down-to-earth personality making it easy to chat with him every time. But, technically, he was your coworker, and you had a strict rule not to date colleagues. You didn’t interact much outside of events and the occasional marketing brief, but the fact that the same person signed both of your paychecks was enough of a reason for you to nope out of that scenario faster than a Cale Makar breakaway.

“I’m flattered, JT, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you picked your words  carefully, rejection never a strong suit of yours. “We work together, and it could get messy.”

Something shifted in his face, though he remained smiling. You could see his eyes fall as he nodded, “Oh, yeah. I totally understand.”

“I’m sorry.” You smiled, trying to soften the blow and do anything you could to get that fucking look out of his eyes. 

“No worries at all,” he said, quickly, maybe more to himself than to you, before offering another smile, bidding an awkward goodbye, and sheepishly walking away.

From that day, those beautiful chestnut eyes followed you wherever you went, haunting you, as if to tell you that you’d make a mistake not accepting his advances. Whether it was frequency illusion or just a coincidence, he seemed to be everywhere you turned. First, it was a photo shoot for the PetSmart puppy calendar. Then, it was a youth hockey event, which you coincidentally parked next to him for. He showed up in your dreams two weeks later, his same charming and jovial self.

Things changed when you were at home one night, wine drunk on the couch with your best friend watching The Bachelorette. (Even at home, away from work, you found that the tall, ginger contestant reminded you of another tall, bearded redhead.) She snatched your phone while you were aimlessly swiping on Hinge, exclaiming with a slur, “‘M gonna find you a husband.”

Giggling, you watched as she swiped, providing commentary on the various men’s dating profiles, and you gasped when she paused. Smiling up at you from the screen of your phone were the same eyes you’d been trying to avoid.

“Oh, he’s cute,” she said, scrolling through his pictures. His profile included a wide array of photos, including one with his sisters (clearly related, you determined, given the same shade of fiery red hair), a cropped picture of him and some guys on the beach, and a picture of him smiling down at two puppies in his arms. You’d been there that day, trying to ignore the way your heart melted seeing him coo over the puppies, so small in his big arms. 

“D’you know him?” she asked, turning the phone toward you to show the last picture: celebrating a goal, Avs logo standing proudly on his chest as his arms stretched for an incoming hug. 

You nodded, and before you could get a word out, she’d swiped right. You shrieked, her cackle nothing short of maniacal as she held your phone out of reach despite your best attempts to steal it back.

“Elle, no —“

“It’s a harmless swipe, Y/N,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “You can always unlike —“

She gasped, and you both looked down when your phone dinged, signaling that you had a match. You groaned, throwing your head against the back of the couch as you scrubbed your hands over your face. Even if you could undo the match, the damage had been done, for JT had seen the match already.

You managed to avoid him for the next week, embarrassment flooding every time you saw his car in the parking garage and turning down the wrong hallway just to prevent yourself from running into him.

It was a Thursday when life as you knew it changed forever. 

You were reviewing the line items from the liquor vendor for the gala, checking the quantities and the prices. Engrossed in the numbers in front of you, you didn’t hear a certain athlete approach with a confident saunter.

“So, about that date… ?”

You closed your eyes at the sound of his voice. “Hi, JT.”

“Come on, not even a smile?” he grinned. “I know you can’t be that disappointed to see me.” 

The reference, while subtle enough if anyone else had overheard, was glaringly obvious to you, the image of your photos bouncing together on the app with ‘It’s a Match!’ flashing through your mind. You glared at him, then nodded your head toward your office door, signaling him to get inside.

“Oh, we’re doing this right now? I would’ve dressed a little nicer had I known.”

He’s confident, a complete 180 from the way he’d been a few weeks prior, stuttering and nervous like he was a 17-year-old asking someone to prom. His recent 3-game point streak was enough of a reason for the enhanced confidence, though you still hadn’t connected the dots as to the additional factors for the added edge in his game. 

“JT, please,” you said once you’d closed the door, thankful that the rest of your colleagues had left for the day. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re coworkers,” you said pointedly. 

JT scoffed with a smile. “Coworkers? Hardly. Our jobs barely overlap. We just work in the same building. This is like, best case scenario.”

“I don’t mix personal and professional,” you said, sounding more firm than you felt. 

“What about pleasure and professional?” he asked with a wink. You rolled your eyes, and he added, “Really, Y/N. It isn’t that big of a deal. I can name like, at least three guys that are dating someone who works for their team.”

“That’s not the point! It’s a principle.”

“You afraid I’m a stereotypical hockey bro? Not all of us are just pretty playboys.”

‘You sure are pretty, though,’ you thought to yourself, instead replying with, “It has nothing to do with that.”

“Please,” he added. His voice was a little deeper, more serious. “Just give me a chance. One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You swore you could feel the actual heat of his gaze on you as you looked away to contemplate. Truthfully, there was nothing written against it in the handbook, and he was correct in stating that your jobs really didn’t overlap that much.

What harm could come of it?

“You will not tell a soul.” Your voice wavered, but you looked him square in the eye as you said it.

A smile broke out on his face as he mock saluted you, and any remaining doubt you had flew out the window at the sight, the light in his eyes filling you with a little too much joy than you’d care to admit. Before you could think twice, he was handing you his phone to input your number. You did, and handed it back to him, looking at him expectantly.

“I’ll change your life,” was the last thing he said before winking and walking out.

That was three months ago, and, true to his word, he had indeed changed your life in the two-ish months that you’d been dating. It had all been a blur, really, after the first date, and as things progressed you’d still sworn him to secrecy despite his every effort to remind you that you weren’t doing anything wrong.

So, here you are, casting coveted glances at your boyfriend across the room at a million-dollar event, except no one in the room knows that he’s your boyfriend, except for JT himself. It’s a secret, weighing heavy on you every time you come into work or have to watch him go stag to an event that you should be on his arm for.

Someone calls your name, and you tear your eyes away from him, turning to address your colleague, Grace, who’s standing beside you with a tablet, ready to have a final run through of your carefully crafted checklist. You review it twice to ensure that everything is in place and that no loose ends are left.

After a brief team meeting, everyone knows their posts, and Stan Kroenke is waiting by the stage, being briefed by another one of your colleagues with a rundown of the night’s schedule.

You catch JT’s eye, and he sends you a quick wink for luck before you take a breath and walk onto the stage. Doing your best to ignore the bright lights, you focus on not tripping before you get to the podium to welcome everyone. You’re nervous, but the words come to you easily as you explain the night’s festivities and introduce Stan, who is speaking after you.

The speeches go smoothly, as planned, and soon enough the time for mingling has begun. Naturally, most people gravitate to the players, wanting photos and autographs, and at this point, your only remaining assignment is to monitor and be available to assist with any issues that may arise. Everything is going smoothly, so you allow yourself to take a breath and let loose, just a little. You grab a glass of champagne, letting the tickle of it rest in your throat as you go to chat with your colleagues and brush elbows with the donors.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, only aware that the silent auction has begun, meaning it must be around 9pm. The music in the rink is a distant background noise, the sound of amiable chatter echoing in the arena. 

“Great job up there.” JT sidles up to you, startling you and causing you to jump. He chuckles before taking a sip of his beer. Your eyes flick to the foam that remains on his mustache, watching the way his tongue darts out to retrieve it.

“Thanks,” you reply with a smile, careful to keep your distance, being in such a public setting. “Been doing this for years but still never gets any easier.”

He hums in response, then lowers his voice slightly. “This whole thing has turned out amazing, babe. I’m really proud of you.”

All you reply with is a look, silently scolding him for the pet name in public. His expression is apologetic, but he doesn’t say anything, instead stepping closer to you under the guise of setting his glass down on the table behind you.

“And for what it’s worth, there’s no way you’re getting out of here tonight without getting fucked, looking like this,” he whispers in your ear. It’s low, murmured hotly, and fire courses through your veins at the words, which is presumably the exact reaction he’s aiming for.

You splutter in response, stepping away from him. “JT —“

“You look so fuckin’ good, baby,” he husks, and you can hear the hunger in his voice. “Can’t keep my eyes off you. Took everything in me to keep my hands to myself.” 

“Don’t… don’t talk like that,” you breathe, feeling the heat in your cheeks despite the fact that no one is near enough to overhear. 

“Why? Do you like it?”

The pang of your heartbeat is loud in your ears as you look at him, shaking your head. He smirks, knows that you’re lying, can see it in the way your breath hitches when he runs a hand over his beard.

“C’mon,” he urges, nodding toward the door to the hall, marked with a sign that says Staff and Personnel Only. 

With a hesitant sigh, you glance around the room. The guests are chattering, laughing, drinking, everything going exactly as planned. It can’t hurt to take a few minutes away, right?

Your redhead grins when you turn back to him with a shrug. The two of you slip into the hallway, and you do your best to walk both quickly and quietly, your heels clacking loudly on the cement floor. 

“JT, there are no private bathrooms down here,” you protest, heart thumping in your chest.

“There’s one,” he grins. “Follow me.”

He leads you away from the rink, down a different hallway from the guest bathrooms. 

“JT, where are we —“

“Shh, only a bit further,” he whispers, glancing behind you before taking your hand.

The next thing you know, you’re standing in front of two large sliding doors, the Avalanche logo carved into the rich wood.

“JT, no.”

“Why not?” he smirks, fishing out his access card from his suit coat pocket. “No one’s gonna find us in here.”

Before you can protest, he’s scanning his badge, the doors sliding open with a beep to reveal the entry way to the Colorado Avalanche locker room. You’ve been in it before, but never with a player, and certainly never alone with a player.

The doors are quiet when they shut behind you, and JT steps up to press his body against you, warm against your back as his hands find a hold on your hips.

“Finally alone with you,” he murmurs. “So I can do this.”

The whiskers of his beard tickle your neck first, soothed quickly by the softness of his lips that press a kiss against your skin. You can’t help the sigh that leaves your throat, feeling too good to ignore.

“And this,” he continues, hands giving your hips a squeeze through your dress before he’s flipping you around to face him.

You meet his eyes, soft despite the obvious heat in them, like melted chocolate in the center of a fresh, warm lava cake. He moves to cup your jaw, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb before he’s leaning in, whispering against your lips, “And most importantly, this.”

The kiss is all you need to make you forget where you are, head spinning with his lips against yours. Your internal moral code that was screaming at you up until five seconds ago has quieted, unable to think or feel anything except JT; any protest you had died the minute he touched you. 

His hands quickly find their place back on your hips, this time reaching behind you to give your ass a squeeze. You can taste the beer on his tongue as it slides against yours, probing, letting the temperature heat up to near scorching levels. He groans into your mouth, colliding with the moan you let out when he massages the globe of your ass in his hand. 

“Stall,” he manages to get out between kisses. “M’stall.”

Slowly, he begins walking you backwards, mouth never leaving your body. You trust him to not run you into a wall, blindly kissing him as your hands find purchase on his jaw. When the back of your knees bump into the wooden bench, you let out a soft grunt and he’s helping to lower you down, making sure you don’t fall.

Once he’s sure you’re seated, he sinks to his knees before you and you bite back a moan at the sight of him kneeling in front of you. With a smirk, he draws the fabric of your dress up your legs, making you shiver as your skin is revealed. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs as he takes your leg in his hand, delicate, kissing your calf. It’s slow and torturous, the way he trails his lips up your leg, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you know he’d be teasing you for hours if you had more time.

“No panties?” His voice is deep, husky, when he reaches the bare apex of your thighs, eyes unable to tear themselves away to meet yours.

“Mm,” is the response that you manage, for his finger is running lightly through your folds, coating him in your slick, before you can even answer. “P- panty lines. Panty lines.”

“Sure you weren’t just trying to get fucked? Wanted something easy access just for me, huh?” he teases, a glint in his eye as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

“JT, please,” you whine, rolling your hips against his hand.

“Oh, now she wants it,” he smirks. “You’re lucky I’ve been wanting to taste this pretty pussy since I first saw you walk in tonight. God, my girlfriend is a smoke show.”

“M’not gonna be your girlfriend for much longer if you don’t do something.”

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, mouth inches away from where you want him. The heat from his mouth makes you drip even more, throbbing desperately for his talented tongue. “What’s gonna happen when you break up with me and there’s no one to fuck you the way you want, hmm?”

“If you don’t touch me I’ll do it myself,” you threaten, and he chuckles.

“Think I’d really like to see that,” he muses, and you can tell by the glassy look in his eye that he’s envisioning the sight. “Maybe when we get home. But for now…”

His mouth finally presses against your molten center, tongue running over your lower lips and savoring your taste. He groans into you, beard scratching your thighs in the most delicious way. The man was a natural born pussy eater, you couldn’t deny it, knowing just how to maneuver to turn you into a whimpering mess. Your intense attraction to his thick beard only made your desire stronger, something he’d quickly deduced early on in your relationship and frequently took advantage of.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he praises you against your core, feeling the slight vibration of his deep voice all the way in your stomach. “Fuck, you taste s’good, sweetheart. So gorgeous.”

He laps at you, wants to take his sweet time but knows he’s racing against the clock, that things will be worse for everyone if you’re gone too long. Undoubtedly, someone will be looking for you, and soon. So, without warning, he plunges two fingers into you to earn a shriek from your lips before you’re clapping your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

Tongue and fingers working in tandem, it doesn’t take long to send you hurtling over the edge, legs shaking on his shoulders as he expertly works you through your high. Your knuckles are white, fisted in the formerly perfectly styled locks on his head, and you hold him against you as you gush against his face.

When he pulls away to grin at you, his thick beard is soaked in your essence and it draws a moan from you, quickly leaning forward to kiss him. The taste of yourself on his beard as his tongue probes your mouth is downright sinful, and you feel yourself throb as if to say, not done yet.

“JT,” you breathe against his mouth, his tongue flitting against your lips. “Fuck me.”

“You were just bitching about getting caught and now you want me to —“

“Need you. Now.”

The snark disappears when he hears the sincerity in your voice, pure instinct taking over as he’s quick to unbuckle his expensive belt, the sound of his zipper sliding down like music to your ears. Your eyes are glued to his length as he pulls himself out of his dress pants, noticing the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he strokes himself.

The locker room, while spacious, isn’t exactly made for this kind of physical activity, so finding a place to lie down comfortably is difficult. He takes your place in his stall, seated, then tugs you into his lap, bunching the fabric of your dress over your waist again once your thighs are nestled on either side of his hips, core pressed firmly against him. You can feel him, hard as steel against you, and you reach between your bodies to wrap your hand around him.

His jaw goes slack, eyes not leaving yours as you pump him, then swipe your thumb over his tip, smearing the precum over his head before bringing it to your mouth. JT groans as he watches you suck the dew off your finger, his own fingers digging into your hips illustrating that he likes what he sees.

“You want it?” you ask with a smirk.

“Fuckin’—” he curses, unable to keep his lips off of you, “yeah, fuck yeah, please, beautiful.”

Briefly, a moment of clarity hits you as the event flashes through your mind, and you remember where you’re supposed to be, in contrast with where you are. In that split second, you’re faced with the decision — be responsible, or give in to your desire. Given the way JT’s lips are pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his rock hard dick pressing against your naked core, throbbing wantonly against you, it’s not a difficult decision to make.

The sound that your boyfriend emits when you sink down onto him is otherworldly, and you bottle it up, hoping to elicit that sound from him over and over again. 

And you do, moving up and down his length while his hands reach to grip your ass, helping your movements. He lets out the same moan against your mouth when you duck down to kiss him, swallowing the sound. When he shifts his hips, tilting them to press himself deeper into your tight heat, you mimic the sound, crying out a call of his name into the emptiness of the room, echoing out of the empty stalls surrounding you.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and sending waves of arousal straight to your pussy. “Feels so good, squeezin’ me so tight, baby.”

You lean in to kiss his lips, swollen and red and downright delicious, and your tongue seeks out his own as your hands clutch onto his broad shoulders for leverage. The sound of you bouncing in his lap has his belt buckle jingling, and he rips it out of the last belt loop before chucking it somewhere on the ground behind you, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. A free hand palms your breast through your dress, and the warmth even through the fabric makes your nipples harden, your back arching into his touch. He’s all over you, in your lungs and on your skin, and in that moment you swear you’ll let yourself be swallowed by him, devoured amidst the low lighting in the Avalanche locker room.

“J,” you sigh, breathless. You hope he can pick up the rest of what you’re trying to say, unable to speak words for the bubble of heat that’s rising in your belly, his dick drawing enough pleasure to render you speechless.

Fortunately, he does, and he’s using his grip on your ass as leverage to coax you up and down, faster, striking the perfect spot within you. One of his hands leaves its post on your waist, snaking between your bodies to find your clit, knowing he’s found the bud when you gasp against his jaw. Fireworks dance in front of your eyes, and you throw your head back, eyes squeezed shut tightly as you swear you can visualize your high, just on the horizon. He applies pressure, just enough, circling slowly to gauge your reaction, looking up at your face like you hung the moon and the stars. When he sees your eyes begin to roll back, he repeats the action, desperate to feel you come while wrapped around him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dripping in honey.

He claps a hand over your mouth when you cry out in ecstasy as your peak hits you, rippling through you while your hips falter their once steady movements. Between the fluttering of your heat around him and the blissful expression on your face as you climax, JT’s soon reaching his own, spilling deep inside you in the final waves of your orgasm.

There’s a haze around you for a few peaceful, wonderful moments following, and you smile when you see him grinning at you, holding back laughter. The corners of your lips curl up into a smile, and soon enough you’re giggling along with him.

“Can’t believe you just did that,” he says through his laughter. 

“You started it!”

“Yeah, but you went along with it,” he winks, grunting when he helps to slip you off of his lap. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, thankful that your dress is floor-length and black, hiding any leakage. He dashes away, returning quickly with a wad of toilet paper and a kiss to help clean you up.

“Kinda want to do it again.”

“JT,” you warn as you adjust your dress, smoothing it out to hide any wrinkles. “We need to get back.”

Nerves flutter inside of you now that the heat of the moment has passed, and you suddenly feel guilty for abandoning the event you spent months planning, even if your temporary distraction is a delicious, incredibly attractive hunk of a man. 

“Hey,” JT says, seeing the way your hands have started to wring themselves. His voice is soft and he takes your hands in his, giving them a squeeze. “Everything is fine, okay? You did an incredible job planning this — so good, in fact, that everything is running perfectly smoothly without you, and you are allowed to take a break.”

He’s right, of course, a smug expression on his face when he slips back into the hall ten minutes later, staggering his arrival with yours. His hair has been combed, no evidence that you’d been running your nails through it not 20 minute prior, though you do notice the flush of his lips against the glass of the new beer he’s gotten. The only person who noticed your absence is Grace, but you’re quick with an excuse that you were cornered by Stan, who is notorious for his long-winded conversations. She looks at you, but if she is thinking anything, she doesn’t say it, and you mentally pump your fist that she’s bought your lie.

As you are both approached by Joe Sakic, you have to hide your smile knowing that you’d just fucked one of his players in the locker room just down the hall. You can’t help but feel undeniably smug — and maybe a little bit turned on — that while you chat with some of the wealthiest, most important people in Denver, you can still feel the warmth of JT’s cum inside of you, one bead dripping down the inside of your leg. 

Another hour or so later, the last few remaining guests take their leave. The clean up crew begins their practiced routine, and you make your rounds to ensure that the vendors have their appropriate tips and payment before you head up to the office to wrap up for the night. Grace is waiting for you, to tell you the initial count of dollars raised has exceeded $20,000, and you grin, feeling both relieved and quite satisfied at the culmination of your hard work.

Not much later, you and Grace walk to the parking lot together, and you commend her for a job well done, thanking her for keeping you sane. As you bid her goodbye and slip into your car, you take out your phone, smiling to yourself when you see a text.

[JT:] Meet you at yours? [JT:] I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. 

You chuckle, sending a text back to let him know you’re on your way.

[Y/N:] I’m heading home now [Y/N:] I prefer waffles, by the way [JT:] Lucky for you, I am a waffle extraordinaire [JT:] See you soon, beautiful 😘

You start your car, stowing your phone in your purse as you exit the parking garage. The bluetooth in your car dings with another text from him, and you roll your eyes as the message pops up on the screen.

[JT:] Still want to see you touch yourself like you promised… I’m waiting 😉

[jiggyloveshockey]

Who has the horniest bromance in the NHL?

After reading too much fanfiction and reblogging way too many hockey gifs on this hellsite, I got slightly drunk and asked myself the following question: Who has the horniest bromance in the league? Here’s the scientifically totally legit poll where you can vote. But let’s look at our top 10 candidates first, shall we?

WE SHALL! But first, more wine! 

Mika Zibanejad and Chris Kreider

Sluttiness potential: People keep saying it’s just golf balls in his pocket, but personally, I choose to believe that Chris Kreider has the shlong to end all shlongs. Mazel tov!

Awww factor: They’re flying across the globe to visit during the summer, so- yeah. It’s love.

Brock Boeser and Elias Pettersson

Awww factor: Hand holding on the bench levels of “awww”. Pettersson also donated 10 Grand to the Parkinson society of BC and Minnesota to honor Brock Boeser’s dad. It’s all very get-your-tissues-out sweet.

Sluttiness potential: Dude, they’re young, they still have to share their hotel rooms on the road, there is some sneaky boning going on. Probably. Maybe that’s just in my head? I don’t know. More wine!

JT Compher and Tyson Jost

Sluttiness potential: I think this picture neatly sums it up. 

(Look at the little weeny bum in the corner!)

Awww factor: Who can forget the time they had a moment™ because JT literally turned Tyson’s world to color?

Tyson Barrie and Nathan MacKinnon

Awww factor: Granted, they are no longer on the same team, but who cares. MORE WINE! Anyways,...

#dontjudgethemtheyaresensitive

Sluttiness potential: One time Nate fell into the ocean in Cannes, because he was too wasted to jump on his yacht and his first instinct was to walk - sopping wet - into Tyson’s room. If there isn’t some secret humping happening here, I’ll eat my boots. Or maybe the pack of mini salamis I just found in the fridge. Wine makes me hungry. Now, where were we..

Brandon Tanev and Adam Lowry

Awww factor: Aaaah, the couple that gave hockey tumblr The Kiss™. 

Sluttiness potential: 

No further questions, Your Honor!

Mitch Marner and Auston Matthews

Awww factor: The big, dumb one follows the fun smol one around all day long. Adorable.

Sluttiness potential: Auston “Knees breathing heavy” Matthews is currently shacked up with his goalie and Mitchy is back in Toronto chugging wine and playing Fortnite, but absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

I’m approximately this level of tipsy right now by the way. 

[does awkward peace sign while eating another mini salami stick]

Alex Ovechkin and Nicklas Backstrom

Sluttiness potential: Ovi is legit coo-coo bonkers and Backstrom is the kind of silent that makes me think he’s secretly crazy, so I’m very convinced they’re both insane in the sack. But maybe that’s just me, sitting at home and getting unreasonably horny in self isolation. Have I mentioned I’m slightly drunk?

Awww factor: I might not be a Caps fan, but I teared up at this.

It’s Love with a capital L and I will fight you if you disagree!

Jamie Benn and Tyler Seguin

Awww factor: Ty-Ty may be a narcissistic thot and Captain Cow Eyes may be a dum-dum and they don’t seem as smitten as they once were, but we all know they still love each other. We know. We most definitely know.

Sluttiness potential: Sluttiness potential is Tyler Seguin’s middle name. (Actually it’s Paul and I’m embarrassed I know that.)

Travis Konecny and Nolan Patrick

Awww factor: The snarkier the bitch, the sweeter the moments of actual softness.

“What do you think of?” 

[dreamy smile that you only have when you talk about your crush]

“Ugh, he’s the worst!”

Sluttiness potential: It’s hard to tell, because Patty hates everyone apart from TK.

Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin

Awww factor: The unsinkable ship, the pairing that keeps on giving. Read King and Lionheart and then tell me you don’t believe in love!

Actually maybe I should re-read King and Lionheart again? I should.

Sluttiness potential: Sid’s buttcheecks invented sluttiness potential. 

Alright children, now go ye forth and vote while I pour myself a final glass of wine. Merry self isolation to us all and to all a good night!