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holy-puckslibrary · 7 months ago

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─ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜.

pairing(s) — fwb!MATTHEW TKACHUK x reader wc — 3.2k synopsis — best not-boyfriend boyfriend ever! (read the request here) note — bestie, your brain? marvelous! this was an absolute joy to write, and i hope this captures your vision!!! thank you for the request <3

main masterlist

content warnings under the cut.

cw — hints of a debut-inspired ensemble; complicated, grossly intimate situationship + emotional constipation; angst (not really) to fluffy fluffy; tswizzle references; suggestive section: "heavy petting" but nothing explicit / fade to black; brief alcohol mention + consumption; brief mention of food (no specifics); and ~emotions~

I. it’s getting so much clearer…

Matthew regrets making you a key.

Majorly.

If he’d known the can of worms he was opening when he unceremoniously dropped them in your lap one night, he would’ve listened to his brother; you don’t give girlfriend privileges to women who aren’t your girlfriend. It only leads to hurt feelings, broken console controllers, and unnecessary trouble.

However, it’s highly unlikely this is the “trouble” to which Brady was referring.

Rooted in the entryway, he surveys the damage.

Beads of all shapes, sizes, and colors sit in a sea of jars. Some have spilled out under the coffee table and couch, others have made it all the way into the kitchen. Knotted balls of elastic are sprinkled throughout the chaos, as are multiple pairs of scissors, skeins of embroidery floss, and shards of construction paper. There are markers everywhere, but for some unknown reason, the crayons and sticker sheets are in nice, neat piles. A white feather boa is draped over the entertainment center and there’s a pink one curled by his feet. And, in the eye of the storm, is an anxious lump frantically stringing together DIY jewelry and muttering along to the megamix blaring through the room; he doubts you even heard him come home.

“Sweetheart, is there a reason it looks like a craft store threw up everywhere?” Matthew shouts as he gingerly braves the hurricane.

Something crunches under his shoe, and from the sound alone, he knows it would’ve been worse than stepping on a Lego if his feet were bare.

He also knows that if the music were even a decibel lower, you would be pissed beyond belief. How dare he move freely through his own home without first checking for rogue pieces of plastic? His ears are ringing, but he’s grateful for it. From many years of mistakes and misadventures, he's learned you won’t get on top if you’re mad, regardless of how much groveling he does. And he's got one foot in the doghouse after last weekend as it is.

“T-minus two days ’til Taylor, Matthew,” you grumble from the floor. “What do you think?”

You’ve been at this for weeks. It gets worse the closer the concert gets. The mess and your mood.

Matthew isn’t stupid, and he knows you better than he lets on. You panic under the weight of your own (often unrealistic) expectations. You need everything to be perfect, or the entire world crumbles. This, Night One of the Florida dates of the Eras Tour, is, understandably, no exception. If anything, the pressure’s dialed up to eleven.

In stressing over every little detail, you’ve made yourself miserable. Watching you unravel makes his chest feel strange.

You won’t ask for help. You don’t want it, either.

But, he can’t let you flounder. For his own sanity, he can’t do it. And he does care about you. Maybe not in the way everyone assumes or hopes, but he does. He’d do almost anything to lighten your load.

Yet, Matthew treads lightly. If he’s too forthcoming, you could get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want to spook you, and he can’t have any wires getting crossed. What’s so good about your situation is how markedly uncomplicated it’s been. He refuses to be the one who fucks it up for everyone.

So, he does what he can, and he does it without making a big deal about it.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he sinks down onto the floor beside you. You’re perched on one of the obnoxious throw pillows you insisted he order to “spruce up” the space and make it look less “bachelor pad-y." As if that’s not exactly what it is. He takes this as rare permission to do the same, placing one under his hips and cuddling another to his chest as he stretches out on his stomach, phone in hand.

Well, as stretched as a person can be in the middle of an obstacle course.

Between the second play of “cowboy like me” and the third of “Tim McGraw,” his various feeds dry up, and he’s spammed his contacts into oblivion. You're still chugging along, like a Sad Girl automaton locked in an endless glittery assembly line.

At one point, you murmur, “Give me your wrist."

And he does.

Matthew’s taken aback when you loop elastic around it to get a measurement.

He’s confused, but not for the reason one might assume. He’s painfully familiar with the friendship bracelet phenomenon and the giddy exchanges, having been force-fed hours' worth of tour content over the past year, but he never thought you’d rope him into it.

The buzz under his skin is oddly auspicious, watching you clip the appropriate length before reaching for the pile laid out near his head.

It’s not long before you make the same request again. However, this time, you slide on a custom creation. You fiddle with it for a moment, then turn back to your station to begin the next one on the list.

“And in which era does she cosplay as a camp counselor?” Matthew teases as he thumbs the letter beads.

They spell out a moniker he’d honestly find offensive if you hadn’t looped the song one too many times. He wonders if you’ve made yourself the matching one.

You emit a sound that haunts his nightmares and side-eye him in a way that would’ve made a lesser man disintegrate.

“If you don’t want it, give it back so I can give it to someone who will appreciate my time and effort,” you bite with your hand outstretched, palm up and open expectantly.

Matthew shoves it away, suddenly defensive. “I never said that.”

The sun slips behind the fence an hour later, and the sky bathes the house in purple-pink hues. As he gathers ingredients in the kitchen, Matthew watches the slow-moving clouds absentmindedly. He hasn't felt this content in a while.

Arms full, he wades through the arts and crafts on the way to the backyard.

You’re still in the den, still hunched over in the same place he found you in. He shakes his head when he passes you, knowing he’s got an hour (at least) moonlighting as a masseuse in his future.

You don’t startle or acknowledge him until the grill set you bought for his birthday clatters to the floor.

“Why’re there two cowboy hats getting glitter all over my patio?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. And hating it. Vehemently.

You fix him with an unamused glare. Your brow quirks, and your hands still. Then, you blink at him very slowly. Like he’s an idiot. Like he just asked a stupid question—because he did.

Matthew’s head wags so intensely that his neck cracks.

“Oh, hell no.”

II. it’s coming undone…

Matthew scowls at his reflection.

“—looks so fucking stupid.”

He can’t tell if he looks worse with or without the fur-trimmed, shimmery cowboy hat. And, honestly, it's a little distressing. After temporarily ditching it, he tugs at his curls. Then, the hem of the jersey.

Resigned, he reaches across the bed for the homemade accessory. Wearing it will make you smile—and it gives his dignity something to hide behind.

Twitter’s going to have a fucking field day.

Your panicked voice spills out from the hotel bathroom, “Really?”

“Of course, it fucking do—”

His tirade of vanity grinds to a screeching halt at the sight of you, backlit and wilting.

“That’s not—ah, fuck.” Matthew digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What I meant was—me, it looks stupid on me. Not you. On you, it looks… It looks…”

“It looks, what?”

It looks like he’s glad none of your friends were available because he won’t have to pretend you’re less than you are.

No lectures, no goading, no scrutiny. Just you.

“Right.” That’s the word he settles for. “It looks right.”

The emphasis chips away at what little believability the underwhelming affirmation had. That much is evident from the insecurity bleeding through your makeup.

“Right,” you parrot. Skeptically, you drag out the vowel long enough that it disappears into the bathroom with you.

Before the door clicks shut, Matthew’s already berating himself for whatever just happened. For acting like a complete doofus with a foot shoved down his throat.

His mind is as quick as his tongue is sharp. He’s got confidence for days and a cocky demeanor primed and on-call, one that most women find endearing. Yourself included. He’s never had an issue dishing out pretty words or flirting before, especially not with you.

With you, banter came easy. Sweet or salacious, it didn’t matter. The bob and weave, from platonic chatter to something charged and suggestive, is effortless. And it’s been that way for as long as he can remember. It's innate. He should be able to uphold his reputation in his sleep.

What’s gotten into him?

(You’d say the power of Taylor Swift, or some shit. Which is why he doesn’t open the floor for discussion. Among other reasons.)

Matthew makes the executive decision to put things right. To redeem himself, to feel more like himself.

His palms are hot and tingling as he sets off to do what he does best. Something fool-proof. Something that’ll erase the past ten minutes from the collective consciousness. Something to scratch an itch...

He won't make it through three and a half hours without catching a public indecency charge.

Not with you looking like that.

“I was thinking,” Matthew trails off as he comes up behind you in the en suite bathroom. His hands land on the counter, one on either side of you. “We should fool around a little bit before we leave.”

With his chest flush to your back and his chin propped on your shoulder, he blatantly checks you out.

You, albeit begrudgingly, find it flattering. On principle, you roll your eyes.

You snort. “Funny."

Sarcasm pinches his face as he unintelligibly mocks you.

Whatever witty retort he had died on his tongue when you lean forward to put some eyeliner in your waterline, inadvertently pushing the curve of your backside right into his growing bulge.

Matthew turns you to face him without warning.

The kohl pencil goes flying, dotting the pristine space as it tumbles to the floor. Its final resting place is unknown; you’ll follow the smudge-crumbs later.

Later, when he doesn’t have you pressed tight between the harsh edge of the counter and his chest.

Later, when the dull ache in your arched back dissipates.

Later, when his attraction isn’t so painfully tangible.

Later, when he isn’t looking at you the way he is now.

You’re sinking in a shade of blue you don’t recognize. It’s stormy, vast and disquieting. Like any collision, you’re unable to tear your eyes away even though you know you should. It betrays an aura of foreboding, yet somehow, Matthew’s charged gaze carries a soothing effect. It's hypnotic in an stomach-twisting way.

“I’m not laughing, sweetheart.” He breathes the words through the slight part in your lips, his voice rich and thick like honey.

“W-We need to be quick—”

Matthew buries his face in the sweet-smelling crook of your neck. Intent on shutting you up, he succeeds with infuriating ease once he’s latched onto your throat. He nips and sucks whenever you protest, and soon, you don’t even bother trying anymore.

Why lie and deny when what you want feels this fucking good?

When your nails dig impatient little half-moons into his forearms, Matthew bares his teeth with a triumphant hiss.

He grins against your skin, humming atop your erratic pulse.

“Better hurry up and spread ‘em, then.”

Matthew’s between your dangling boots as soon as you’ve hoisted yourself onto the counter. Kneading the soft skin of your thighs, inching up and in with eager hands, he doesn’t slow or stop until the white Self-Titled sundress is bunched up in the hinge of your hips.

“That’s my girl.”

III. it’s delicate…

“All Tequila, No Crime” isn’t as diabolical of a cocktail as it sounds.

Spending $100+ to taste test it and three other signature mixed drinks is.

A robbery, if you ask him.

What's downright criminal, though, is your inability to finish a single one. A “Last Great American G&T” with a few sips missing, a half-finished “Midnight Mule,” and a watered-down “Blue Debut” sit abandoned amongst an assortment of sweet treats and small bites.

As he waits for what he ordered, Matthew picks at the vibrant fruit salad. He’s about to pluck a honeydew star from the pile stacked high in a bowl fashioned from a watermelon rind when the back of his neck prickles.

“Knock it off.”

You blink, bemused.

Matthew, having watched your reaction in a reflection, rolls his eyes.

Back still to you, he clarifies. “You promised you wouldn’t make this a whole thing.”

“I'm not.”

“You've never been a good liar.”

“Isn't that a good thing?” you deflect.

You turn your attention back to the lively stadium, watching as it fills with laughter and anticipation. You're hoping he'll take the hint and drop it, that he won't pull the night apart at the seams.

He abandons the sprawling buffet table in favor of the plush recliner beside yours. Once settled, Matthew slides a plate of your favorites across the small table between you.

“Don't change the subject.”

The cement under your boots makes for a captive audience as you sail into dicey weather. “I know—I know what I said, and I'm really trying my best, but can you blame me? I mean, c’mon, Matty. Look where we are.”

“A Taylor Swift concert?” Matthew does what he does best.

You know his tells and his tricks. You indulge neither.

“My first Taylor Swift concert. Ever. I came out of The Queue From Hell empty-handed and shit out of luck, yet here we are. The Eras Tour. And not way up the nosebleeds or side-stage with an obstructed view. A suite. A private, fifteen-person suite—for just us. You did that.”

Matthew shifts uncomfortably. He scratches the shadow clinging to his jaw. He looks everywhere, at everything. Everything except you.

“So?”

The probe is firm yet reluctant but not inherently dismissive.

“So,” you heave a labored sigh of unease. “—so, how could I not? This ‘whole thing’ is the kindest, most thoughtful gesture anyone’s ever done for me. It means the absolute world, and I know you know that.”

A thick, paralyzing quiet descends on the balcony.

He does know that, which is what makes it so terrible. He knows, he knows, he knows. Matthew knows; he wishes he didn’t. For years, he successfully kept it at bay because… because you can’t just un-know something like that. Even entertaining the thought felt too big a risk. It jeopardizes the delicate peace only willful ignorance can safeguard.

“Alright, alright. Jesus, sweetheart. Can't have you emptying the tank before the show even starts,” Matthew teases as he thumbs the tears away. “How d’ya know I didn’t pull some strings just to put an end to your perpetual pity party?”

He’s trying to lighten the mood. Hoping to inch away from the emotionally dense zone of uncharted territory, hoping you’ll have mercy—or take pity—on him and his plight of avoidance.

And you do.

Ever the benevolent people-pleaser.

You take your foot off the gas. You retreat to the status quo. You yield, but for a good cause.

Good and right aren’t synonymous. And we can’t will them to be. So, instead, we choose our battles and bide our time.

There’s no reason to rain on tonight’s parade.

“Thank you,” you acquiesce.

Mathew smiles.

This ceasefire, this tacit truce, is as fragile as rice paper. It feels as though, if someone pushed too hard from either side, they'd go right through it unchallenged. But, for now, it's enough.

He takes your hand and squeezes. “And for the hundredth time, you’re welcome.”

IV. it’s been a long time coming…

He gets it now.

Truthfully, he understood after the very first bridge of the night. There’s just something about the intimacy of the spectacle; it's… indescribable. With thousands from all walks of life gathered in a single stadium to celebrate nearly two decades of singing, crying, and growing up together, it wasn't difficult to get swept up in the magic.

For someone who’d consider themselves fan-adjacent at best, he wasn’t expecting to feel much of anything, let alone goosebumps, misty-eyed.

He can’t even imagine how extraordinarily special it must’ve been for you, a lifelong fan, to partake in the world’s most cinematic sing-along. To luck out with your opener of choice, to be surprised with your favorite song during the acoustic set—you could probably die happy. Matthew can still feel your tear-streaked cheek against his shoulder and your shakey hand clasped in his. And he’ll remember the warmth of your joy for the rest of his life.

He, however, doesn't have to imagine how much the experience took out of you.

“Hey, hey. Don’t pass out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You’re one minute into a five-minute Uber ride, and he’s already had to nudge you twice.

Curled against the cool window like a cat, you groggily protest, “I’m not. My mind is alive, promise.”

He snorts. “Then why’re your eyes shut?”

“They aren’t!”

They absolutely are.

Matthew tugs you across his lap with a smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Sounds like you need to get yours checked, Matthew Brendan,” you quip into his chest before drowning the backseat in delirious giggles.

In the golden glow of the streetlamps, his smirk rests against your temple.

Here is the moment. There have been hundreds like it in the years since you met. Lighthearted banter and late night laughter spill over into the early morning hours, all of it utter nonsense he wouldn’t trade for anything. It should be perfectly ordinary, but it's music to his ears.

The cowboy boots he swore he wouldn’t carry home rest against his similarly sore calves. The ziplock bag, once bursting at the seams with bracelets, is empty and folded in his back pocket, and his arm is full from elbow to wrist. The glitter he contested clings to him like a second skin, there to stay.

And he doesn’t hate it.

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

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All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2024 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted, or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

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annieqattheperipheral · 13 days ago

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sid/monty pairs figure skating routine💕

they're breakdance icedance fighting!

#does anyone remember that so you think you can dance m/m sword fighting duel dance from like eons ago? I'm thinking of that!!#hockey fights #sidney crosby #pittsburg penguins #brandon montour #seattle kraken

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lynnearlington · 20 days ago

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how can we be lovers (if we can't be friends) - chapter vi

Supergirl, Kara/Lena, M

“I believe there are no less than ten bedrooms in The Manor,” Veronica says in that voice of superiority she’s so perfected. “But by all means, continue to defile the Buttery.”

When I have no plans to abandon this fic, I mean it. More Hockey AU to be read: HERE.

ko-fi | fic tag

#this tag is for fic #supercorp fic #hockey au #hcwbl #i had to split this part of the chapter into two more parts because it got too long #whoops #which was a bummer because originally we were about to earn that M rating #it will have to wait until the next

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grxyswrld · 1 month ago

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hhhiiiiiii siiiirrrrr 🤭🤭🤭🤭

#hartford wolfpack #hockey #matt rempe #new york rangers #m. rempe #m.rempe

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adelphenium · 1 month ago

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aucember day 8: marcheron + film noir au 🔍

#wanted: one m. marchand for acts of vigilantism and larceny ... charges include stealing the hardboiled detective bergeron's heart ^_^#brad marchand #patrice bergeron #marcheron #boston bruins #hockey art #yjart #hockey rpf #hrpf #aucember

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captainhuggys · 2 months ago

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The way he curls up on himself 🥺🥺 he is so golden retriever leave me alone

#bellsyaps #hockey #matt rempe #new york rangers #he is so babygirl #i wanna kiss him so bad #I just wanna kiss all over his face #mr73 #m. rempe

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chukys-mouthguard · 2 months ago

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what are the odds? | part 7

matt rempe x female reader; featuring numerous side characters

social media au! • final part!

part 6

your.name.here

liked by mattrempe, alleyrempe, francesca.kreider and 452,692 others

your.name.here officially adding wag to my resume ❤️

alleyrempe oh my gosh finallyyyyyyyy 🥳

alleyrempe maybe now I’ll stop getting hundreds of comments asking about the two of you 🤣

-> your.name.here i think this will only open the door for a whole set of new comments 🙈

user10348 WAKE UP EVERYONE HARD LAUNCH

-> user1049 literally we all knew but it still makes me so happy 🥹

-> user10348 truly the cutest couple

mattrempe man that jacket looks good on you 😮‍💨🔥

liked by your.name.here

-> your.name.here i like your name and number on my back better 😘

liked by mattrempe

user20459 okay, the wait for the WAG jacket debut was worth it 😍🤩

-> user05439 right?! ITS SO CUTE!!!

francesca.kreider thank god we kept that jacket 👏🏼👏🏼

liked by your.name.here, mattrempe, addison.clark

-> addison.clark and to think we almost burned it 🤪😅

-> mattrempe you two wouldn’t dare!??

-> your.name.here oh but they almost did 🙊

user5530 my heart is so happy 😭

-> user0149 but also so unhappy knowing rempe is off the market 😭

-> user0385 at least we know your.name.here is a genuine girl and has the best intentions with him

liked by your.name.here and mattrempe

nyrangers we’ve got all the rempe merch on hold for you so now you can proudly rock it at the garden 💙❤️

liked by your.name.here and mattrempe

kandre.miller let’s gooooooooooo

liked by your.name.here and mattrempe

-> chris.kreider the boys did good 💪🏼

-> your.name.here that they did 🫶🏼

user0284 I’ve been waiting my whole life for this and it didn’t disappoint 😭🫶🏼

mattrempe

liked by alleyrempe, tybauer_, your.name.here and 432,395 others

mattrempe sorry boys, I’m off the market 🫶🏼

your.name.here who knew boys still bought flowers? 🥹💙

-> mattrempe mainly the ones who love their girlfriends like crazy 🫶🏼

liked by your.name.here, alleyrempe, and addison.clark

tybauer_ thank god, now people will stop saying that we are secretly together

liked by mattrempe

-> mattrempe i mean, we aren’t…at least not anymore 👀🙊

-> tybauer_ bro don’t start shit like that come on 😂😅

user2945 not the flowers in her car door 😭

-> user0479 and they say i love you 😭😭

-> user5937 rempe has been waiting his whole life to shine in his boyfriend era

liked by your.name.here and mattrempe

chris.kreider sooo when can i get fitted for that fitbit?? 👀

-> kandre.miller after he takes me for a steak dinner 😜

-> mattrempe you two are the worst 🙃

alleyrempe so glad you didn’t absolutely destroy this relationship 😮‍💨😅

-> mattrempe had to do everything i could to fix this 🤞🏼

-> alleyrempe let me know when you wanna go ring shopping, i know what your.name.here likes 😉

-> mattrempe slow your roll there bud, baby steps

-> tybauer_ baby?! So soon?

-> mattrempe 🤦🏻‍♂️🤦🏻‍♂️🤦🏻‍♂️

user3429 someone come get tybauer_ and take away his ability to comment please 😂😭

liked by your.name.here and mattrempe

#matthew rempe fic #matt rempe blurb #matt rempe fic #matt rempe imagine #matt rempe fluff #matt rempe x reader #matt rempe #matthew rempe #m. rempe #Matt rempe smau #nhl smau #hockey smau #nhl imagine #nhl fics #hockey imagine #hockey fic #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb

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ijustdontlikepeople · 1 year ago

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NHL x Internet 4/?

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swissboyhisch · 7 months ago

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It's About Time

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Hughes!Reader

Summary: Your first annual Devils Gala helps reveal hidden feelings for your brother's best friend and yourself.

Word Count: 1397

Warnings: Alcohol mentions, kissing,

A/N: This is for @snugglyducklingbrewhouse's Birthday Bingo!! Happy birthday to one of my favourite girlies from the discord. Sorry it's a little late. I hope you enjoyed your birthday month <3

My choice of five bingo boxes were (second column from the left):

Friends to lovers

Works with/for the team

Team event

Brother’s best friend

Comfort

I really hope you enjoy this! I'm really happy how this turned out :)

THE MASTERLIST JOIN THE TAGLIST HOCKEY DISCORD

Tonight was the annual New Jersey Devils Gala, and you were lucky enough not to have to work the event. As the photographer for the team, you would usually be asked to work nights such as these. But thankfully, your boss decided you could have the night off as it was your first gala since joining the organisation. Enjoy the gala with the team, staff and other rich people involved.

Both of your younger brothers were ecstatic that you got to accompany them to the gala. Luke especially was, as it was his first time going to the annual event, and he wasn’t exactly a people person. Having two of his older siblings with him definitely will help. And Jack, well, he always loves having his older sister around.

The pair had taken you shopping for a dress and ensured you didn’t pay a cent for the dress or any of the accessories you had chosen. Jack even got his girlfriend, Sam, to book you and herself for a spa day. Which would consist of a massage, nails, hair, and make-up together to have a girls' day and prepare for the event.

The two of you spent the day getting ready for the gala. It was the first time you had also spent the full day with Sam without Jack there. Sure, you had gone shopping together a couple times for a couple of things but never fora whole day. You two were excited to have some time to yourself.

“We are looking hot,” You grin as you put in your earrings.

“That we do,” Sam grinned, coming up beside you and side hugging you.

The boys were waiting for you two in the living room of your and Luke’s apartment. Jack cheered as Sam stepped out and then louder when you stepped out. It was rare for him or anyone from your family to see you dressed up. Especially in dresses.

As a Devils' photographer, you often wore jeans and some variation of Devils merchandise. Your hair was usually in a bun or hair claw. Nothing crazy, just comfortable clothes as you ran around the arena, snapping up as many pictures as you could.

“You look stunning, sis,” Jack smiles, complimenting you as Luke twirled you to show off your dress.

Luke laughed as you giggled and spun around. He loved watching you be the happy go-lucky girl he remembered from when you were kids. During your teenage years, you were quieter, much like your twin. It was nice to see you coming out of your shell since coming to Jersey with him.

“I think Hisch, Timo and Bratt are in the lobby waiting for us,” Jack announced as he read a message he had received.

The group of four made their way downstairs, where they met the trio in the lobby, chatting. All of them were dressed in suits, and their hair was slick and well-styled. Nico smiled when he noticed you walking in beside Luke. You only came up to his shoulder, and that was while wearing heels.

“Hey Nico,” You grin, leaning forward to hug the captain.

“Hey,” The brunette whispers into your ear.

You hug the other boys as well, sharing hellos and exchanging compliments. The limo that would take them over to the hotel pulled up outside, and the group climbed in. Nico held his hand and helped you slide in beside Luke before following suit. You were sandwiched between your youngest brother and the team Captain.

“How was the pamper day?” Nico asks.

“It was great,” You smile, “Sammy and I loved it. Best day I’ve had in a good while.”

Nico chuckled, “Well, hopefully we can keep it going for the night then.”

“Be sure to save me a dance then.”

When you pulled up for the event, you and Nico were on the side to come out last. As soon as the door opened, the noise from fans and media became louder. You felt the nerves kick in once more. Reminding you once more how alike you are with Quinn. And how much Luke was like the two of you.

“You okay?” Nico asks as he notices you stiffening.

You looked out the door as Luke was climbing out. You were a behind-the-scenes person, not one to be parading in front of the fans and media. There were way too many people out there for your liking.

“Hey,” Nico whispers, pulling you from your thoughts, “I’ll be there. Jack and Luke will be there. Sammy’s first gala as well. We’re there to back you up.”

“I don’t think–”

“Yes, you can,” Nico cuts you off gently.

You take a deep breath and shuffle along the seat. Your mind reeling, imagining everything that could come from the public appearance. Nico somehow slips over you, so he will step out first. His hand slips into yours as he slowly climbs out. The group watched as you and Nico stepped out. He let you step up beside your brothers as his hand hovered on your lower back. Making sure to guide you around, a safe blanket to remind you that you weren’t alone.

The group made their way down the carpet, posing for pictures. You were either tucked into Nico’s side or with Luke. Soon, you were joining the other players and staff inside the ballroom of this hotel. You guys made the rounds, greeting sponsors, staff and teammates.

“Hey!” Reanne grinned when you and the group greeted her and Curtis.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good,” The blonde replied. “A night with no kids is great.”

After the usual spiel of speeches and guest speakers, the music was turned up. It didn’t take long until the team and partners could be found on the dance floor. You danced with Nico and the group, laughing and having fun.

“I didn’t tell you earlier, but you look absolutely stunning,” Nico whispers.

A blush covered your cheeks as the song changed from the upbeat Pitbull song to ‘The Night We Met’ by Lord Huron. A song you’ve come to love since it went viral on TikTok. Everyone paired up to slow dance. Nico turned to you and slipped his arms around your waist. Your arms went around his neck.

“Hands off my sisters’ ass,” Luke hisses at his captain as he and what looked to be a sponsor’s daughter danced by.

Nico’s hands made sure to slide further up your lower back. “Protective brother much.”

“They all are,” You reply, “even if these two are younger than me.”

“They just love you.”

More alcohol was consumed, more dances spent on the dance floor. The group enjoyed themselves but were careful not to take it too far at a team fundraiser. Nico was tired and so were you so, without telling your brothers, the two of you snuck out of the event. As you were in the uber you made sure to at least sling Jack a message, so they didn’t send out a search party.

Nico slid his coat jacket over your shoulders after you left the Uber. Making sure you were warm as you guys headed up to your apartment. The conversation flowed until you reached your door.

“Thank you for the fun night,” You mumble as you look up to Nico.

Nico grinned, tucking the stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I had a great night with you.”

The two of you stood before the door, admiring each other before you finally decided to do what you wanted to do since you met your brother’s captain. You pressed your lips to his. Hoping that he felt the same. Nico’s hand cradled your cheek, and he kissed you back.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” Nico mutters against your lips.

“Me too.”

Nico leant forward and kissed you again. Neither of you paid attention to your surroundings, meaning you missed the ding of the elevator and the footsteps echoing down the hallway towards where the two of you stood.

“What the fuck?”

You pulled away as quickly as possible when you heard Jack’s voice. Nico and you were quick to turn to where Jack, Sammy and Luke were coming towards you. Jack was smirking, and Luke was shocked.

Jack laughed, “It’s about time.”

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ghouljams · 2 months ago

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Imagine being Johnny's rival in the NHRL because that would be so chaotic and fun.

Slam checking him into the glass because you know he'll throw his gloves off and the best time you can have on the ice is when you feel him grab you by the sweater and pull his fist back. You've lost teeth from smiling so wide at the wild, excited, look in his eyes.

Not that you don't give as good as you take, and you can take quite a bit. You've never hit the ice, but then again, neither has Soap. Usually the refs manage to pull you apart once the blood really starts flowing.

Honestly with the way Soap tried to climb over the penalty box's wall that one time, maybe they should let you go 'til knockout.

Really it's all perfectly good sport until you're playing in a rink with only one box. You and Soap shoved into the small space in all your gear, still bleeding from your nose while he spits blood onto the ice. You expect him to keep the fight going, maybe exchange some insults while you wait out the clock.

Somehow you end up making out instead. Kissing each other sloppy, all tongue and teeth, as your pads click together and your cups do very little to stop the growing situation in your pants.

#cod x reader #x reader #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #m!reader #hockey au

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significant-narratives · 3 months ago

Text

mutual with more puck knowledge than me has approved of my post. i am going to get a good grade in hockey tumblr mutualism, something that IS normal to want and IS possible to achieve

#i have so many amazing wonderful insanely insightful funny and talented mutuals it’s crazy…#saying a little prayer before i post like please hockey gods bless my blog do not let me embarrass myself on the dash for all to see #m speaks

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holy-puckslibrary · 1 year ago

Text

━ 𝐅*𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑.

-ˏˋ. 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˊˎ-

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 — FWB!matthew tkachuk x f!reader 𝐰𝐜 — 1.7k 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 — "old habits die hard..." — or, your boyfriend won’t fuck you right, so you run to the one person who always does.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — patrons know the chokehold this toxic sin-fest has on me and probably always will... in all seriousness, this is one of my favorite things i've ever published and i am so insanely proud of it. i hope you love it as much as i do <3

(spoiler — not possible teehee)

18+ MDNI — content warnings under the cut.

𝐜𝐰 — profanity, innuendo, matthew’s filthy mouth and lack of morals, cheating (not on matty or the reader), outdated/incorrect information about having sex for the first time, borderline too much degradation, some objectification to add a little spice, unprotected sex w a cheeky creampie (what did you expect from two morally bankrupt individuals written by me, a retired whore?), matthew being a noncommittal, possessive piece of shit joking about knocking people up for funzies

────────────

“D’you think you’re so addicted to my cock because you know I don’t give a fuck what you think about me? Or care if you think I’m a Nice Guy?”

Even buried to the hilt—bare with nothing between you and far too fucking close for comfort—Matthew Tkachuk runs his mouth like he’s got nothing to lose and even less to prove. He’s insufferable, his only redeeming quality being the pulsing appendage threatening to split you in half as you buck in his lap.

With your hands braced against his hard chest for leverage, you drown out his grating voice, chasing the white-hot surges, bolts of lightning leading you to the brink of collapse with renewed vigor.

The sooner you come, the sooner he’s gone.

“All I care about, sweetheart, is fucking you good and hard. Giving it to you like the hungry, cockdrunk whore that you are.”

Debonair attitude. Sly confidence. Vulgar demeanor.

Filthy fucking mouth.

You were warned about Matthew Tkachuck. Repeatedly. Warned about him and his complete lack of a filter, about his total disregard for anyone’s feelings but his own. His aversion to commitment, to monogamy, to propriety.

All the things that repulse you about the man lounging on expensive hotel sheets beneath you—as you do all the work—lure you back to him in equal measure. He shouldn’t turn you on, but that’s exactly why he does. He’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Which makes him just right.

“I bet if your fiancé walked in right now, you’d just keep riding me. You wouldn’t even notice, would you? After all, you haven’t cum yet. And that’s all you care about, right? Using my cock to get your rocks off because Billy Boyfriend’s too scared to give you what you really need. Lucky for you, I’m not a fuckin’ pussy. I don’t treat you like a fragile doll because I know you’ll take anything I give you—and beg for more. I treat you like what you are, not some chaste little princess.”

You’ve been with Bill for nearly a decade, engaged for more than a year. It’ll be a spring wedding, probably. If the venue pans out, and the caterer finally calls you back with a final quote.

Perfect on paper.

He doesn’t pay attention to you the way he used to. Just throws money at the problem until he can bury himself in work again, undisturbed by you or nagging obligation.

Flowers for being three hours late, a necklace for missing dinner entirely. A trip overseas when he had to go into the office on your anniversary.

But he’s nice, so fucking nice it hurts, and more loyal than the Golden Retriever he wants to adopt after the honeymoon. After you’re settled into a custom-build nestled comfortably in the suburbs and far away from the city. White picket fence, manicured lawn, barely-there speed limits.

It's all so nauseatingly idyllic. So perfectly attuned with what you thought you wanted, what you spent your childhood coveting.

All your single friends are jealous; your committed friends are resentful. Your family loves him, and even though you’ve got a fucked up way of showing it, so do you.

And he loves you too. He’s just busy. It’ll be different once we’re settled, he says. You try to believe him, though not as hard as you should. You tell yourself it's because he doesn’t either.

Bill’s gotten lazy. You’ve gotten bored.

You’re no angel, and never claimed to be. You just want to feel good.

Matthew barks out a dry laugh, almost like he can read your mind.

“You haven’t been since I first got you on your knees at his birthday party. And definitely not after I popped that sweet cherry you were so adamant about saving for him."

Bill doesn’t fuck you. He never has.

He makes love to you. It’s that romance-novel tenderness that got you here in the first place. Slow, sweet, and nearly devoid of passion. It’s so gentle you have to think of him just to come.

How he fucks you.

How tightly he yanks your hair, craning your neck until it aches. How hard he kneads and smacks your ass, bullying the skin until you sob. How deep his cock reaches. And how he takes, takes, takes without forethought. How could you accept a lifetime of only tame rutting in the face of Pavlovian depravity?

It’s awful, and it's so profoundly selfish, but his everything has you in a bind.

Matthew’s everything is ruining your life.

An uncharacteristic wave of guilt and sadness washes over you, and before you can catch yourself, you’re staring down at the engagement ring. The band constricts, digging into your finger like it's out for blood when you glimpse the indentation it left behind on Matthew’s peck. You wince, then choke down the shame lodged in your throat, screwing your eyes shut to will it away.

“If it's bothering you that much, take it off. I’ll keep it safe for you.” —wink— “I can’t imagine the weight of a rock like that, especially one you don’t even deserve. But, if you actually felt as guilty as you claim to, you wouldn’t be this wet on another man’s cock. Don’t play saint now. You’ll ruin the fun.”

You can’t do this right now; you can’t have this worn-out fight. So, you say what you always say even though you’ve long since stopped trying to mean it.

“You keep saying that, sweetheart. We should stop. This is the last time. But no matter what you say, you always come crawling back to me sooner or later because I have what you need. Because I’m not him. Because I fuck you better.”

His words light you on fire. You hate it, but how deeply your body enjoys them is undeniable. How tightly you squeeze and flutter with every degrading line, choking his cock as you use him to satisfy your own perverted needs. How his brutal honesty, his refusal to let you forget your zealous participation in the affair for even a second, arches your back and hardens your nipples.

Even without all that evidence stacked against you, the blitzed-out look on your face says it all. One look at you and everyone would know just how right Matthew is.

“Shut the fuck up,” you growl.

You say it for the sake of saying it. To know, when you curl into Bill's side tonight, that you said something to deny his assessment of you.

But the last thing you want is for him to shut his mouth.

Not right now, not when you’re right there—

“You can’t hide from me, sweetheart, and you can’t lie to me. You can’t fool me, either. I see right fucking through you. It terrifies you—and you love it.”

His raspy voice swims freely through your hollowed-out mind. It unwittingly thumbs through every unforgivable memory, like some sort of pornographic Rolodex.

Matthew’s hips grinding against yours in darkened corners and dive-bar bathroom stalls and poker tables.

His hands fighting against hard-earned sweat in the foggy backseat of his car, battling to find purchase anywhere he can so he can keep rutting with reckless abandon before you’re expected home.

His fingertips burrowing into the sides of your throat, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to silence, hard enough to hurt.

Him spilling inside of you, ropes painting the sacred place white with no remorse or expectation of responsibility.

Matty’s hand over your mouth, urging you to be fucking quiet as he pistons in and out, in and out, keeping you pinned against the bathroom door, against the only thing standing between Bill and the worst discovery of his apple-pie life—

Old habits die hard.

Especially when it’s one that always feels that fucking good. No matter how lecherous or immoral.

Or how badly the betrayal would hurt someone underserving and innocent.

“Even if you walk down that aisle and take his last name, you’ll still belong to me. Wedding or not, this pathetic, weeping cunt belongs to me. But it’s all gonna be okay, though. Don’t you worry that pretty, empty head. I don’t mind sharing my toys. Especially with someone who could never compete.”

You can't compete where you don't compare.

He doesn’t want to be your boyfriend. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s boyfriend. He isn’t the Relationship Type. He doesn’t even want to be exclusive. That’s part of his appeal, no matter how fervently you deny it. He doesn’t want more than pleasure—primal, deviant pleasure—and that’s all you're looking for.

That's all you need.

“Where do you want my load, dirty girl?”

“Inside. I-Inside me, please, Matty.”

“Right answer.”

The burst of warmth is like getting a perfect grade you didn’t earn. Or feeling the cash your sibling gave you in exchange for not ratting them out sitting in your back pocket. It's hard to feel bad about the wrong you’ve done when the payoff is so deliciously worthwhile.

Matthew twitches, still hugged by your sensitive walls, and you shudder.

This is the high you chase every time you bend your morals until they splinter. The still nothingness that lays beyond the denouement, where everything is glowy and the pit inside you appears not-so-bottomless for once. The lack of expectations and obligations. The sheer freedom that stringless pleasure, that sensual self-indulgence provides.

Matthew doesn’t owe you anything, you don’t owe him anything either, and neither of you pretends otherwise.

And you sure as fuck don’t trip on his dirty laundry every time you walk into the bedroom.

“If that doesn’t take,” Matthew flicks his hips in emphasis, “…let me know when and where you want your wedding present, sweetheart.”

You don’t answer. You push his hands away and roll off of him unceremoniously. But he keeps talking.

Matthew is always talking.

“Oh, and before I forget, would you be a dear and let Billy know I won’t be able to make it for his bachelor party? I don’t know why, but I have the oddest feeling that something desperately needing my attention will come up.”

────────────

All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.

©2023 holy-pucks, all rights reserved. I do not give consent for any of my work to be copied, re-posted or translated here, on Tumblr, or on any other platform. Reproduction of any content from this blog is considered plagiarism.

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