#c’s 500 follower celly

[comphy-and-cozy]

CONGRATS ON 500!!

🌺 Matthew Tkachuk and prompt 89 please!!

thank you so much, friend! tkachuk is actually on my no go list, so I chose to write for a different matty - everyone’s favorite long island dilf (bc he makes me actually foam at the mouth). this probably got a little away from the actual intention of the prompt but it’s sort of a brief culmination of some thots I’ve had regarding sugar daddy!matty. hope you enjoy either way ☺️

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #89 “YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!”

Pairing: Matt Martin x sugar baby!reader (f)

Word count: 1.3K

Warnings: Language, sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamic, angst, references to sex/adult themes, baby talk (like, actual discussion of having babies, not ddlg).

The dial of the phone sounds in your ear while you storm to a secluded area of your office. There’s a slow drawl on the other end when he answers, a slow ‘Hello?’ uttered with what you already know is a smirk.

“You sent me pictures of you naked while I was in a work meeting!” you huff, yelling as loud as you can while keeping your voice at a whisper.

“And a video too,” he quips back lazily. “Those meetings are boring, anyway, babe. You tell me that all the time.”

“Matty, I could get fired —”

“Good. I want you to.”

With a roll of your eyes, thankful that he can’t see your physical protest of sass, you let out a sigh. He’s not serious, not entirely, but there’s some truth behind his words. “We’ve talked about this, Matt.”

You don’t have to see him to know he’s barely regarding you, blowing a bubble of spearmint gum that he chews in his lackadaisical way. “Yeah. ‘Work a few more years’ this and ‘save up some money’ that, as if I’m not providing plenty for you.”

“It’s not about that, and you know it,” you hiss quietly, glancing around to make sure you’re still alone in the concealed hallway. “I want to provide for myself.”

“That why you’re an NHL player’s sugar baby? Sucking my dick for money? Taking it up the ass so you can afford that fancy apartment and your designer bag?”

“Fuck you, Matty.”

“Right now? But you’re at work.” He’s pushing your buttons, riling you up, because he likes you best when you’re fiery.

You click your phone, hanging up angrily without responding, because you know what he’s doing. Still, it doesn’t prevent the frustrated exhale from passing through your nose as you try to compose yourself. A text from Matt buzzes shortly after you return to your desk, a Love you typed out so easily as if it can remove all of the irritation he’s built up in you. It can, and you know it, and so does he.

When you get home later that day, there’s a bouquet of flowers in an expensive-looking vase sitting on your kitchen counter. The handwritten note, scrawled in Matt’s chicken scratch, says simply, ‘Sorry for sending a video of my dick. Just want you to have my babies.’

If anyone else were to happen upon this, you wouldn’t blame them for having about a million questions. You still did, and it was your life.

It had started in a simple arrangement: he’d pay you handsomely to attend some events with him, be the pretty young thing on his arm, keep him company on a few lonely nights. The initial agreement was no sex, which you quickly abandoned as your attraction to him grew unexpectedly, along with your feelings for him and all of his nonchalant confidence and crooked smile. You weren’t really sure how you’d label the relationship, committed to one another in a haphazard sort of way, casual and cool and entirely (and infuriatingly) informal. And although you’d told him you didn’t need the payments anymore, he just kept sending them.

Truthfully, it was the only thing holding you back from really committing to him — not that you could ever look at any other man now that you’ve had him — because, despite his love you’s and all of his promises that he wasn’t fooling around on you when he was away, there was still a part of you that wasn’t sure that this wasn’t one big transaction. Not once had you ever felt like his true girlfriend, or partner, or whatever you wanted to call it, without the asterisk and the fine print at the bottom of that label.

And here he was, asking you day in and day out to have a baby with him — to carry his child, bonding you for life even if he never placed a ring on your left hand, never signed that certificate in the state of New York.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t treat you well; in fact, he treated you like a queen, even through his snark and deprecating humor, which you admittedly loved. He was, hands down and without a shadow of a doubt, the best fuck you’d ever had and surely ever would have, never failing to leave you anything but completely satiated.

The truth — and the problem — is that you are unequivocally and hopelessly in love with him, and you know that you would never recover if he decided he was done with your fun little adventure, if he threw you to the side once he had what he really wanted from you. You didn’t have the security you craved — needed — from him, partially because you weren’t even sure what that looked like.

So, to say your relationship status is complicated is a bit of an understatement.

You send a quick thank you text, then see the delivery notification of a Givenchy package. He’s pulling out all the stops, but you know that you’re going to return every item in the box without even looking at them.

It’s the third day of minimal communication that Matt realizes something is truly wrong, that you’re not just giving him your normal attitude. Instead of showing up at your door with a pair of Louboutins or a Cartier bracelet, he’s holding a paper bag full of styrofoam containers when he knocks on your door.

“What are you doing, Matty?” you ask flatly, though you step aside to let him in anyway.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he replies. “Brought you dinner from your favorite Indian place.”

“Matt, that place is like, 30 minutes out of the way.”

He shrugs, setting the bag on your counter and moving to pull out the containers. It’s not lost on you how comfortable he is in your kitchen, pulling out plates and utensils like he owns the place (he kind of does). Pushing a plate towards you, he watches as you scoop a healthy portion of rice and palak paneer, accompanied by what you firmly believe to be New York’s best garlic naan.

“I’m sorry,” he says, without any pretense or build-up.

“For?”

“For pushing you. For still paying you even when you asked me not to. For this whole weird dynamic.”

You can’t even hide the surprise on your face, eyebrows raising as your spoonful of rice sits halfway in your mouth.

“I’m done with this. I’m terminating our contract.”

Your heart sinks to the floor, crushed instantly by his words. This, you think, this is exactly why I never had your babies.

He continues, “Be mine. For real. No contract, no obligations, just us.”

You continue to stare at him, mouth gaping open, food completely fallen off your spoon at this point. He looks at you with uneasy eyes, trying to gauge your reaction — and failing.

“I’m not — are you — Matt —”

That stupid crooked smirk forms on his handsome face, enjoying the way you stutter. He takes the spoon out of your hand before taking both of your hands in his, turning to face you fully. “I’m sorry that it took so long to do this. I want you. I love you.”

“Jesus, Matt.”

“Jesus, Matt, I love you? Jesus, Matt, I’m so happy? Jesus, Matt, fuck off and never come back?”

With a roll of your eyes, you ignore his questions, instead pulling him forward to kiss him, savoring the heat of his lips against yours and the way his hands instantly slip to your hips, holding you close to him. For the first time ever, you can feel the love in his body transferring to yours, evident in the way he kisses you like he’s only got one chance left to prove it.

His eyes are soft when you pull away, crinkling into a smile when you ask, “Are you just saying all of this so I’ll have your kids?”

“No, but what do you say we get to practicing making one?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #matt martin blurb #matt martin fic #matt martin imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic

[comphy-and-cozy]

hi bae happy 500 🌺 may I request #121 with mitch marner?

thanks so much love! I am not a leafs fan so this honestly felt a little blasphemous. I really don’t know much about mitch but I think this is still a cute lil bit 🤍

finishing up my 500 followers celly

Prompt: #121 “My friends get annoyed by how much I talk about you sometimes”

Pairing: Mitch Marner x Reader (f)

Word Count: 626

Warnings: Language, brief mention of cheating, some cute fluff

You’ve picked Mitch up from practice before, but today is different. Today, you walk in and feel like everyone knows a secret except you, like everyone heard the punchline of the joke and you completely missed it.

Upon seeing you, Mitch jumps up to come to your side, greeting you with a peck on your lips and a smile.

“Look out, everyone, it’s Saint Y/N,” Alex says in a mocking voice, doing a dramatic curtsy in your direction.

“Guess we’re not gonna hear from Mitchy for a few days, boys, so say your farewells now.”

“But when he does come back, all we’re gonna hear about for days is Y/N this, Y/N that,” Justin adds, then looks at you apologetically. “No offense, Y/N. You’re the shit.”

You hold your hand up with a smile. “Thank you, I think?”

Mitch rolls his eyes, letting the chirps hit him from every direction as he slips his hand in yours. “Can you shut the fuck up now?”

“He’s in love, boys, just let him be,” Mo’s voice cuts through, teasing as he sends you a wink. The love word makes you bristle slightly, a jolt of nerves coursing through your system.

“At least I’ve got a pretty girl on my arm,” Mitch finally says, like he couldn’t wait to get it out once the comeback came to him. “All you guys have is your right hand.”

A chorus of “ooooh”s mock him, his chirp doing nothing to save him from his thorough roasting. Mitch tugs your hand, flipping off the crowd of jeering boys behind him as you leave, a chorus of jeers and whipping sound effects following you out.

“You gonna tell me what all that was about?” you ask with a raised eyebrow as you approach the car.

“My friends get… annoyed by how much I talk about you sometimes,” he admits bashfully, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Obviously, it’s become kind of a thing.”

“And why is that, Mitchell?” you giggle, teasing.

Mitch’s cheeks flush like he’s 14 again, embarrassed at the call out. “Well, I thought that was obvious.”

“If it is, I’m lost.”

“I, um, well, you see —” he stutters, fumbling over his words as he shifts anxiously on his heels.

“Spit it out, Marner.”

He clears his throat, willing himself to look you in the eyes. “I love you, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen in shock, not expecting Mo’s words from earlier to be even remotely true. Your relationship with Mitch had been a whirlwind up to this point, straight out of a movie, down to the spilled coffee at the coffee shop. He’s sweet, charming, holds the door open for you, sends you a good morning text every day.

But still, there’s always been part of you that’s uncertain about his commitment to you, his fame and follower count intimidating the hell out of you — not to mention his bank account. You’ve been burned before, cheated on before, and the thought of this wonderful person betraying you in the same way is almost too much to bear, fighting your feelings for him and keeping him at arm’s length — emotionally, at least.

Until now. When he’s standing in front of you, professing his love for you like a dorky, teenage boy instead of a muscular man, a professional athlete who makes more money than you can even really fathom having. He’s looking into your eyes, searching yours, and you can see the sincerity in them, hear it in his voice.

It’s also in that moment that you let the walls come tumbling down, your hidden feelings for him bursting through the seams of your heart as you lean forward to kiss him.

“I love you, too, Mitch.”

#c’s 500 follower celly #mitch marner fic #mitch marner blurb #mitch marner imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic

[comphy-and-cozy]

hi congrats on 500!! 💗 if you’re up for it maybe prompt 65 or 120 with nolan patrick? :) thank youuu

thank you so much sweetness! always love a little soft nols 🤍

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #65 “There is no way this much stupid can fit inside one person.” / #120 “Take my jacket, it’s cold”

Pairing: Nolan Patrick x reader (written for f but could be gender neutral)

Word Count: 760

Warnings: just some sweet lil mutual pining Nolan. Brief alcohol use/mention.

You’re friends with Nolan. Not friends friends — more like a step between whatever is in between friends and acquaintances. You’ve shared the same circle of friends, spending endless Manitoba summers together since you were teenagers, though you’ve never really spent too much time alone with him.

Then he got drafted to the NHL and kind of became a huge fucking deal in Winnipeg, which you knew he absolutely hated. People meant well, congratulating him and offering kind words — or unsolicited advice — about the upcoming season, but ultimately he just really hated the attention.

Which is why he was always trying to be out at the lake, away from the crowds and the fans and somewhere private that he could just be… himself.

Somehow, you manage to receive an invite, every year, whenever he has a boat day or bonfire or any other sort of laketime activity. You go, after ensuring that your other friends who are a bit closer with him are going before you accept. And every time, you leave smiling and happy, and maybe a little fried from the sun.

But this summer, it’s been different.

You’ve found yourself looking at him more, laughing a little harder at his dry jokes, thinking about him long after you’ve left his place. You get a little flutter of butterflies in your chest when you see a text or a Snap from him, and you almost choked on your beer when his thigh brushed yours on the boat the other day.

Today in particular, you woke up with a feeling in your gut, like something was different. Like something was going to happen. It puts a strange sense of confident in your chest, fueling you for another day on the lake with Nolan and company.

Like usual, the day is spent largely on the water, only a few clouds in the Manitoba sky. You boat, swim, drink, soaking up as much of the summer freedom that you can. Once the sun hangs a little lower in the sky, your posse heads back to the cabin for a few pizzas and a bonfire before retiring for the night, sunkissed and maybe a little drunk.

You’re sitting in the porch swing, rocking slowly as you watch a few of your friends play a rousing game of spike ball. The door creaks as Nolan steps out, fresh beer held loosely in hand, snorting when he sees your friend, James, do a dramatic spin as he hits the ball.

“There is no way this much stupid can fit inside one person,” he comments, chuckling. You can feel the shift of the cushion as he drops down beside you, arm moving to rest on the back of the chair.

You hum an agreement, shaking your head with a laugh. “Pretty sure Joey should be in the Olympics for a spin like that.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Nolan agrees. “Team Canada gold medalist, for sure.”

A cool summer breeze blows then, a little too chilly against your bare arm, and you shiver.

“Here, take my jacket. It’s cold,” he mumbles, shrugging his flannel off and thrusting it in your direction.

You accept the jacket, still warm from his body heat as you slip it over your shoulders. It’s too large for you, of course, but you kind of like it that way. “Thanks, Nol.”

He hums in reply, a wordless you’re welcome as you settle back in. When the breeze blows again, he scoots closer to tuck his arm over your shoulder and tug you into his body.

“M’glad you came today,” he murmurs after a beat of peaceful silence, and for a moment you aren’t sure you even heard him correctly.

You can feel your heartbeat quicken against the cotton of your t-shirt as you process what he said. Wanting to play it cool, match his casual indifference, you say, “Oh yeah?”

Nolan hums again. “Yeah.”

That same confidence from earlier washes through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re twisting in your seat to kiss him, planting your lips solidly against his. He’s caught a bit off guard but recovers quickly, his hand caressing the side of your face as he kisses back. His tongue is subtle when it darts out to taste your lips, heating up the kiss ever so slightly before he pulls away, the usual rouge on his cheeks flushed a little bit deeper.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for years,” is his low mumble, and you smile in response.

“Well, what do you say we make up for some lost time?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #nolan patrick blurb #nolan patrick fic #nolan patrick imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic

[comphy-and-cozy]

congrats on 500!!!! 🥳

🌺 may i please request 123 or 143 with andrei i honestly can’t chose so surprise me - @ryanpulock

I knew I had to make this one spicy just for you, katie. I think you’ll appreciate the reference I threw in here + also it felt too wrong to not use one of your gifs and I’m so glad you had a Big Boy Suit Gif™

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #123 “Fuck you.” “When?” / #143 “Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?”

Pairing: Andrei Svechnikov x reader (f)

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: Adult themes/mature content, smut (but not explicit), and a sweet and adorable and oblivious Martin Nečas. *Technically* not cheating proper but, like, cheating themes?

Though you’ve been running in the same circle as some professional hockey players for awhile, today is the first day that you’re actually attending a private event of theirs. More specifically, a wedding — Brady and Gracia’s. Marty had asked you weeks ago, the first outward display of your little fling that was beginning to blossom.

He’s sweet, almost adorably so, pulling out all the stops: flowers, goodnight phone calls, thinking of you texts. So far, he’s been pretty much perfect, and you can see a reality where you really fall for him and have a future with him.

Unfortunately, it’s in the same reality that up until a few weeks ago, you’d also been secretly hooking up with his teammate. You know, the Russian one — the big boy. And even more unfortunately, it’s also a reality that he’s attending the wedding tonight solo, conveniently located at table 8 with you and Marty.

You haven’t seen him since you cut things off, citing your budding romance as the reason for the split. He’d accepted it with grace, expressing his well wishes. You thought it was the end of it, clean and crisp and sterile, but in hindsight you should’ve known how wrong you were.

Andrei saunters up, his crisp gray suit giving him the look of a fucking GQ model, his hair falling perfectly into place. You can’t help the way your eyes trail over his figure, the rich material hugging his thick thighs in a way that has you fantasizing about the last time you’d had one of those thighs lodged between your legs —

“You look way too hot to be here with him.” The Russian’s head jerks in the direction of your date, who’s at the bar getting you a glass of wine. The implication is unspoken, but clear: You should be here with me instead.

“Andrei.”

“Aww, come on, you aren’t gonna be friendly? You’re the one who ended this, you know.”

Your eyes watch as Marty gets stopped on his way back to you, caught talking to someone as he sends you an apologetic glance. “I am friendly. And I ended this because it wasn’t going anywhere, Andrei.”

He hums, and if he has a protest, he keeps it to himself. “At least I know it isn’t because my dick isn’t big enough.”

With a sigh, you roll your eyes and shake your head, though he catches the tiny smile on your face.

“You really still with him?” Andrei asks quietly, nudging your shoulder with his as he leans back against the table behind him, legs spread leisurely.

“Yes, I am,” you reply. “And I don’t want to fuck this up, so please, don’t do this. Not tonight.”

He holds his hands up in mock defense, shifting to sit more normally as Marty approaches you, apologizing for the delay. You smile, accepting the drink he’s brought, along with the kiss to your cheek that he plants quickly before he sits down.

Dinner is served, and Andrei seems to have taken your request seriously. He’s cordial, keeping his snarky comments to a minimum. It’s nice, and you think that the evening is shaping up to be a great one.

But when dessert comes, it seems the game is back on. The white-gloved servers place a decadent chocolate torte in front of you, topped with whipped cream and a fresh cherry. At the first bite, Andrei lets out a moan that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat, immediately drawing you back to hearing that same noise — except instead of chocolate cake melting in his mouth all those times, it was your pussy.

Once you’ve tasted the torte for yourself, though, you have to admit that his reaction is warranted; it’s delicious, perfectly sweet and sinfully indulgent — unfortunately, just like the man sitting next to you. He makes a show taking the cherry between his lips, sucking on it before he pulls it into his mouth.

You have half a mind to wonder if he’s doing all of this on purpose, trying to draw a reaction out of you, but then again, he’s kind of just… like that. He’s unaware that you are, in fact, reacting, the pulse between your thighs raging as you finish your dessert, and you pray that he can’t see the way your pulse has quickened in your throat.

“Wow,” he says, licking a bit off his fork before digging in for another bite. “This tastes like heaven.”

With a sharp inhale, you quickly reach for your glass of champagne, washing down the cake with a long swig. You’ve heard him say that before, murmured lowly against the sensitive skin of your thigh, coaxing moans from your lips in the darkness. His eyes flash to yours, so quickly you think you might’ve imagined the wink he sends in your direction.

“This is worth every cheat calorie for the entire week,” Marty agrees, and you blink, almost completely having forgotten he’s there. Oops.

“Brady is a dessert aficionado; there’s no way he wasn’t gonna have the world’s best dessert at his own wedding,” you laugh.

Your table falls silent as you finish the dessert, each of you literally scraping your plate to not waste a single piece. The smug Russian bastard beside you gathers the last bit of whipped cream on his plate with his middle finger and pops it into his mouth, sucking it off of his finger with another dramatic moan.

Swallowing thickly, you barely notice when Marty announces he’s going to find the restroom, asking you if you want him to grab you an extra drink on his way back. You nod, not trusting your voice to come out, and wait impatiently until he’s several tables away to turn to Andrei, annoyed.

“Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?” you finally say with a huff.

He smirks at you, his dimple meshed into his cheek as he regards you hotly. “Is it working?”

“Fuck you, Svechnikov.”

“When?”

With a roll of your eyes, you scoff, dismissing his advance. You’re not even going to give him the satisfaction of rejecting him, because you know he’s going to ignore it anyways.

As expected, he presses on. “Why not? You already know how talented I am with my hands.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“I’m a hockey player. I use my hands to handle my stick. Get your mind out of the gutter,” he says, innuendo still going strong. His accent is extra thick around the word ‘gutter,’ and you have to ignore how endearing it is.

“You’re the one who’s trying to fuck your teammate’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, you’re a girlfriend now, huh?”

“No, but — Andrei, just fuck off, okay?”

“Come on,” he husks, voice in your ear. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face you haven’t thought about me fucking that tight little pussy of yours, I’ll drop it. For good. But if you can’t, come home with me tonight — not him.”

His words cause heat to swell in your low abdomen, rising quickly to your cheeks. He has you cornered, and you know it — not that he’s really given you a choice with his little dessert show and incessant teasing.

“Andrei,” you breathe. “Marty —”

“— will be fine,” he cuts you off. “You’re a heartbreaker. Everybody knows it. He knew what he was getting himself into.”

You pause, hesitating for just a little too long considering your real date is heading back to your table, drink in hand. He asks you to dance, and Andrei backs up to allow you both to pass, sending a smirk in your direction as you follow Marty to the dance floor.

You dance with Marty, the heat of his hands resting on your hips as you sway to the song. But at the end of the night, it’s Andrei’s hands pressing into that same spot on your waist, lips marking their claim on your neck.

An unread message from Marty flashes on your screen, Hope you feel better typed out with worry and affection, all but forgotten in the darkness of Andrei’s bedroom.

#c’s 500 follower celly #andrei svechnikov fic #andrei svechnikov blurb #andrei svechnikov imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

Hi lovely! Congrats on 500 followers that is an incredible milestone ❤️

May be I request 🌺 number 99 for Andrei Svechnikov please? I absolutely loved your writing for him thank you SO much 🥰

hi love, thank you so much! 🤍 based on the prompt you may have been looking for something else, but I thought this would be a fun lil twist ☺️

finishing my 500 follower celly

Prompt: #99 “I don’t know what to do.” “Then let me teach you.”

Pairing: Andrei Svechnikov x gn!Reader

Word Count: 981

Warning: Heavy mentions of drug use (marijuana), implied smut/adult themes. 18+ ONLY please.

When Andrei came to you asking if you could smoke together, you were surprised. He’d always been extremely health-conscious and extremely picky about what he puts in his body. But, he said, he’d “done research” and had determined that it was not, in fact, going to ruin his pristine body — coupled with the fact that it was the middle of the summer and he was far from peak form.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses bashfully, the dimple surrounding his smile making his admission even sweeter.

“Let me teach you,” you smile, reaching for the Ziploc bag of bud.

He watches intently as you set it in the grinder, then place the cap on. You can feel his gaze heating your skin, hyper aware of how close he is to you on the couch.

“This is a grinder,” you explain. “It breaks the bud up evenly. We do this so that it’s a smoother burn — when it’s all the same size and texture, it’s a better smoke.”

You twist the grinder a few times to demonstrate, then hand it to him to do the same. He follows the instruction easily, concentrated on a steady movement of his hands.

“Good,” you say, smiling, then reach for a paper. He watches as you place the crutch at one end before explaining, “This is a crutch. It helps to make it easier to smoke, and it’s like, better for airflow and shit.”

Andrei nods, watching as you open the grinder, inspecting for consistency and searching for any stems. Gently, you sprinkle the flower onto the paper, shaping it with your fingers. “You want to make sure not to overstuff it, and keep an eye on the shape that you want as you’re filling.”

“Now, we roll,” you say, picking the paper up in your hands and rolling it between your fingers to pack the bud a little more tightly. “We want it to be not too loose or too tight. Kind of just a trial and error practice, but something like this is good.”

Andrei leans in closer to you to observe, making a note of how tightly it’s packed, though if he’s being honest, he’s more focused on the smell of your hair and the way your fingers gently work the paper into a cylinder, tucking it as you form the joint.

“Now, it’s time to seal it,” you grin. “The best part.”

He watches your tongue dart out to lick the edge, raising his eyebrows in surprise when you offer it to him. He swallows thickly, then traces his tongue over the same place where yours just was, wishing he could taste you in more ways than this.

“Take this,” you say next, handing him a pen. “Tap the open end of it with this to kind of pack it all together.”

Andrei does, feeling silly as he lamely taps a few times.

“Good,” you praise. “Now if you just twist the end a little bit to seal it up — just like that, yep — and we’re all done! You’ve rolled your first joint.”

“Now what?” he asks dumbly, and you smile again.

“Now we smoke it.”

He watches you spark your lighter, rolling it for a bit before placing the joint in between your lips. It’s far more erotic than it should be, but he can feel his heart beating quicker at the sight all the same. You take the hit, eyes closing as you inhale deeply, and he has to hold his breath when he watches you exhale slowly, smoke billowing out of your mouth in a terribly sexy display.

Andrei is mesmerized completely, thinking to himself that he could watch you roll and smoke joints all day. It’s cool, and casual, but something about it has him unable to take his eyes off of you.

“Your turn, if you still want it,” your voice pulls him out of his haze — and he hasn’t even smoked yet. He nods, and instead of handing him the joint, you place it in his mouth yourself.

He can barely breathe when you sidle up next to him, face only inches from his. “Drag for a few seconds. Keep your inhale steady, but not too deep. Then just exhale.”

Andrei does, trying to maintain a cool exterior, but it’s completely shattered when he goes into a coughing fit upon his exhale. He’s appreciative that you don’t laugh, instead just hand him your water bottle. “Take a sip. You did great.”

He hands you back the joint, watching you take your drags, feeling the sensation settle into his bones as you blow out the smoke. He isn’t sure if it’s the weed, or if it’s just you that has him hardening in his jeans, though he’s pretty confident that it’s the latter.

On his next hit, he’s proud of himself for exhaling without coughing, but he’s caught off guard when your lips are suddenly pressed against his, inhaling the remainder of the smoke left in his mouth. You hum, the joint enhancing the feeling of his soft lips and the heat between your bodies.

The next thing he knows, you’re in his lap, kissing him between hits of the joint. He isn’t even interested in smoking anymore, not with the way your thighs are straddling his hips and your chest is pressed against his, but he can’t bring himself to reject it when you’re placing it back in his mouth while your hips roll in his lap.

Fortunately, the joint is about finished, and he barely pays attention to the way you set it in the ash tray before he’s tugging you back to him.

“You ever had an orgasm while high?” you ask.

Andrei shakes his head.

With a grin, you trail your hand between your bodies to cup the boner that’s been poking you the whole time. “You want to change that?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #andrei svechnikov blurb #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov fic #hockey fic #nhl imagine #tw marijuana

[comphy-and-cozy]

🌺 perhaps 27 and 28 with jt?? I just simply cannot get over your writing for him 🫠

I just can’t get over him if we’re being honest

finishing up my 500 followers celly

Prompts: #27 “You’re not as funny as you think you are” / #28 “I’m just getting comfy”

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 456

Warnings: Just fluff and a really bad dad joke (stolen from Lucas Alifano on TikTok)

“Babe, Tyson just called.”

You glance at your boyfriend, who is in the kitchen preparing the popcorn for your binging of your current show. “And?”

“He wants to change his name to ‘spinal column.’”

Confusion sets in, and your brows furrow. “What?”

“I said, ‘Tys, I’m busy right now. I’ll just call you back.’”

There’s a beat of silence as his words sink in, and all of a sudden the joke clicks. You shake your head, scrubbing your face with your hand at the disaster of a pun he made.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” you say, a smile fighting at the corners of your lips.

“Oh really? Is that why you’re trying so hard not to laugh right now?” he grins, causing your facade to fall. The two of you break into a minor fit of giggles, one of those moments where you know it’s not that funny, but the more you try to stop, the harder you laugh.

“You’re such an idiot,” you sigh once the laughter subsides.

The silence that falls over you is comfortable as he settles in on the couch beside you, the intro to your show rolling on the TV. It doesn’t take long for him to shift, leaning all of his weight onto you until your back is resting against the corner of the sectional, his head lying on your chest. You grunt when he shifts his weight, settling between your legs and pressing you into the cushions, arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

“This is nice.”

You hum, arms slipping over his shoulders while one hand runs through his hair, earning a low purr from him that you feel against your sternum. Your fingertips drag over his scalp, soothing, until his head grows heavy against you.

“J,” you murmur, shifting slightly when his head presses further against your chest. A squeal leaves your throat when his hands sneak around your body and give your ass a hearty squeeze. “JT!”

“I’m just getting comfy, babe,” he says, a mock defense inflection in his voice. “You have a good set of… pillows.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “I’m sure you love my pillows.”

“I do really, really, really love your pillows. Both sets, actually.”

With a shake of your head, you quickly dismiss his dorky, suggestive joke, instead focusing back on the show. The episode is just starting to pick up when you feel JT’s head shift again, lips pressing against the skin of your bare chest.

He’s slow, delivering tender kisses against your skin that heat you up from the inside out. When he shifts his body again to lean up to kiss you, you laugh against his mouth.

“We’re not finishing the show tonight, are we?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #jt compher fic #jt compher blurb #jt compher imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

🌺 127 with whoever you’d like bestie I trust your judgement

custom for you my love 😘

the last 500 followers celly blurb!

Prompt: #127 “You’re insane.” “People keep telling me that.”

Pairing: Tyson Jost x Reader (f)

Word Count: 706

Warnings: Sappy fluff and one (1) hot sister and that’s about it

“Sorry, let me get this straight,” your best friend says as she perches on the end of your bed, watching you rifle through your closet. “You went on a date with Tyson Jost, and now he’s asked you to be his date to his family reunion?”

You shrug, holding up a jumpsuit to your frame as you glance in the mirror. Too edgy. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“You’re insane,” she says, nodding in approval when you toss the jumpsuit to the discard pile. “You’re absolutely batshit insane.”

Pulling out two sundresses, you hold them both up and compare. Your best friend points at the one in your left hand, the light blue one with flowers on it and strings that tie into a bow on your shoulders. Perfect.

“People keep telling me that.”

**

“You’re bringing her to the family reunion? As your second date? Tyson, you’re insane,” Kacey says incredulously, staring at her brother after he casually drops the news on her.

“People keep telling me that,” grimaces the curly-headed boy lounging on the couch, phone in hand. “She’s cool as hell, Kace. I really think you’ll love her.”

“But — the second date?”

“It’s gonna be fine.” He brushes off her concern, thinking back to the date he’d two nights ago.

“I honestly can’t believe you got me cooking,” he laughed, donning the black apron on the table in front of him. “I barely even cook for myself at home.”

“Well, soon you’ll be able to make sushi with no problem at all,” you winked, mimicking his actions and looking over the tools in front of you. “I think sushi is probably part of your approved diet, right?”

“In moderation,” he explained. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine for tonight. If I play like shit tomorrow, I’m telling Coach it was your fault.”

You giggled, cheeks heating when he bumped his hip against yours playfully. Tyson smiled at you, warmth in his face and in his eyes and you nearly swooned at the sight, if not for the instructor calling the class to attention.

Two hours later, you emerged from the class with a full belly and a full heart. Naturally, it wasn’t the easiest class to take on a first date, but you found joy in his sweet and self-deprecating jokes, appreciating that he wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself and his atrocious sushi-rolling.

You were extra thankful that the instructor allowed for plenty of time for individual conversation once she explained the next steps, leaving you to spend more time talking with the handsome man standing beside you. He was kind, funny, and way more down-to-earth than you were expecting, finding almost an alarming amount of things in common.

When he dropped you off, he politely asked for permission before kissing you sweetly outside of your apartment door. Before you turned inside, you heard him ask, “Would you, uh, want to go to a family reunion with me this weekend?”

You turned to him, an inquisitive smile on your face, pleased that he must be feeling at least some of the connection that you did to invite you to meet his entire family on the second date.

Nervously, he shoved his hand in his pocket. “I know it’s uh, maybe not the usual next step so I’m sorry if I’m being way too forward here but I just — I really feel a connection with you, and also my aunt might drive me nuts if I don’t bring someone this time so um —”

“Tyson, I’d love to.”

He paused mid-sentence to look up at you. “Really?”

You giggled again with a nod. “It sounds fun. And I’m sure I can charm your aunt like nobody’s business.”

“You must really like this girl,” Kacey comments, more to herself, but her voice pulls him out of his thoughts all the same. He hums, instead distracted by the buzz of his phone. It’s a text from you, a mirror selfie of yourself in the blue sundress you’ve selected for tomorrow. He can’t help the smile that curls at his lips or the butterflies that flutter in his chest, thinking to himself how beautiful you are.

“Oh, he’s down bad.”

“Shut up, Kace.”

“Can’t wait to meet my future sister-in-law.”

#c’s 500 follower celly #tyson jost blurb #tyson jost imagine #tyson jost fic #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

hi :D congrats on 500 !! 🌺 could I request number 80 on the list with gabe landeskog?

thank you sweetness! 🤍 this took a turn I wasn’t quite expecting but I think you’ll enjoy it plenty ;)

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompt: #80 “I’m not wearing any underwear. Thought you’d like to know.”

Pairing: Gabe Landeskog x reader (f)

Word Count: 1.1K

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Some really disgusting fluff, and a little bit of voyeurism.

Gabe was hot. He knew it, you knew it. Everyone knew it. You’d been with him long enough to be used to wanting to moan every single time you saw him come down the stairs, dressed in whatever he had decided to put on that day — be it a suit and tie or shorts and a T-shirt.

Tonight, though, he’s downright delicious, a simple baby blue button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his toned forearms. His khaki shorts are fitted, inseam just short enough to reveal a tantalizing amount of his muscled thigh. His hair, ever perfect, is styled in that effortless, windswept way, the handsome smile on his handsome face beaming as he stands at the base of the stairs, waiting for you to come down.

It’s date night, and this week he’s taking you to dinner and a drive-in movie. The babysitter, Lisa, is gazing adoringly at your husband, with actual stars and hearts shining in her eyes, and you honestly can’t blame her one bit.

“Linus, say goodbye to Mommy,” Gabe says, squatting to give your two-year-old son a hug. “Doesn’t she look so pretty?”

The small blond boy with ocean blue eyes like his father’s waddles over to you, and you pick him up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Your eight month old, Klara, coos in her high chair a few feet away as Gabe tickles her belly, giggling when he plays a quick round of peek-a-boo.

You bid farewell to your kids and to Lisa, promising to be home by 11. Like the gentleman he is, Gabe opens your car door in the garage and once you’re in the parking lot of the restaurant. He presses a deep kiss to your lips once you step out of the car, almost taking the wind out of your lungs. “You look so beautiful tonight.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, even after all of the years of compliments he’s paid you, showering you in love and affection and adoration. “Thanks, G. You look handsome, too, as always.”

Gabe puffs his chest out, proud, and takes your hand to walk toward the restaurant. With a smirk, you lean in to whisper in his ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear. Thought you’d like to know.”

You can see the brief moment on his face where he processes what you said, eyes flashing before he laughs and squeezes your hand. “How cute. I’m not either.”

Dinner is easy, a favorite rooftop bar in Denver with ambient twinkle lights strewn from the wooden rafters, casting a glow over your already glowing husband. He smiles warmly at you, the light reflecting off of the gold band on his left hand. If you were on the outside looking in, you’d want to vomit at how truly picture perfect your life was.

The drive-in is a little bit out of the city, an open field where cars have started to pull in, settling in for the movie. Gabe’s thought ahead, packing blankets, pillows, and a portable radio for the bed of his truck, making a cozy, fluffy place for the two of you to lay while the movie plays. He’s even packed a bottle of wine along with two plastic Solo cups, laughably strapped into Linus’ car seat in the back.

About halfway through the movie — and ¾ of the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc — Gabe’s hand starts to wander. You’re cuddled against his chest, snuggled under a thick blanket that’s perfect for the cool evening air, and you shiver when you feel his large hand graze your thigh in the place where your dress has slid up. One thing leads to another, and, naturally, his fingers find their way between your thighs. You feel his smirk pressed against your temple when he discovers that you were, in fact, telling the truth; instead of a fabric barrier, he is met with your dripping slit, warm and eager to accept the finger he slips into you.

Your mouth falls open in a hushed gasp, legs falling open to allow his hand more room as he works one, then two fingers inside your tight heat. The pad of his finger is quick to find that deliciously fleshy spot, pressing against it to have your eyes rolling in the back of your head, hand gripping onto the fabric of his shirt.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice barely above a whisper, mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re squeezing me so tight, älskling.”

You don’t respond, can’t respond, for fear that if you use your voice, you’d cry out his name loud enough for everyone at the drive-in to hear. Instead, you turn your face to capture his mouth in a kiss, exhaling your moan into him instead. Gabe kisses you back, hotly, his hand picking up the pace to drive you to your release.

“G,” you whisper. “Fuck me.”

He’s hard, you can feel him pressed up against your hip, and for as good as his fingers feel, you know his cock will feel even better. Your husband hesitates, unsure despite the cover of both the blanket and the darkness surrounding you. So, you take actions into your own hands, twisting in his arms so your back is facing him, pressing your ass up against the erection that’s fighting against his expensive khakis.

It only takes a few wiggles of your hips, grinding against him, for him to curse behind you, hand stilling your hip so he can tug down his zipper and pull out his aching cock — he really wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t wearing any underwear, either. Briefly, he teases you, running the tip of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick. When he pushes in, you bite the meat of your hand to stifle your moan, the sensation of him filling you something you’ll never tire of.

Gabe’s hips are slow, steady, punching deep as he works to make sure his movements don’t shake the car in a noticeable way. You’re so wound up, have been from the moment you laid eyes on him tonight, the slightly public setting cranking up the heat exponentially, setting a fire in the bed of your husband’s dark gray truck.

Fortunately for you, there’s an explosion in the movie right as you hit your peak, your cry out into the darkness covered by the loud sound. Gabe isn’t far behind you, muffling his own groan with your shoulder blade as he spills deep inside your core, flooding you in a way that has you fluttering around him, accepting all he has to offer.

When you get home later that night, after Lisa’s left and you’ve checked on the kids sound asleep, Gabe bends you over the kitchen island. With his fingers digging into your hips, lips whispering words of praise and sweet nothings, you thank your lucky stars that you get to live such a picture perfect life, day in and day out.

#c’s 500 follower celly #gabe landeskog fic #gabe landeskog blurb #gabe landeskog imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

happy 500! love love love your jt writings 💗 can I pls request #56 with him? tysm

hi love! thank you so much ☺️ I combined this with another request from anon for #118 bc they fit so perfectly together 💕

finishing up my 500 followers celly

Prompts: #56 “Just marry me already” / #118 “This isn’t adrenaline, I want to spend my life with you”

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 717

Warnings: Alcohol use, one (1) suggestive comment, otherwise just some really sweet simp-t Compher

While you had a vague idea of what to expect from JT’s day with the Cup, you didn’t really know what you were getting yourself into.

Right from the start, the bar was set high, with Val’s legendary homemade chocolate chip pancakes served right out of Stan himself. Getting to see JT with his family and friends, and the fans of Northbrook coming out to celebrate not just the Colorado Avalanche, but him, filled your heart with so much love and admiration, proud not even close to doing the feeling in your gut justice.

You’d just recovered from the post-Cup win bender that you and JT had been on in the few days following the win, needing a break from alcohol after several days of non-stop drinking and celebrating. But today is a new day, and your liver is feeling refreshed, just in time for the Comphers to take on Chicago.

You’re at a bar in one of the final stops of the night. Beer and champagne are flowing steadily, the music is loud, and Stanley is shining. JT is the star of the show, never straying far from his prize, but he’s also never far from you.

Eventually, you get roped into doing a Cup Chug, as he’s dubbed it, groaning slightly as you watch him crack open a can of Bud Light and pour it inside the bowl.

“On your knees, baby,” he winks, earning a sharp, ‘Joseph!’ from his mother.

With a laugh, you follow his instructions, kneeling on the ground in front of him; in any other context, this would be quite suggestive, if not for the 35 pound trophy sitting beside you. JT picks up the Cup, pressing it to your lips and tilting it slowly so you can chug the beer sloshing inside. Cheers and chants surround you, fueling you on despite the way the carbonation burns your throat.

JT pulls away, and you swallow the last gulp, grinning up at him.

“God, you’re perfect.”

You wink. “I know I am.”

You’re licking the excess beer off your lips, standing up to your feet when he blurts out, “Just marry me already.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, pausing to stare at him. “J —”

“I’m serious.”

With a giggle, you brush him off. “Okay, JT.”

“I’m serious!”

“You’re drunk,” you say pointedly, “and running on energy from this insanely incredible daydream of a day.”

JT moves to stand in front of you and look you in the eye. His hands slide down your arms until they reach yours, holding them in his own. You watch in shock as he kneels, getting down on one knee. “This isn’t adrenaline. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears fill your eyes as the moment rushes to you, all at once, emotions flooding you so quickly that you barely even hear him when he reaches in his pocket to reveal the ring box and say, “Will you marry me?”

The question is hardy out of JT’s mouth before you’re jumping into his arms, tears streaming down your face as you sob “Yes!” into his shoulder. His arms wrap themselves tightly around you, a celebratory embrace like he does to his teammates after a goal, except much, much better.

“I love you, J.”

“I love you, too, baby.”

He’s grinning when he pulls away, the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on his face — and he’s had a lot to smile about lately. He takes the ring from the box, a beautiful diamond, and slides it onto your finger: a perfect fit.

You stare at it, overwhelmed with emotion and elation, and you lurch forward to kiss him if only to communicate everything you can’t find the words for. He’s smiling against your lips as he kisses back, accepting your silent I love you, I love you, I love you.

It’s only then that you realize that there are other people around — a lot of other people around — and you pull away from him to realize the entire crowd has surrounded you, cheering loudly. All of it is entirely unreal, celebrating your boyfriend — fiancé’s — day with the Stanley Cup, and now a brand new sparkling diamond glinting on your finger.

Needless to say, JT’s day with the Cup was one for the books.

#c’s 500 follower celly #jt compher blurb #jt compher imagine #jt compher fic #hockey fic #nhl imagine #pulpfixion

[comphy-and-cozy]

I wrote the wrong number on the first ask rip

Please hit me with the Josty angst at #25 💚

this hurt me and i'm the one who wrote it i'm so sorry

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompt: #25 “It hurts...” “What?” “Loving someone who doesn’t love you...”

Pairing: Tyson Jost x reader (f)

Word Count: 1K

Warnings: Angst and sadness and why does my heart hurt. Inspired by 'Marry Me' by Thomas Rhett!

Adjusting his bowtie, Tyson fidgets in front of the mirror, agonizing over every bit of his reflection. His hand trembles slightly as he fixes his curls, ensuring not a single hair is out of place. Behind him, JT groans loudly after taking a shot of whiskey from the flask in his pocket, hand extended in an offer to the brunette.

You’re gonna need it, he thinks to himself, accepting the flask and letting the amber liquid burn his throat. It’s strong, but he lets himself take another pull as he glances out of the window, seeing the groups of people beginning to filter in, chatting amiably as they find their seats. In front of them, there’s a beautiful wooden altar, adorned in flowers, and next to the neatly trimmed bushes, a string quartet plays a rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love.

Tyson swallows, nerves fluttering in his gut. He’s been waiting for this day for as long as he can remember, maybe even from the night he first met you. He’d dreamt about your wedding day, seeing you in your white dress, walking down the aisle, flowers in hand, more times than he could count.

As he watches the magnolias fluttering in the breeze, he’s flying back in time to years ago.

“Tys, I promise that the farmer’s market really isn’t an intimidating place,” you said, tucking your reusable bag over your shoulder.

“It is!” he exclaimed. “There’s so many people, and they’re all so cool and eco-friendly and I’m just an idiot hockey player.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you approached the vast parking lot, several rows of covered tents and chalk displays, fresh vegetables and jars of homemade salsa and hand-sewn purses as far as you could see. Grabbing his hand, you tugged him down the first row. “Come on, Jost.”

It wasn’t so bad, he thought, but maybe that’s just because he’d do just about anything if it meant that you were holding his hand. He followed you through the market, pausing with you when you stopped to taste test the lavender honey jam – not his vibe, but if you liked it, then he’d eat it on his toast for the next three weeks without complaint.

He was in the middle of his sentence when you let out a soft gasp, running toward a tent with fresh flowers. You reached for one of the displays, a pretty bouquet of some white flowers that he had no idea the name of.

“Magnolias,” you said, answering his silent question. “I’m going to have these at my wedding. They were my grandma’s favorite flower.”

Tyson nodded, making a mental note. As you chattered on, telling him about the other details of your non-existent wedding, he tugged a few bills out of his wallet and handed them to the vendor with a short, ‘Thank you.’

“Oh, Tyson, you don’t have to –”

“It’s nothing. Just make sure I get an invite to that wedding, yeah?”

When he said it, he hadn’t meant much by it, though he had hoped that he wouldn’t ever receive an invite to your wedding for the sole reason that he’d be in it – as the groom.

Unfortunately, four years later, he did get an invite in the mail, but it wasn’t his name next to yours on it. It was Ryan’s.

You’re beautiful, a real life princess, beaming with your arm looped through your father’s. Tyson can smell your perfume when you walk past him, floating down the aisle toward the man he bitterly refuses to look at. He has a lump stuck in his throat, ignoring the way his eyes are suddenly damp, and if anyone asked him, he’d blame it on his allergies.

His heart is stone when the DJ calls you to the dance floor, watches as Ryan sends you a heart-melting smile as he holds out his hand to pull you out to the center of the room, beginning to sway to the soft love song playing. His hands pull your waist close to him as he smiles down at you, ardent eyes gazing into yours before pressing a gentle kiss to your lips while he sings the words to you softly.

You’re so in love with this man, it’s almost stupid. He sways you back and forth, leading you gently as you let all of the love in the room seep in through your pores. The day is magical, everything you want, surrounded by your friends and family in the most beautiful, scenic venue in the country.

Lost in your own little world, you have no idea that there are two extra eyes on you, watching you stare lovingly into your husband’s eyes, the diamond on your finger glinting in the soft light of the dance floor. Tyson watches you, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper and deeper with each smile that handsome bastard gives you.

He resists the urge to vomit as Ryan spins you around, earning a laugh from your pretty mouth. The sound of your laughter pushes the dagger into his heart, and he tears his gaze away.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Startled, Tyson’s eyes shoot to that of his best friend’s, who’s sipping a whiskey neat, watching him closely. “What does?”

“Loving someone who doesn’t love you back.”

Tyson clears his throat, unable to prevent the way his eyes flick back to you. “I don’t know what you’re –”

“Don’t bullshit me, man,” JT says with a roll of his eyes. “I know. You’re my best friend.”

The redhead pushes an extra drink across the table, sliding over the ivory tablecloth. Tyson offers a solemn smile, sipping the liquid and barely caring about what’s in it.

“Why didn’t you tell her, Tys?” JT asks quietly, watching with a grimace as Ryan bows you backwards with a dramatic kiss that has the rest of the crowd cheering.

Sighing, Tyson finishes the drink in front of him, sitting in the silence as he stares instead at the centerpiece in front of him, rather than looking at the nauseating display of affection on the dance floor. “I don’t – couldn’t – didn’t want to fuck it up.”

“She could’ve –”

“Don’t say it, J,” Tyson says softly, and JT feels his own heart crack slightly. “I can’t think that way now. Not anymore.”

With a last glance at you, spinning in the twinkling lights like in a Disney movie, he says, “This is just the way it has to be from now on.”

#c’s 500 follower celly #tyson jost fic #tyson jost blurb #tyson jost imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

congrats on 500!!! can i request 🌺 with prompts 2 & 128 with PLD or josty?

thank you so much doll 🖤

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #2 “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” / #128 “you’re pretty.” - “you’re drunk.”

Pairing: Tyson Jost x Reader (f) Word Count: 740

Warnings: Alcohol use/mention, one (1) man with a mustache, maybe a slightly toxic relationship situation + a little bit of angst

The pulse of the lights above you syncs with the heavy beat of the bass over the EDM remix playing from the DJ’s booth. It’s dark, and loud, and entirely not your scene, but your newly-single roommate had dragged you out, citing a night at the club as the perfect recipe for moving on from her dramatic break up.

Of course, the club she selected was the most popular in Edina, where all of the summer NHLers went after Da Beauty League got out. And, naturally, she went straight to them when she arrived, which is how you found yourself on the dance floor, grinding against some handsy hockey player with a dirty mustache. 

He's cute, you suppose, but you know you're going to disappoint him when you reject his advances later on, not interested in a one-night stand. Not when your on-again, off-again situationship is standing across the bar, sloshing his 3rd or 4th paloma over his lilac button-up while he guffaws with a few boys from the summer league, each on the prowl for the night's prospects.

He'd caught your eye, once, a curt nod his only greeting. Typical.

There was a reason your relationship never progressed to relationship, and the answer was always Tyson. He'd be sweet, kind, doting one day, then afraid of commitment and distant the next. You couldn't entirely blame him for not wanting to settle down like so many of his friends – he was young, rich, living a bachelor's dream. What you could blame him for, though, was the way he strung you along, keeping you just close enough to keep you coming back for more, falling for his shit every time.

So, the last time he called it quits, you told him that he’d better be sure, because you weren’t coming back. And so far, you’d held true to your word, allowing whats-his-name to buy you a drink, and, when he asked you to dance with him, honey slurring out of his pretty mouth, you said yes.

Ultimately, though, you do end up disappointing Mustache Man, letting him down easy when the next song ends. You glance around for your roommate, who you eventually locate in the corner, lips locked in a passionate kiss with the guy you’d seen her talking to earlier. 

With a sigh, pleased that she appears to be getting what she wanted from the night, you return to the bar to order yourself another drink – one more, you decide, and you’ll Uber home, assuming that your roommate wouldn’t be sharing the ride with you.

“You’re pretty.” The voice startles you out of your thoughts, and you’re met with the brown eyes and messy curls of Tyson Jost.

“And you’re drunk,” you laugh, watching the way he stumbles slightly.

He scoffs, then mumbles, “Not drunk enough.”

“What is that supposed to mean, Tys?”

You catch the way his eyes flick to his teammate, the man with the mustache, in a subtle glance. He says nothing, just grumbles to himself as he downs the rest of his drink.

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?” you ask incredulously, not believing the gall he has to come up to you and say – 

“So what if I am?”

“You don’t get to do this, Tyson. Not anymore.” Your words are strong, but your confidence is not, wavering under the weight of his gaze that’s trailing over your collar bones, exposed in the top you put on with the hopes of attracting his – or at least someone’s – attention.

“What if I changed my mind?”

“You always do,” you scoff. 

You’re about to walk away when he grabs your hand, causing you to pause in your tracks. The sparks of electricity when his skin touches yours is impossible to ignore, but you do it anyway as you turn to face him.

“Please,” he says. “I want to do this. For real.”

The words he says are warm, and so is his hand on yours. His eyes are pleading, looking into yours as if he hasn’t done this same thing countless times before. You can feel the scabbed-over scars on your heart protesting, head telling you to run for the hills, that you can’t take another heartbreak from the curly-headed boy in front of you.

But your heart gets the best of you, like it does every time, and you tug at his hand as you make for the door.

“You’re calling the Uber this time.”

#c’s 500 follower celly #tyson jost blurb #hockey fic #tyson jost fic #nhl imagine #asks

[comphy-and-cozy]

🍉🍉🍉 compher’s thighs that is all

ok I was just gonna reply to this with a hard yes and a horny meme but I ended up writing 1k words whoops sorry I’m a whore and I need this man carnally

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompt: JT Compher’s thighs. That’s it.

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY), brief alcohol mention, some swearing. Mostly just filth. Horny meme at the end.

Celebrating a Stanley Cup win is always going to be wild — that’s a fact.

It’s day three of the celebrations in Denver, and though you’re having the time of your life, you’re a bit exhausted. It was honestly amazing to you that the Colorado Avalanche haven’t cleared the entire city out of alcohol with the amount they’ve put away the last 72 hours, with no end in sight.

Today is no different than the last, just the location has changed. Today, you’re at EJ’s house, perfectly fit for a pool party in the warm Denver weather, with a patio large enough to fit the entire team and then some.

Unfortunately for you, your boyfriend has been unknowingly teasing you all day. And, having been a little too incapacitated the last few days, he hasn’t been taking care of your needs the way he normally might, so you’re feeling a little extra deprived.

JT tugs you into his lap, arms locking solidly around your middle as he presses a sloppy kiss against your shoulder. He’s too drunk to notice the way your body tenses when your core meets the firm muscle of his thigh, unaware that you’ve been secretly thirsting over his thick legs all day. Why all hockey players insist on wearing those swimming trunks that are a size too small for them, hugging those sculpted muscles and their enormous asses, is beyond you, but, as you admire the sight of your boyfriend, you can’t bring yourself to complain.

Of course, it didn’t help that Mikko poured half a bottle of champagne over him earlier, soaking his styled hair and seeping into the white t-shirt he had on, ultimately forcing him to remove it and jump in the pool to rinse himself off, only making matters even worse for your internal demise.

JT’s hands are grabby, though, a little too drunk to notice how far up your thigh his hands are resting. You’re squirming in his lap, thankful that his trunks are sopping wet to avoid him noticing the extra dampness between your thighs.

But then he shifts, seemingly inconsequentially, just an adjustment of his legs to situate you more comfortably on his lap, and the movement has your clit brushing against the hard muscle of his thigh. And, unfortunately, the movement also has a moan slipping past your lips, unwillingly.

“Excuse me?” JT asks, stilling when he hears it. “What was that, babe?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh no, don’t ‘nothing’ me,” he says, and you feel the heat in your cheeks at the amusement in his voice. He turns you to face him, looking into your eyes, and lowers his voice. “Did you just moan sitting in my lap?”

“You — it just — hit the right spot, okay? Can we be done talking about this?” you put your head in your hands, willing the embarrassment in your entire being to go away. “I’m going to go find another drink.”

You sneak into the house and slip into a spare bedroom to let out a sigh of frustration, both from the embarrassment and the burn in your gut, though your quiet moment is soon interrupted by your ginger pushing open the door.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” his voice is full of concern, afraid he hurt your feelings.

“Nothing, J, I’m fine. I’m just…” you trail off, eyes flicking down to the line of his abs.

It’s all it takes for his expression to shift from worry to mischievous, a glint in his eye. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, rolling your eyes when he flexes his biceps in an obnoxious gym-bro fashion. “Just because you have the body of a god doesn’t mean you need to be annoying about it.”

“You like it,” he grins, then tugs you closer by your hips. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve been killing me all day in this skimpy little bikini.”

The privacy of the room, the warmth of his skin, the heat in his eyes, all have you throwing caution to the wind, giving in to your desperation. “Why don’t you do something about it, then, Compher?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right here?”

“Why not?” you shrug. “It’s not like anyone else is sober enough to notice. Besides, Erik has like, 7 bedrooms. He doesn’t need ‘em all.”

JT’s amused by your desperation masked by nonchalance. He knows, though, can see it in your eyes and the way your hips follow his, drawn to him.

“My girl needy?”

You whine. “You haven’t fucked me in three days.”

“Aw,” he says, making a mock sad face. “Three days too long without a big dick in your little cunt?”

“J,” you breathe, heart pulsing rapidly in your throat as he pins you against the wall. His lips attach to yours in a scorching hot kiss, tasting like pineapple High Noons and rum.

You moan into his mouth when his thigh slots between yours, pressing against your barely-covered core, only this time, the flex of his muscle is very, very intentional. Your hips move of their own accord, seeking any bit of friction you can get.

Vaguely, you can see the way JT pulls back slightly, admiring the sight of you writhing wantonly against him, your burning heat grinding on his thigh. His eyes trail over your figure hotly, checking you out in the way he’d been trying to all day.

“Why don’t you get off like this if you’re so desperate, hm? Don’t even need to get my dick out,” he breathes fire against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“If you’re too drunk to get it up, I’ll happily come on your thigh,” you quip, and he laughs.

“Oh, darling, I’m certainly planning on you coming all over my thigh, and then all over my dick,” he says lowly, and given the firm bulge that’s pressed against your leg, you’re inclined to believe him.

Your hips grind faster, working yourself toward an easy release while he palms your breast through the material of your bikini top. The heat is building in you, spreading from your pussy outward, into your toes and up your chest and all the way to your head. His lips are attached to that sensitive spot beneath your ear, sucking a mark into the skin that has you moaning, hands gripping his shoulders for support as your legs begin to shake.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans. “Come for me.”

And you do, biting your lip to stifle your cry as pleasure shoots through you, his firm thigh unwavering under the pulse of your hips, allowing you to ride out the slowing waves of your climax. You feel his grin against your jaw, pleased with himself.

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, tugging you closer to his body with his hand on your hips, stealing another kiss from you. His hand pulls gently at the knot on either hip, then the one behind your neck and on your back, allowing the fabric of your bikini to fall to the floor unceremoniously. “Been wanting to do that all day.”

JT lays you down on the bed, smirking down at your naked figure laid out for him.

“You want to test how well I can get it up?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #jt compher fic #jt compher blurb #jt compher smut #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

🌺 #10 with chris kreider please?

let me clarify that I could never have this kind of confidence but Y/N is a queen that we all strive to be

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #10 “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Pairing: Chris Kreider x Mika’s best friend!reader (written as f but could be gender neutral, I think)

Word Count: 876

Warnings: Alcohol use/mention, language, suggestive ending/adult themes

You’ve lived in New York City for years now, accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the city. You’re used to the crowds, the smells, the constant hum in the air. And up until now, New York had always felt like the biggest country on earth.

But now, New York has never felt smaller.

Ever since you came to the city, Chris had been around, waiting with Mika to pick you up at the airport the day you arrived. From then on, he’d become a staple in your life, whether you wanted him to or not.

Mika was your childhood best friend, and when you got accepted into NYU for your dream program, he was all too happy to open up his place for you. You graduated, accepting a full-time job at the company you’d interned at in the city, eventually getting your own legs to be able to afford a place on your own.

You’d moved out against Mika’s protests, insisting that he had plenty of space — and he did — but you wanted to prove to yourself that you could make it on your own, without the support of your millionaire, professional athlete best friend. And, there was the fact that being around Chris so much was really starting to put a strain on your life in the worst way.

Being around him was intoxicating. It started as a simple friendship, a friend of a friend, who you became close to simply because of his proximity. Over time, your own friendship had developed into its own thing, a separate text thread going outside of the existing group chat. Still, because of the dynamic, you never really hung out with him one on one.

Until now. When Mika texts to tell you both that he’s got a stomach bug and won’t be able to make it over for movie night.

Unfortunately for you, Chris is already there, a can of seltzer already cracked open as he sprawls out on your couch, a little too much of his muscular arm showing as his arm rests on the back cushion.

“Mika’s not coming,” you announce, and he pauses mid-sip to look at you. “He’s sick.”

“Looks like it’s just us tonight, huh?” he says, jovial, trying to pretend he doesn’t also feel the thick layer of tension that’s just settled between you on the couch, hovering in the few inches of space between your leg and his.

Two drinks later, you’re feeling tipsy and the darkness of your living room feels like the perfect shroud over the embarrassment you might otherwise feel when your hand finds its way to his thigh. He tenses, instantly, then looks at you with a look in his eye that almost breaks your heart.

“Wh… what are you doing?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice,” you say softly, glancing sideways at him.

Chris chuckles, a slight tinge in his cheeks. “That obvious, huh?”

“Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

“You’re hot, what can I say?”

His words spark confidence in you, and you turn to face him, brow quirked up. “You could just ask me out like a normal dude.”

You watch his hand scrub his face before running over his hair, blowing out a long exhale. “It’s not that simple, and you damn well know it.”

“Why not? Because of Mika?”

Chris sends you a pointed glance, the obviously not necessary to say out loud in order to pick up on his reluctance.

“He doesn’t own me, you know,” you say. “I’m my own person, and so is he.”

“Of course you are.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it had never even been a thought in his mind. “But there’s a code — he’s my best friend.”

You click your tongue, and turn to face the screen again. It takes everything in you not to look back at him to see the disappointment on his face when you remove your hand from his scalding thigh, instead saying, “Well, let me know when you figure that out. I’ve been waiting for you to fuck me for years now.”

Chris chokes on his drink, and you can’t help your smirk when he stares at you incredulously. His mouth is agape, cheeks flushed a really delicious shade of pink. To silence him, you lean forward and press a kiss against his mouth, letting out a hum at the feeling of his lips on yours.

You pull away, letting him stutter like a fool, and stand up. As you walk toward your bedroom, you jerk your head at him to signal him to follow you. Pausing in the doorway, you turn to him and say, “Unless you’d rather wait for him to sign your permission slip?”

Chris nearly knocks over the half-empty can of White Claw on your coffee table, tripping over his own feet to get to you. Without a second thought, he takes your face in his hands and pulls you in for another kiss, a real one this time, like he can’t get enough now that he’s had one taste.

As he nudges you inside the bedroom, he closes the door behind him. “Fuck the permission slip.”

#c’s 500 follower celly #chris kreider blurb #chris kreider fic #hockey fic #nhl imagine #asks

[comphy-and-cozy]

congratulations on the 500! 🌺 can I please request 137 with either tyson jost or jt compher?

thank you so much doll! this is going to be a continuation of my other JT fics bc I am a simp☺️

celebrate 500 with me!

Prompts: #137 “Do you know how beautiful you are? It’s truly distracting.”

Pairing: JT Compher x reader (f) - same universe as Something to Dream About & Nothin’ Better Than This

Word Count: 673

Warnings: Gross fluff. Not sorry.

There are a lot of perks of working for a professional sports organization. Even more when it’s a successful franchise. You get to do all kinds of amazing things, meet incredible people, and support wonderful causes in the community. But hands down, among all of it, your favorite day of the year is PetSmart puppy day.

And who could blame you?

You’re watching a group of children — and by children, you mean professional hockey players — fawn over a literal pile of puppies, cooing and baby talking them as they accept kisses on their faces. To be fair, it’s really the only appropriate reaction to any puppy, let alone ten of them, alert and eager to make new friends.

A few feet away from you, JT has two in his arms, wriggling against his soft sweatshirt as he gazes at them lovingly, as if they were his own children. He’s giggling like a schoolboy, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiles, and you can’t even help the way your heart melts at the sight. There are cameras surrounding all of them, capturing all of the content that social media would no doubt eat up.

Your phone buzzes, and you glance down to read the email you received from your boss, firing off a quick reply. When you tuck your phone back into your pocket, JT is standing in front of you, puppy-less, a concerned look on his face.

“Um, hi, miss,” he greets, and you raise an eyebrow, confused as to why he’s speaking to you like you’re a stranger. “I’d like to make a formal complaint.”

“Um, okay?”

“Do you know how beautiful you are? It’s really distracting.” His face is straight, the inflection in his voice serious as he poses his ‘complaint.’ There’s a little sparkle in his eye, the one that gives you butterflies every time, the only outward signal of what he’s playing at.

Your heart warms, as does your face, at the compliment. Ever since you went public with your relationship, he’s always offering sweet but subtle signs of affection at work — flowers delivered to your desk just because, a wink in your direction during warmups, bringing fresh coffee to your desk after morning skate. Of course, in private, he always was sweet, but his newfound freedom seemed to spark renewed motivation to spoil you.

Trying to hide the smile on your face, your teeth sink into your lower lip, nodding as you play along with his joke. “Is that so?”

“I’m trying to have a professional interview, and you’re over here just… looking like that. Honestly, it’s really rude of you, and I’d like to ask you to stop.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Compher,” you apologize with a straight face. “Your complaint has been noted and duly declined.”

He scoffs, dramatically rolling his eyes. “Typical. I knew you wouldn’t understand. Clearly, you don’t have what it takes to be a professional athlete.”

You break character with a giggle, gesturing toward the pile of puppies in the playpen a few feet away. “You’re kissing puppies. I’d hardly say that’s a professional interview.”

“I take my job very seriously,” he crosses his arms, looking at you expectantly. His facade has lasted this long, but cracks when his face breaks into a smile, laughing at himself.

“Oh my god, just kiss already!” calls Devon’s voice from across the parking lot, accompanied by very loud and obnoxious kissing noises from Erik. “I swear to god, I’m gonna throw up if I have to watch you two flirt like this. It’s disgusting.”

JT waggles his eyebrows at you. “What do you say we give the people what they want?”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head at him, but rise up onto your toes all the same to press your lips against his. Wolf whistles sound beside you, followed by a, “Eww, JT is gonna get cooties!”

He chases your lips for another kiss, laughing at the exaggerated gagging noises from his teammates. “Aren’t you glad we signed up for this?”

#c’s 500 follower celly #jt compher fic #jt compher imagine #jt compher blurb #hockey fic #nhl imagine

[comphy-and-cozy]

💞 my love letter is to u. thank you for writing for the masses (the 10 compher simps on here) and being so lovely and funny and talented xoxoxo

NO U

I’m gonna cry again ilysm I will forever thirst over the entire compher fam with u 🤍

#asks #corneliaskates #keep forever #c’s 500 follower celly

[comphy-and-cozy]

hi omg congrats on 500!! sorry this is kinda random but just wanted to share that you’re one of the reasons I got into hockey — came to tumblr for peaky blinders then ended up reading your NHL!Michael fic and welp here we are haha 🍉 so happy you’ve been writing more, thanks for sharing your work 🤍

shut up shut up shut UP oh my god this is the nicest sweetest kindest message I’ve ever received 😭🥺

I’m so honored that you read fallin’ all in you and THEN got sucked into the chaos that is hockeyblr - honestly, FAIY was my introduction into the world of hockey fic, too, and i’m only a little sorry for dragging you along with me. you are the sweetest angel and I’m crying real tears rn 🤍

#c’s 500 follower celly #jarmorie #asks #keep forever