#*ೃ༄ by holy-pucks
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━ 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𝐜𝐰 — profanity, innuendo, matthew’s filthy mouth and lack of morals, cheating (not on matty or the reader), outdated/incorrect information about having sex for the first time, borderline too much degradation, some objectification to add a little spice, unprotected sex w a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
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“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.”
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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.
©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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asks, reblogs and comments very welcome and greatly appreciated!!
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patrons gained access to this piece on may 26, 2023 as part of their early bird perks. learn more HERE!
#*ೃ༄ by holy-pucks#matthew tkachuk#matthew tkachuk x reader#matthew tkachuk x f!reader#matty tkachuk x reader#matthew tkachuk x you#ratty matty#m. tkachuk#nhl hockey#nhl fic#nhl fanfiction#nhl imagine#nhl lemon#hockey fic#hockey fanfiction#hockeyblr#nhlblr#hockey boys#reader insert
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Farnese at 1000%
Guts... at his limit
#berserk#guts berserk#puck berserk#farnese#holy chain knights#conviction arc#50% of the time guts should be drawn sopping wet and pathetic#puck is a little goblin
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Headcanon based on nothing but I have because I think it’d be really funny is 4077 members absorbing Potter’s curses into their vocabulary and continuing to use them post-canon without even realizing it
#mash#Hawkeye cuts himself in the kitchen one day#mutters ‘ah mule fritters’ as he goes to deal with it#Daniel is BESIDE himself cause what the fuck was THAT#Charles uses horse hockey LIBERALLY#very fond of saying ‘that’s a load of horse hockey’#Margaret uses bull cookies#she’ll also bust out ‘WHAT IN SAMUEL HILL-‘ if she’s angry enough#BJ uses medical ones at work like holy hemostat#Klinger uses great caesar salad and great caesar’s ghost interchangeably#Mulcahy has sign versions and anybody who interprets for him has a list of what they mean#his favourite is buffalo bagels#Radar tends to a good ‘PONY PUCKS’#I’m having fun with this
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Chapters: 5/6
Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín/Wēn Qíng, Jiāng Yànlí & Wēn Qíng, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Jiāng Yànlí, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín & Wēn Qíng, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn & Wēn Qíng, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Characters: Wēn Qíng (Módào Zǔshī), Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Jiāng Yànlí, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Niè Míngjué, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Granny Wēn (Módào Zǔshī), Fourth Uncle (Módào Zǔshī), Original Characters
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Sunshot Campaign (Módào Zǔshī), War, Pre-Relationship, The comb means I love you, it's Sunshot so there's a fuckton of original characters, just casually filling canon with women and nonbinary people and doctors
Series: Part 1 of 澄情 | Clarity of Feeling
Summary:
Jiang Cheng holds out the comb to Wen Qing. This is a bad time for giving gifts of affection, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have a better. “If anything happens to you in the future,” he says, “come find me and I will help you again.”
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Wen Qing takes the comb and the promise and makes her way to Qinghe to see that the promise is fulfilled.
“I have found my brother, but I need help to rescue him from the Qishan Wen sect. Jiang-zongzhu— Jiang Wanyin, if you can help me rescue him and bring him back, I would be forever grateful.”
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WE’RE BACK, BAYBEE! I finally figured out what to do with this fic after THREE YEARS of hiatus whooooo!
#the untamed#fanfic#wen qing#puck writes#chengqing#jiang cheng#jiang wanyin#NEW CHAPTER AFTER SO LONG HOLY SHIT#wei ying#wei wuxian#lan huan#lan xichen#granny wen#sunshot campaign
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Artwork for the double chapter release on June 24th.
#berserk#berserk manga#kouji mori#kentaro miura#this artwork slaps#i didn’t know it was going to be double chapters holy shit#guts#puck
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The best dip in theater history
#a midsummer night's dream#holy moly look at that#oberon lifts puck a lot in this#like he weighs NOTHING#damn#my gifs#not pictured is the giant swing oberon took around the stage before RUNNING at puck#so dramatic
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irl hockey so much cooler than tv hockey. do not know how i'm going to survive without seeing my blorbos in person knowing that they also that and that i can also go and see them do it. illegal. i need to move to toronto or vancouver immediately. fuck. what the fuck. fuck.
#tri city americans you were so bad tonight but i'm so proud of you anyway#actually you did great they played very well to be completely honest with you#one of the refs threw a puck at us#like from over the glass. we gave it to the three year old sitting in the row in front of us#there were fried chickens thrown at us like into the crowd from the rafters#the goalie on bench kept slapping the glass and making eye contact with me when we scored/got close to the wheat kings' net#it was so intense and it was your average tri cities crowd (derogatory) but i saw multiple canucks fans ans multiple leafs fans so that was#really cool actually. some bruins fans as well which is so crazy?? but anyway#i need to go back my skin is like. vibrating#wenatchee is next i think. check off all of the counties on the east and then move to the west and then do portland#the wild just moved here so unsure how the crowd will be. holy shit my ears are still ringing#chl#nhl#my post#tca
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23. rom coms or horror?
— @holy-pucks 🩷
So short answer? Yes.
Long answer is I'm very very picky about my rom-coms and not very picky about my horror. I fell asleep last night watching The Thing, so horror
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━ 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥.
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𝐰𝐜 — 1.9k
𝐜𝐰 — everyone is aged up / non-canon compliant ages bc i said so; rafe being an emotionally constipated, toxic douche-canoe 3000; an unhealthy dynamic; suggestive moments but not explicit; w*rd + substance mention, wheeze bein' a savage; and a potential cliffhanger?
𝐚/𝐧 — this is a lil nugget from a mini-series i have in the works :) lmk if you’d like to see more in the future! 💌
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main masterlist | MDNI
IF EVER THERE were a time when a human being might actually be capable of blowing steam from their ears, it would be this one.
Rafe Cameron has been pacing the length of the chapel's private lot since he dragged you out here who knows how long ago. Mumbling crudely configured sentences and half-baked schemes under his breath, he looks every bit the loose canon he's been branded as.
While not ideal, things could be worse—a lot worse. At the very least, he hasn't punched anything yet; concrete wall, tree trunk, or otherwise.
The "otherwise" in this situation (and most, to be frank) is JJ Maybank's pretty face.
Apparently, Rafe doesn't appreciate the way he's been touching you all afternoon.
"If that fuckin' pogue knows what's good for him, he—he'll keep his filthy hands off what's mine."
Strong words for someone who refuses to even attempt exclusivity, or make any sort of commitment whatsoever.
You gnaw on your cheek until copper stings your tongue.
JJ has to touch you, it's unavoidable.
Sarah, his younger sister and your lifelong best friend, has asked you to be her Maid of Honor and, to absolutely no one's surprise, John B, her fiancé, asked JJ Maybank to serve as his Best Man.
Sarah's older brother doesn't see it that way.
And why would he? That would involve rational thinking and a modicum of maturity—two things Rafe is allergic to.
In his perfect world, you would walk in the procession having left a him-sized gap, and, even then, he'd probably decide that wasn't enough. Knowing him, there would need to be an ocean between you two before Rafe was finally satisfied. And still, you know for certain he'd find something else to bitch about.
It's almost like he enjoys getting himself all worked up.
"Rafe, I'm not a pet or a toy to play tug-of-war with on the playground."
At your sudden burst of exasperation, the pacing comes to a screeching halt. And thank god for that; the repetition was starting to make you nauseous.
Just as firmly as his jaw, Rafe's fists clench at his sides.
"When did I say that you were?" he spews his venom at you, but his fervid attention remains fixed on the cracked pavement baking in the late afternoon rays. Rafe kicks a pebble into the side of a parked car, then continues, "—because I don't recall saying that. And you know how I feel about words being put into my mouth."
"No," you all but growl. "—but that's what you meant."
Your teeth ache from grinding them together. A migraine is forming at either temple, but you're already too exhausted by this conversation to massage it away before it takes root. You have your hands full with one headache right now, there's no room for another on your plate. But, like the eldest Cameron's emotional maelstrom, landfall is inevitable.
Rafe glares at you, but doesn't say anything to the contrary.
This begrudged acquiescence is the closest you ever come to Rafe admitting that you were right about something.
Or apologizing.
"Well, whatever you are, you're still mine. Something he doesn't respect and you seem to have forgotten—and I think we're overdue for a little reminder, sweetness."
He reaches for you, and you halfheartedly bat his hands away.
"Rafe, can we just... can we please do this some other time? I have to get back to—"
"—to your side piece from The Cut?"
"—to Sarah. Your sister. Y'know, the one who's getting married this weekend?" You cross your arms over your chest. Rafe rolls his eyes, clearly irritated you decided to cock-block his ogling. "—in case that bit of information got lost in your ego."
"Wow, you're really antsy to get back in there." His eyebrows jump, somehow unfettered by his audacity. The supplemental away from me is omitted, but deafening. "There's no need to be so defensive—if you have nothing to feel guilty for, that is."
You don't dignify his badgering with a response.
His tongue punches his cheek, and he looks away, as if depriving you of eye contact is a punishment in and of itself.
Rafe is trying to bait you into an actual fight so that he can exercise his big, bottled-up emotions without having to acknowledge their existence or their cause. There's too much left to do before the ceremony; you don't have time to spare for something as juvenile and pointless as feeding into his emotional scapegoat.
"If you're spreading 'em for Maybank, at least give me a head's up so I can get tested. It's common courtesy, sweetness."
Cold and debilitating, like a scorpion's venom, his accusation is devoid of the familiarity you've grown fond of. Under Rafe's prickly carapace of indifference, he is spiteful and chronically insecure.
This is what happens when you don't purge yourself of whatever is bothering you. Pent up, the negativity builds and builds day in and day out. The knot gets bigger, stronger, and harder to ignore the longer it's left undealt with. The conflict between inner turmoil and externalized chaos, often projected onto an underserving substitute, is harsh and bitter, persisting until there's nothing left to leverage. Denial is a dreadful opponent and an impenetrable armor.
You are the frog today, and you are more often than not. Perhaps there was a time when turns were frequently taken, but you can't remember.
In shooting to sting, he'll kill himself just the same. Yet, despite the assured detriment to your livelihood, you put your faith in rational deterrence and permit the arachnid to crawl onto your back.
A sense of duty is easily preyed upon, and a desire for benevolence can leave you blind to the true nature of things. Instinct, natural or nurtured, doesn't have to be a death sentence. Nor is it a prescription for life. Villainy, like goodness, is a choice.
The frog may not be able to sting or fight, but it can leap.
"Would you just shut up?"
You bring his mouth to yours before any more garbage can spill out.
He's keyed up on jealousy and, most likely, something else. Rafe's intent on pushing you away with tired cheap shots in a fit of anger. You've known him long enough to know that, in the absence of control, he does and says the exact opposite of what he feels.
He refuses to be vulnerable in any healthy way, instead preferring to throw double-edged rocks at your window from behind a wilting bush.
Words are incompatible with Rafe's trauma-soaked mind. He'll hear whatever it is you have to say—Hell, he might even believe it for a few minutes—but a life of too many broken promises and poorly disguised lies depreciated their value.
Action—that's what Rafe can grasp. For something to click and stick, it must be tangible. You kissed him to express your loyalty in the only way he understands.
And to make him shut up. Definitely that, too.
"I should've ignored Sarah when she said a spray bottle was a bad idea."
Your eyes are slow to open, but you jump away from Rafe anyway. As if you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, or like you betrayed some great conspiracy. Like he burned you.
It may not have a label, but your charged relationship with the Cameron heir is an open secret on Kiladare. Still, you're not too keen on public displays of affection—if anything you subject each other to could even be considered gentle or loving.
Intimate, sure. An attachment, definitely. The jury's still out on the health of such a volatile symbiosis, but such an entanglement is a bitch to bury.
You've tried.
Rafe's jaw clenches, annoyed by the irksome interruption now more than any slight you've perpetrated. "Wheezie, can't you see we're in the middle of something?"
"Something I saw a little too much of," she retorts with an exaggerated gag.
You bite down on your cheeks to keep your laughter at bay. You're in no mood to poke the bear further than he's already stabbed himself.
"Run along, the adults are talking."
Again, Rafe reaches for you. This time, you step out of bounds.
She means well, but the youngest Cameron has a big mouth and a propensity for gossip. She's also a compulsive eavesdropper. Wheezie might butt in and stir the pot far less now than she did a few years ago, but when it comes to Rafe, all bets are off. They may be each other's preferred sibling, bonded by their inability to best Sarah in the rat race for their father's attention and approval, but in their household, it's everyone for themselves.
And she's had her eye on the special edition Animal Crossing Switch console for weeks; she'll throw you both under the bus without a thought. Especially, if it means not waiting 'till Christmas to have it in her tween-age hands.
You throw her a bone, and yourself a lifeline. "What's up, Wheeze?"
She gives her brother a final glare, then turns to face you fully. Her features are twisted with exasperation, an understandable feeling considering who her siblings are and the family she's had the misfortune of being born into.
"Sarah wants to practice the rings. Again. So, hurry up and finish sucking face, adults. We have more important things to do."
Wheezie stomps off before either you or Rafe can get a word in. For her, the conversation ran its course. No need to stick around.
"Can I ask something stupid?" Rafe asks once his sister is out of earshot.
His voice is a bit wobbly, and while you know he'll make you regret it later, but you just can't help yourself: "Don't you always?"
Rafe clears his throat, then rubs his jaw like it might grant him the right words.
"We only... y'know with each other, right? I-I mean, I just figured since you're stuck to me like fucking velcro you're in the same boat. I mean—talk about stage five clinger. And, don't get me wrong, I would've unstuck you, but this," Rafe gestures to what little space remains between you. "—is way more convenient than all the hoops and shit of getting with someone else."
You know what he's actually asking—you've been fluent in "Rafe" since the fourth grade. Just one of the many, many joys of your fathers' life-long bromance.
He wants you to spill your guts before he does. He wants certainty; a safety net of prior knowledge.
—Rafe wants power.
"Totally," you drawl, humoring him with half the effort you normally would. Rafe squirms under your knowing gaze. "All for convenience, babe."
"Are you mocking me?"
"Don't I always?" you counter through a smirk that makes Rafe feel as though he's staring into a splintered funhouse mirror.
Rafe watches you slip back into the chapel, wishing that he said more... wishing he'd said less. He follows your figure down the hallway until the metal door shuts with a rancorous thud.
When he shuts his eyes—a lukewarm attempt to calm his racing heart in the relentless summer sun—all Rafe can think about is your parting wink.
And the God-awful churn of emotion it triggered.
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#*ೃ༄ by holy-pucks#rafe cameron#rafe cameron concepts#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron fanfiction#obx fanfiction#obx fic#outer banks#rafe cameron x kook!reader#kook!reader#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x reader#rafe outer banks#rafe obx#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey
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Please let her one floppy ear stay floppy let her have one floppy ear and one pointy ear dear lord.
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"What are you doing, Puck?"
"I'm reading the new chapter of In Verona."
"Oh, please. I'm not falling for that one again."
#sims 2#ts2#in verona#story update#holy hell y'all it's finally happening#now with 100% less 'Puck being impaled on a chair'#thank you everyone for being so patient#i hope everyone enjoys!
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also god of war ragnarok was pretty good! liked kratos actually softening and understanding and trusting atreus! kratos loves his son and was unwilling to let the cycle of violence continue....he wanted atreus to be able to trust him, and he did that by trusting atreus first. he learned to let go but to also let atreus know he'll always have a home with him and mimir and freya. very sweet story in the end, ignoring poor fuckin sindri...
also liked the re-focusing of the creation of jorgonmandor and fenrir, very cool interpretation of the myths to fit the story. angorboda was so sweet and her friendship with atreus was so cute
#odin was a standout character though holy fuck. his va his mannerisms his goal....perfect odin#he just wanted to know. everything. and he kept at it until he died#sindri though.....sad and fucked up but i get why he was so angry at atreus#also i cant wait to see where it goes next#i know it won't be in norse mythos anymore. but if we're following loki/atreus maybe some celtic mythos?#bc its been confimed it exists with mimir being puck#so maybe some giants are hiding there since in irish mythos we do have giants i think#gowr#gowr spoilers
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happy birthday bby!!! 🫶🏻 - @holy-pucks
thank you beloved!!! ♥️🙇♀️🙇♀️
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HELLO HELLO HELLO HOLY SHIT I LOVE STEDE AND ED IM GOING TO ACTUALLY PASS AWAY
#LIKE#THEY FINALLY KISSED AND IM MELTING#IM VERY GLAD I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT THIS SHOW GOING INTO IT#HOLY FUCK#anyways#puck speaks#ofmd
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Animal
Summary: Unfair ref calls end up getting Matt placed in the penalty box during a game. The best way to relieve his anger afterwards is sitting in the stands and wearing a miniskirt. Based off of this edit<3
Pairing: Hockey player!Matt x implied bimbo and WAG!reader
Warnings: Smut, semi public sex (storage room), dumbification, rough dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, creampie, hair pulling, gagging, masturbation (m), spitting, oral (m receiving), sir kink if you squint, lots of sex/dirty talk, literally pure filth
Word Count: 2.3k
A/N: I don't know anything about hockey, so please bare with me for any inaccuracies!! Get your holy water ready...💗
“Good luck!” You smiled, standing on your tiptoes to kiss Matt’s cheek, despite your white kitten heels. “I’ll see you after the game!”
Matt picked you and spun you around, hand cheekily slipping under your pink miniskirt to grab your ass. “I’m looking forward to it.” he whispered huskily in your ear, secretly suckling on the sweet spot behind the flesh.
You pressed one last kiss to Matt’s lips outside the locker room before bidding him goodbye and scurrying to the special VIP box in the stands of TD Garden that was specifically reserved for the families and friends, but especially wives and girlfriends of the members of the Boston Bruins. Call it shallow or silly, but ever since you were a small girl you had always dreamed of dating a member of your favorite hockey team. Like many New Englanders, you took hockey seriously, and it seemed only fitting for your prince to have skates and a hockey stick rather than a horse.
The universe must’ve worked in your favor. You and Matt had been next door neighbors for all of your childhood, and had started dating your senior year of high school, just before he had been signed to the Bruins. Everyday since then had been a dream. You were practically Matt’s personal cheerleader, on the ice and off. When you thought about that, along with his flirty mention from earlier, you felt your cheeks flush as you shifted in your seat and adjusted your skirt. Matt’s favorite way to celebrate (and lick his wounds after a loss) a game was in the bedroom and you doubted tonight would be any different.
You blushed and adjusted your skirt, excitedly catching up with one of Matt’s teammates’ girlfriend who had been out of town for the last home game. No matter how much you tried to move your mind away from the topic, you couldn’t stop yourself from going back to his promises and the feeling of his hands on your backside.
As the game got ready to start and Matt skated out onto the ice, you couldn’t help but to stand and cheer, bouncing softly on the balls of your feet as you clapped. You knew that he couldn’t hear you, but when your boyfriend turned and made an ‘I love you’ sign towards the private box, your heart soared.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
“Damn.” You cursed quietly, watching the Vancouver Canucks score yet another goal.
The ref for this game was being less than fair, and as Matt lifted his helmet during the second intermission, you could see the agitation etched onto his face. He was making good plays and everyone knew it. You felt your heart drop as you watched him try to contain his anger over the Jumbotron, mumbling small ‘fuck’’s under his breath. Matt put his heart and soul into each and every hockey game, and to not get the outcome he wanted based off of some unfair ref calls sucked.
As the teams took the ice again, you noticed a change in your boyfriend’s demeanor. Matt always played aggressively, but it was more visible now. With each slide of the puck, he was getting madder and madder, skating around the rink furiously. You nibbled the sides of your light pink acrylic nails furiously, growing anxious yourself. Matt was, by definition, an absolute animal in hockey, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before he snapped. There was a reason his team nickname had been ‘The Burier’ since the eighth grade. It’s what he was known for.
Sure enough, not even five minutes later, the ref stopped the game as Matt snapped. He had met his limit for shit he would take from the officials and the other team. Calling boarding, the ref forced Matt into the penalty box. Though everyone else seemed to continue on with the game after the call, you watched the box with cautious eyes. The brunette looked absolutely furious as he tossed his helmet and sticks to the side. You wanted to feel awful, to go down there and fight with the ref despite your pink miniskirt and lack of overall sports knowledge, but as Matt’s darkened blue eyes looked up to where you were sitting, you couldn’t feel anything other than excitement at how he would most likely take you home and fuck you until you were crying.
The game ended quicker than you expected, with the Canucks winning by two goals. As you stood up and gathered your purse and coat, you felt your phone buzz. You knew who it was, seeing as how Matt had just skated into the locker room a few moments prior.
Matt: get your ass to the storage room near section 20. i’m not fucking waiting until we get home.
You felt your cheeks blush at the way just Matt’s tone in the message had your lacy, white thong already soaked. You popped a piece of strawberry gum into your mouth, knowing Matt absolutely devoured the taste on your tongue like a man starved and began to slide through the crowd to his requested meeting area. Luckily, the frenzy of people trying to exit the arena made it easy for you to go unnoticed. Though you weren’t famous of yourself, you were still extremely well-known and popular in the hockey community, leading people to ask you for photos and autographs, even if you weren’t with your lover.
The storage room by section 20 was mostly deserted, save for an exhausted janitor sweeping by the vending machines, and Matt. He had changed out of his team uniform and into baggy, gray sweatpants and a forest green hoodie, the hood pulled tight over his brown curls. Even in spite of his ‘disguise’, you would’ve recognized him anywhere.
“Hey baby,” You hummed, letting out a cute giggle as you leaned into Matt’s chest. “You got a temper today?” You asked innocently, blinking your large, false lashes up at him.
“The ref was a fucking dick.” Matt cursed, pulling you both into the storage closet and locking the door from the inside.
The light inside the closet was dim and flickering. That, combined with the small space because of the cleaning supplies, mops, and brooms, and the casual smell of mildew was less than romantic. Nevertheless, you could feel your panties soaking at the sight of the tent in Matt’s gray sweats. Knocking the brooms to the side, Matt pushed you against the wall, flicking your gum out of your mouth and beginning to passionately make out with you. His tongue fought yours for dominance, spit mixing with your lip gloss as it dribbled down your chin.
“Matt…” You whimpered, knees going weak from all of the good feelings you were experiencing.
“Already at a loss for words, baby doll?” he chuckled, smirking cruelly. “All you can think about is being a slut, huh?”
You whimpered and nodded, moving your hands up to push the hood off of Matt’s head and tangle your pink acrylic nails in his feathery hair. “Oh…” You breathed.
Matt practically pushed you to your knees, tossing your heels to the side and making you kneel. From this angle, he had a perfect view of your cleavage in your babydoll tee, the flowery print cups of your push-up bra peeking over the edge. Your boyfriend began to palm himself through his sweatpants, head thrown back in a moan as he looked at the little protests coming from your pouty lips.
“You gonna take my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?” Matt asked, tipping your chin up to look at him with his other hand. “Gonna show me who the real winner is today?”
You looked up at him with your head cock, almost like that of a pathetic, lost puppy, before nodding quickly. “Promise.” You smiled with a giggle.
Matt continued to jerk himself like there was no tomorrow, not caring that his moans were growing louder. “Need to get you ready first,” he mumbled, unhinging your jaw with his ring-clad hand. “Open.”
You did as Matt asked, watching as he gathered his own saliva and then spit in your mouth, holding your chin closed. You blushed, smiling up at his hard face. Just looking at you was making him grow more sexually frustrated, but he couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through his chest at how adorable you looked on your knees, obeying his demands and ready to suck him off until you gagged. Less than a minute later, Matt had yanked down his plaid boxers and pants, thrusting his dick towards your mouth.
You slowly took his tip into your mouth, licking circles onto his pretty, pink head that was already dripping with precum. The further you took him into your mouth, the more noises he began to make, fists tangling themselves in your hair as he yanked you closer to him by the hair, desperate for more pleasure. By the time his dick had hit the back of your throat, you were practically gagging as Matt bucked his hips towards your face, cock already twitching as his orgasm grew in his belly.
“You can take it…” he hissed, pulling on your hair again as you whimpered around his dick. “Yeah, right there. Jesus Christ, princess. Makin’ me feel so goddamn good.”
The way Matt was fucking your face was angry, like he had been since the ref started making those calls, but it was far from mean. He just had pent up, animalistic energy and it needed a release. Turned out that ‘release’ was you, kneeling and spread like a whore, drool and lipgloss puddling down your chin as you took his cock. You couldn’t make any noises other than small whimpers as grunts as you slid the flat of your tongue across the vein on his underside, but Matt could tell you were enjoying this blowjob as much as he was b y the way your nails were digging into the backs of his legs.
“‘M gonna cum,” Matt groaned. “Better swallow every last fuckin’ drop of it too.”
You nodded as Matt bucked his hips against your face one last time, orgasm overtaking him. You could feel his cock twitching in your mouth as hot, white ropes of cum shot towards the back of your throat. Your boyfriend pulled off your mouth with a pop, holding your lips closed. Once you had swallowed, you wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your pink cardigan, pouting up at him.
“You got yours. It’s my turn.” You grumbled cutely.
“You know, it really is true what they say about whores,” Matt snorted roughly. “You’re just a bimbo. Don’t even realize that mouthing off won’t get you what you want.”
You whined, your panties growing soaked once more. “Yes sir.”
“That’s what I thought,” Matt yanked you up roughly by the arm, pinning you against the wall. Before you knew it, Matt had pulled down your skirt, the fabric fluttering to a puddle around your ankles. He snapped the lacy elastic of your thong against your hip one time before ripping the material off, a sadistic gleam in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time, y’know…” he trailed off, toying with the material. “Never seemed like the right time, but now, what do I have to lose? You’ve already been face fucked like a slut in a storage room, I lost the game and didn’t have an outlet for my stress, but now? I’m gonna have some fun now.” Matt smiled.
The brunette pulled your lips open, shoving the white fabric of your panties into your mouth. Before Matt, you had never considered yourself a ‘kinky’ girl. Now though, you felt your lower stomach already clenching at the thought of how obscene what you were doing was. Your all-star hockey player was fucking you in the storage closet of his home arena and you were gagged with your own underwear. It was like something out of porn film, yet that only excited you more.
“Now I can fuck that little cunt senseless without you making a sound.” Matt smirked, yanking off his hoodie and the shirt under it.
You let out a small whimper around your gag as Matt slammed into you, your back pushed against the cinderblock wall as he railed you. The feeling of him bare inside of you was making your pussy clench with want. Your climax had been building in your lower stomach ever since your boyfriend had sent you that text, and now, it was threatening to send you over the edge as Matt fucked you relentlessly. You whined against your gag again, back arching off the wall. You wanted nothing more than to cry out as you raked your nails across Matt’s tattooed arms and back.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” the brunette husked in your ear. “Takin’ my dick like a little princess, huh?” Matt was bottomed out inside of you, hissing and grunting at the feeling of you clenching around him. “You gonna cum?” he asked, watching your face as the mascara and other makeup streamed down your cheeks from the tears of overstimulation.
You nodded, grasping at Matt’s hair, back, anything, desperate for relief as Matt fucked you like an animal. Your orgasm hit you like a truck, the white-hot feeling overtaking your body as you writhed under Matt, back arching off the wall. Your boyfriend groaned as your cunt clenched around his cock, sensual noises falling from his lips as he coated your insides white.
“Fuck, Y/N…you feel so fucking good.” Matt told you, pressing kisses to your neck as he softened inside of you.
He removed your gag, moving from your neck to kiss your lips softly, licking up the last drops of your mixed saliva, strawberry gum, and lip gloss. You looked up at him, beyond fucked out and makeup ruined and smiled.
“Guess you’re an animal on and off the ice, huh?” You blinked, all big Bambi eyes and ruined smiles.
“You could say that.” Matt chuckled, continuing to press soft kisses across your flushed skin.
In that moment, you didn’t care about the team’s loss, or Matt’s penalty. He was your winner and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
tags ♡: @jake-and-johnnies-slut @chrissfavwh3re @suyqa @chrissturnswife @mbsbaby @herxysc-blog @lovingchrissposts @caffeinatedscorpio @spencereidenthusiast @crazychrisl0v3r @sturnioloxlver @whicked-hazlatwhore @blahbel668 @sturncakez @junnniiieee07 @biggesthat3r @sturniolowhore @patscorner @julesgrl @0strawberrysorbet0 @strombolilovr @matt444nixi @remussbitch @devthepoet1221 @mattyblover07 @loisnotaa @mollyquinnxoxo @graysturns @pepsicolapussy333 @ginswife @emmagirouard @athaliahxoxo @bitchydragonparadise @ilydeaky @soggyslugg169 @m00n-0n-paws @books0fever @stingerayyy2 @sunsetsturniolos @mimi-luvzyu @raysmayhem-72 @faygo-frog @oobleoob @billsslutt @aemrsy
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