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cupid-styles · 1 month

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omg bestieeeee i so need hocker h nd ballerina to talk and smooch !!!!! ngl i’m a sucker for protective and jealous h 🤭🤭🤭🤭 🐱

I feel like ive made you guys wait way too long for this one gvkdfjgkf

a continuation of this blurb! (and sort of this one)

word count: 2.3k (we had a lot of ground to cover)

content warnings: minor mentions of smut, slight angst but all is fixed by the end, not ramadan friendly

main masterlist | hockey h masterlist

talk to me

. . .

Two weeks.

Two weeks of radio silence from Y/N.

Two weeks of over-thinking everything he did that night.

Two weeks of Harry drunk texting her on lonely nights.

please just tell me if you hate me

im so sorry

ill leave you alone if its what you want, I just need to know

Each and every time, Y/N read his messages, eyes scanning over the words, and locked her phone.

The truth is, she doesn't know what she wants from him, if anything. She doesn't know why she felt so attracted to him that night — she was tipsy, not drunk, and in complete control of her actions. She never hooked up with people in public — no messy makeouts, but she certainly never let anyone finger her in the hallway of a bar.

The entire thing was completely unlike her. Maybe that's what scared her the most.

Deep down, she wanted to reply to him, but she didn't even know what to say. She didn't want him to leave her alone — maybe that was selfish, but she liked knowing he was at least a little okay. She'd even been keeping secret tabs on the hockey team. They had won their past two games, but Harry had been thrown out in the most recent one for unsportsmanlike conduct. Apparently, he'd gotten into a fight with one of the players on the other team.

Admittedly, that worried her, but she didn't want to be his babysitter. On top of that, the spring showcase was this weekend, and she'd thrown every last bit of her energy into rehearsing and practicing to make sure her performance would be absolutely flawless.

She didn't have the time — or mental capacity — to worry about Harry right now.

. . .

"You look like an idiot."

Harry rolls his eyes as he adjusts the collar on his button down for the third time. James and his girlfriend Melanie had helped him with ironing it out so it looked presentable enough on his body. Anything he ever did rarely called for slacks and button up shirts, but Melanie advised him to look polished and put-together for tonight.

He wasn't in a place to reject her advice.

The other teammates that James lived with weren't quite as kind. Stephen, a sophomore defenseman who was only on the team for the perks of sleeping with every girl he could get his hands on, wouldn't stop throwing sarcastic comments Harry's way.

"Shut up, Stephen!" Melanie calls from the living room. She marches into James' bedroom as Harry smoothes out a few leftover wrinkles in his slacks, swallowing tightly. "When's the last time you cared about something besides fucking random girls? At least Harry has some direction in his life."

"I'm just saying, the girl's been ignoring him for weeks. She's gonna laugh in his face."

"Leave!" Melanie exclaims, batting him on the shoulder. Stephen lets out a yelp of pain and Harry smirks, despite the anxiety throbbing in his chest. "You're not helping! Get out!"

Reluctantly, Stephen rolls his eyes as he follows Melanie's orders and leaves the room. She sighs and comes up from behind Harry before flashing him a hopeful grin.

"You look great, H. I think this is a really sweet gesture."

He nibbles on his bottom lip as he turns to face her. "Okay, but what if Stephen's dumbass is right? She could call security on me and have me removed."

Melanie gives him a sympathetic look, "Yeah, it's a possibility. But isn't it better to go down fighting?"

He shrugs.

"You said ballet is her everything. It's her entire life. Show her that you're willing to integrate yourself into that."

"Yeah," he breathes out, nodding slowly. "Yeah, you're right."

"I know I am." she grins. "Okay, let's get you over there. Don't forget the flowers you picked up!"

. . .

30 minutes later, Harry can't stop shifting uncomfortably as he sits in an aisle seat in the campus auditorium at Y/N's spring showcase.

The massive bouquet of flowers in his lap keep making his nose run and he feels like he's being suffocated by the buttons on his shirt that go all the way up to his neck. Best of all, according to the show program, Y/N isn't scheduled to go on until the very end. She mentioned to him once that being placed as the finale act is the best and biggest compliment, and he can't fight the bit of pride that thrums in his heart.

For an hour, he sits there, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt and pinching his bottom lip between his fingers as he waits for Y/N to go on. He sits through mediocre singing showcases and even a violin solo that almost puts him to sleep, if not for the older man clearing his throat next to him. Melanie and James even text him during the intermission to see how it's going, but he doesn't have much to report back.

Finally, the show comes to a close and her name is announced, following by the title of the French piece of music she's dancing to. His heart throbs in his chest — he's so nervous for her, especially knowing she hurt her ankle just a few weeks back. But the second she graces the stage, she's a vision of beauty, strength, and delicacy all at the same time. It's enough to take Harry's breath away.

As he sits there watching her, he doesn't move a muscle. Not for a single jump, spin, or step. He doesn't know anything about ballet — not aside from what Y/N has told him — but in that moment, he realizes that he'd be willing to learn every little thing there is to know if it meant she let him back into her life.

She's gorgeous. She offers a flawless performance and the second she's finished, a look of relief washes over her face as she takes a subdued bow, her pretty eyes widening when she sees all the people — Harry included — standing and applauding her.

For Y/N, the hard part was over. For Harry, it had just begun.

. . .

Y/N is elated to have a moment of silence after her performance.

With the dressing room door shut behind her, she lets out a long, deep breath. The dance she'd been driving herself crazy over for months was finally over.

And yet, for some reason, she feels empty.

She shoves it down as sits, eager to get her pointe shoes off. She's ready to shed her costume and get into sweatpants and head home. She knows the rest of the performers are heading out to a party tonight, but she's exhausted.

She's sorting through the bag of clothes she brought when there's a soft knock at the door. She knows she only has around 20 minutes to get out before the janitorial staff starts cleaning, so she rises with a sigh, unlocking the door and opening it.

"I'll be done soon, I just need to change—"

It's not the janitor, though.

It's Harry. Standing there stiffly in a starchy button down with a huge bouquet of flowers that almost encompass the width of his broad shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" she blurts without thinking.

"I came to watch you perform," he replies gently. His throat bobs as he hands her the flowers. "These are for you."

"You didn't watch me." she snorts with a shake of her head. She hasn't accepted the bouquet yet.

"Yes, I did," he instantly fires back, "What, do you wanna see my ticket for proof? I was in seat F34, next to an old man who kind of smelled like soup, and he kept clearing his throat and it was really annoying but I didn't care because I came to see you, and I'd sit through hours of bullshit to watch you dance."

Harry can't read the blank expression of her face, but he takes it as a step in the right direction when she takes the flowers from him. She blinks as she glances past him and then steps aside, motioning for him to come in.

"I have to get my shit together and leave soon, so... just sit in here."

He nods. He's hesitant to allow himself to relax since he's not sure if he's in the clear yet. She closes the dressing room door behind her and places the bouquet on her vanity.

"I need to change," she says, spinning around to face him. "Close your eyes."

He chuckles until he sees the serious expression on her face. "Wait, really?"

"Yes, really."

"But... I— y'know—"

"Just turn the fuck around, Harry."

He does as he's told, shutting his eyes as he listens to her roll her tights down and step out of her leotard. One day, if she let him, he'd be more than happy to do that for her — not even in a sexual way, but he knows how tiring it can be to take off his own gear after a long game. He thinks it would be nice to be there for her.

"Okay, you're good," she murmurs. She's stuffing her things in her tote bag when he bats his eyes back open.

"Are you meeting up with anyone after this? I'm sure your friends came to see you, but I just wanted to maybe talk and... y'know, clear the air a bit." Harry says, wringing his hands nervously in his lap. Y/N furrows a brow as she analyzes his body language. She doesn't think she's actually seen him look anxious before.

"Um... no," she says with a shake of her head before quickly revising her answer, "No, I mean, I'm not meeting up with anyone and no one came to see me. Except you, I guess."

"Wait, really?"

She sighs as she pauses the process of gathering her things. "Really, Harry."

He swallows tightly. They're silent for a moment as she grabs her jacket and throws it over her shoulders.

"Come over and we'll talk. I borrowed my friend Matt's car for the night but— yeah, you can follow me to my place or whatever. And I can't promise I'll be awake for much longer but I think clearing the air could be... good."

A rush of relief makes its way through Harry's body.

"Okay. Yeah, let's do that."

. . .

"I never said it, but you were flawless tonight."

Y/N laughs breathily as she settles onto her couch, a cup of sleepy time tea in her hand. Harry rejected her offer for one (his response had been, "Y/N, do I look like someone who drinks tea with a sleeping bear on it?") but he'd be lying if he said it didn't at least smell good.

"I fucked up on one of my jetés — I'll get yelled at for it on Monday, but otherwise I'm decently content with the performance."

"Well, you couldn't tell," Harry replies, "Seriously. You were perfect."

Her cheeks warm and she stares down at her tea. Her legs are sprawled out in front of her while Harry sits on the other edge of the couch, giving her plenty of room to stretch out.

"So... clearing the air."

Harry clears his throat and nods, prepared to embark on the speech he'd been practicing in his head for weeks. But then, she speaks.

"I'm sorry for running out on you and ignoring you," she says, keeping her gaze down in her lap. "That wasn't... I'm not the best person. I'm bad at feelings and I use ballet as a crutch. I figure it's the one thing I'm really, exceptionally good at, and that should give me a pass in life but I know that's not true. I can't just go around treating people like shit because I'm... scared."

"What are you scared of?" Harry asks through furrowed brows. "I'm sorry if I stepped out of line that night, I should've been better—"

"You didn't. You were great. You did everything perfectly," she replies with a shake of her head. Her response surprises him, but he tries to hide the shock on his face. "I'm scared because you're you. You're a hotshot hockey player and, besides this showcase, you're the only other thing I've thought about these past few weeks. That's horrifying for me."

"Is this...?" Harry attempts to roll his lips into a thin line, preventing a smirk from bursting onto his face. "Is this a very Y/N way of telling me that you like me?"

She groans, as if it's the worst thing to ever happen to her, and it makes Harry laugh.

"Don't laugh at me!" she exclaims. That only makes Harry cackle even louder as he slowly crawls over to her, taking her warm cup of tea out of her hands and placing it on the coffee table.

"You're cute when you're exasperated." he murmurs. She pouts and his eyes crinkle with a grin as he peels her shaky hands away from her face.

"You're the one exasperating me."

"I know," he replies lowly, licking his lips as his face hovers over hers, "I like it."

"This isn't us agreeing to date, by the way." she quickly tacks on. He issues out a mhm as he leans forward, testing the waters, and pressing a light kiss to her nose. "We need to take it slow. Like, painfully slow. Or else I'll freak out and run away again."

"Whatever you want." he mumbles, kissing her right cheek. "I mean it."

"And you can't just overwhelm me whenever you feel like it."

He laughs and kisses her left cheek, then her forehead.

"Okay. Any other demands?"

He stops pasting kisses to her face then, instead choosing to simply loom his lips over hers. He can feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest and watches as she swallows nervously.

"No," she finally whispers. "Just kiss me."

And so he does.

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savagegood · 8 months

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welcome to the nhl bottom training camp. i mean biosteel training camp. i mean. i. i mean.

#the h in nhl stands for hole #I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS #THEY ARE OVERFLOWING #I AM JUST. THINKING SO MUCH.#love men dedicated to the pursuit of limbering up their bodies while eyeing other men limbering up THEIR bodies #i had to add the insta comment that took me OUT #hockey #connor mcdavid #leon draisaitl #connor bedard #edmonton oilers #nhl #sports

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batwynn · 5 months

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Fondly remembering that time in the early 2000s when my mother and I stumbled on a (illegal) Christian Movie website that edited out anything ‘not Christian’ out of all your faves by cutting out entire scenes and bleeping curse words, and that special moment when we saw ‘H*llboy’s’ runtime being under 20 minutes and absolutely lost it.

#hays code #doing god’s work #movies #Hellboy #Heckboy #H E double hockey sticks boy

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sincerelymarner · 4 months

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Tell me about the girl

my mother was,

before she traded in

all her girl

to be my mother.

What did she smell like?

How many friends did she have,

before she had no room?

Before I took up so much

space in her prayers,

who did she pray for?

speak to me of my mother, who was she - jasmine mans

credits: the athletic / texas history / unh / cbc / sportsnet / on the bus with cammi & aj / espn / texas history

#ellen weinberg hughes #jack hughes #quinn hughes #luke hughes #truly do not know how to tag this #I kinda hate this but I've spent too much time thinking about this and if I don't post it now it will never see the light of day #there's so much more I could add but I'm on my phone and can only add 10 photos :/#mere.png #hockey poetry #web weaving #*h

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ourravenboys · 11 months

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women’s hockey continues to be the gayest and most entertaining sport

#congrats to poulin and stacey 🤞#hockey #marie philip poulin #women’s hockey #gay #wlw #queer #h rambles #laura stacey #team canada #lesbian #sapphic #lgbt #lgbtq

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noprxmises · 2 months

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help what game is this from

#trevor zegras #jamie drysdale #3446 #611 #tzjd #anaheim ducks #nhl #hockey #drygras #duckduo #h’s thoughts

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simmyfrobby · 7 months

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― The Sorrow Festival, Erin Slaughter

insane thing to say mr kris letang

#WHY SAY THAT #W H Y #kris letang #pittsburgh penguins #hockey poems

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edmundspevensea · 4 months

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𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑

in which connor is left to pick up the pieces after losing y/n.

warnings; death (mentions suicide and mental health issues), connor having to grow up quickly, grief

based off of last words of a shooting star by mitski

all of this turbulence wasn't forecasted, apologies from the intercom

and i am relieved that i left my room tidy

they'll think of me fondly when they come for my things

Time does not stop for one person’s death. Nor does it stop for a million deaths. Time is a cold and cruel concept that remains hidden despite standing in the light. People forget that just because something breaks doesn’t mean that the rest of the world is affected by it.

Connor sat in the driver's seat of his 2008 Honda Civic, his eyes focusing on the neighborhood road in front of him. Christmas lights were shining brightly all around him, but the boy's heart and mind didn't reciprocate the brightness surrounding him. Instead, his soul was sad as he looked up from the road, his eyes meeting your childhood home. The same childhood home in which you and Connor first met.

A five year old Connor stood nervously at your doorstep, his light brown hair blowing mindlessly in the wind. His arms were loaded with a tray of cookies that his mom had made. Your family had recently moved to North Vancouver from what the Bedards presumed was the United States, seeing as an American flag was displayed above your garage. As your new next door neighbors, his mom took it upon herself to welcome you to the neighborhood, and there was no better way to do so than a five year old with cookies.

The door swung open and Connor was met with a woman, who he later learned was your mom, and you, his newfound best friend. From then on, you and Connor became inseparable.

The same childhood home in which you and Connor had late night conversations through cup phones.

Funnily enough, Connor soon learned that his bedroom was exactly across the way from yours. What began as small waves to each other when you both realized the other was in their room, quickly turned into both of you cracking your windows open to have full-fledged conversations with each other. As the years went by and you and Connor grew older, you decided that that wasn't enough, and brought it up with Connor that night before going to bed. The next morning, you woke up to a cup phone sitting on your bedroom desk, and a long piece of yarn attached to it. It didn't take long for you to discover that the cup lead to Connor's room. It did, however, take a little while to discover a note that Connor had left for you.

"you left your window open, so i figured there was no better time to do this. i spent all night finishing this - i even drew a dog on your cup because i know you like them so much! - connor".

The same childhood home in which you and Connor realized you loved each other.

Now teenagers, it was evident that there was something going on between you and Connor. However, it seemed as if everyone but the two of you were aware of it. Both his mom and dad and your mom and dad had sworn that the two of you were going to grow up and get married, and his sister always claimed that she would be the maid of honor, but both you and Connor swore that the two of you were only best friends, and that's all that you guys would ever be.

However, that all changed the morning of your 16th birthday. Connor had turned 16 a few months prior, and he spent the days leading up to it driving around town to acquire the decorations needed to decorate. The night before your 16th, you and Connor had planned a sleepover. Little did you know, however, that while you were fast asleep in one of Connor's Regina Pats t-shirts, he had spent another night wide awake for you, just to decorate his kitchen in order to surpise you.

When you woke up the next morning, Connor was nowhere to be found in his sleeping bag on the floor (the boy let you take his bed so you'd be more comfortable, and despite your protests, he insisted). Confused, you got out of bed, and were immediately hit with the soft sound of music and the crackling of bacon. You softly smiled to yourself as you made your way down the stairs, expecting to be met with Mrs. Bedard, but instead, you found Connor hunched over the stovetop, grilling the bacon.

His hair was disheveled and he was wearing his favorite Regina Pats hoodie, gray sweatpants adorning his legs. You stood there for a bit before making your presence known, snaking a hug around Connor's waist as you noticed all of the decorations around you, "Happy birthday, sunshine."

You let out a soft gasp as you took in the sight around you, your eyes admiring all of the work Connor had put in just for you. He smiled as your eyes twinkled in excitement, mentally celebrating to himself as he realized how much you loved everything, "Connor, you shouldn't have... this is amazing, thank you. I don't think anything can make this day better."

His smile grew even bigger, which he didn't know was even possible. As you went around the kitchen to admire the decorations up close, Connor went back to cooking the bacon. The random playlist he had on shuffled through a few songs, and soon landed on 'At Last' by Etta James. You grinned, heading over to Connor.

"Con, I think I have found something that can make this day better."

"And what is that?" "Dance with me."

Connor didn't protest. Instead, he turned around and placed one hand on your shoulder and the other on your waist, and the two of you began to slow dance around the kitchen to the soft voice of Etta James. Despite no words being exchanged between the two of you, both you and Connor could feel the love you had for each other. After all, love understands love - it needs no talk.

The same childhood home in which you eventually took your life.

Connor knew you were struggling. From the moment he had met you, he had the ability to read you like an open book. So when you became quieter shortly after your sweet sixteen, he became concerned. At first, you tried to blame it on stress from school and extracurriculars in an attempt to reassure him, but Connor could see right through you. He knew you were hurting, but what he didn't know was that you were never going to recover from this pain.

Although Connor wasn't home all the time, he would send you encouraging text messages every morning and would talk with you every night on the phone, for hours on end, though your cell phones couldn't compare to the cup phones that still hung between your guys' bedroom windows. He even asked his parents and Madi to keep a closer eye on you when he was gone.

He was in Regina when it happened. His parents had come to see him play against the Everett Silvertips, and were planning on staying for the weekend to catch up with him. His day was going great, and he didn’t think anything could have ruined it. That was until after the game, when he had tried to call you - multiple times - to check in on you and make sure you were doing okay. Each and every time he called, he was met with your voicemail. A pit of concern was growing in his stomach, but he tried to settle it by convincing himself that you had fallen asleep and we’re okay. When he had gotten back to his apartment after the game, however, the worry in his stomach only grew when he saw his parents sitting on his couch, both teary-eyed.

“Connor…” he made eye contact with his mom, who could barely hold herself together. Somehow, he had put the pieces together - it was about Y/N, and it wasn’t good - but he still felt the need to ask about her before jumping to conclusions.

“Y/N’s fine, right? She’s just sleeping, or driving, which is why she’s not answering any of my calls?” Connor asked warily, his voice shaky. His mom only cried harder at her son’s question and his dad sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. Connor hesitated for a moment before speaking again, his eyes glassy, his head shaking in disbelief, “She’s not… she’s not dead, right? She can’t be.”

“She’s gone, Connor,” his dad replied, his heart breaking at the state his son was already in, “Her mom called us a bit ago. She committed suicide.”

“No!” Connor shouted, his mouth curving into an upward smile of pure shock, “You’re lying to me! Y/N’s not dead, she can’t be!” he pulled out his phone again and began to dial her phone number, “If I call her right now she’ll answer me. She was just taking a nap!”

Immediately, Connor’s mom got up to hug him and at that moment, he knew she was gone. His best friend, his love, the one person who knew him more than anyone else in the entire world, was gone. He dropped his phone and let out a blood-curdling scream, falling to his knees as his mom tried to keep up with him. His dad joined his wife and son on the floor as the the three Bedards grieved together, knowing they would never again get to see sweet and beautiful Y/N Y/L/N.

Your funeral had been the hardest part for Connor. There wasn't much crying during the actual procession, except from him. As your dad, his dad, Kent Johnson, Tanner Hayes, your cousin and him were carrying your casket down the aisle of the church, tears rolled down the young boy's lightly-freckled cheeks like a flowing waterfall.

During your actual burial, however, things were the exact opposite, Connor felt numb, and couldn't process that you were actually gone. However, the others realized that they would never, ever hear your voice again. They would never again get to see your smile, or hear your contagious laugh. Madi and Mrs. Bedard shook in each other's arms, trying their best to comfort one another. Your mom trembled as your dad rubbed her back softly. A group of your cousins all huddled together in a heartbreaking group hug. Connor’s dad really tried his best to hold it together for everybody else, but when he saw the casket being lowered into the ground, he broke. You had been like a daughter to him. He pretty much knew that his son was going to grow up to marry you. Mr. Bedard collapsed to the ground on his knees, his heart breaking more and more each second. But then there was Connor - absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. He couldn't feel anything.

Here Connor was, sitting in his car a year later. The Blackhawks had given him a break to be with family during this time, specifically after Nick Foligno had seen how broken the kid was over the situation. He could see your mom and dad having dinner through the window, but he knew it wasn’t the same. They had left an empty chair, plate and silverware out on the table for every meal after you had left.

The cup phones were still hanging between his bedroom and yours. Connor didn’t have the heart to take them down - if they remained up, the two of you would still be connected in some way, and although that way wasn’t ideal, it was better than nothing.

The American flag was still up, but by now was joined by a Canadian one as well. Things were different now, but not for the better.

Connor reached over to his passenger seat, in which sat a gift-wrapped box. Your parents had given it to him on Christmas Day last year, explaining that it was the gift that you were going to give him that day. He thanked them kindly, but didn’t have the heart to open it. He needed some more time before he could face the memories of you again.

He was finally ready. Connor wiped off some dust particles from the year old wrapping paper before carefully moving to untie the bow of ribbon on top of the present - it was your signature move. When he managed to unwrap the wrapping paper and open the box, tears came to his eyes immediately.

A handmade blanket was revealed to him. In the very center, the fabric of his old Regina Pats t-shirt - the one you were wearing when you guys realized you loved each other - was revealed, and ‘Bedard - 98’ was written across. Another square of fabric was a piece of your baby blanket, on which your warm scent still lingered. Connor gripped the blanket close as if he was physically holding you in his arms, as if you were physically here with him.

For the first time in a year, Connor allowed himself to grieve. He missed you so much, and desperately wished you were back in his arms, but finally realized that the world goes on. Once again, time does not stop for one person’s death. Nor does it stop for a million deaths. Time is a cold and cruel concept that remains hidden despite standing in the light. People forget that just because something breaks doesn’t mean that the rest of the world is affected by it.

For awhile, Connor thought he could’ve saved her. He thought his love for her was enough to show her the beauty and goodness of the world which can so often be cruel. Connor loved Y/N in many ways, and the fact is that the blue-eyed boy could've loved her in an infinite number of ways, but really, he could've never loved her in a way that was enough to make her stay.

That’s just something Connor Bedard would have to live with for the rest of his life.

an; merry christmas and happy holidays i guess???

#nhl #connor bedard #connor bedard x reader #chicago blackhawks #kent johnson #nhl hockey #nhl x reader #nhl imagines #connor bedard imagine #connor bedard imagines #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagines #chicago blackhawks imagines #don’t be fooled i hate the h*wks but love connor #merry christmas i guess

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cosettepontmercys · 1 month

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RYKER "GARTH" EVANS FIRST NHL GOAL | Seattle Kraken vs. Arizona Coyotes (March 22, 2024)

#krakenedit #hockeyedit #seattle kraken #kraken #userhayd #post: mine #mine: edit #post: hockey #h: ryker evans #h: kraken #ryker evans #rykerevansedit #krakenlb #nhledit #GUYS IM CRYING IM SO HAPPY IM SO HAPPY I LOVE HIM IM SO HAPPY FOR HIM #post: music #m: taylor swift

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bloodycowboyclub · 5 months

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#hangman adam page #adam page #aew #aewedit #tw deathmatch #aew full gear #tw blood #tw broken glass #tw glass #hangman page #*#gifs #i will be going to H E double hockey sticks for these

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lonesomedotmp3 · 6 days

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H.E Double Hockey Sticks (1999)

Alright, I can't win a Stanley Cup all by myself! But I'm not going to sign over my soul, either.

Well then let me ask you a question: who are you saving it for?

#bear in mind the video was 480p...#h.e. double hockey sticks #h e double hockey sticks #disneyedit #will friedle #matthew lawrence #my gifs #also. I'm not proud of this tag u guys should look away.#jeric

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cupid-styles · 2 months

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A little idea of a scene for hockeyxballerina: even before they start having a thing they end up in a heated kiss with him pressing her against a wall, car, bookshelf of whatever whi his hamd on her throat and her brain his so foggy she lets him spit on her mouth but the she comes to hers senses and runs away without a word, not even an insult because she is so shocked with what she did

🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

word count: 1.6k

content warnings: smut (hehe finally!!!) (spitting, public play, dirty talk, degradation)

hockey!h x ballerina!yn masterlist

main masterlist

. . .

There must be something clinically wrong with Y/N tonight.

Well, maybe not just tonight. Maybe... maybe, that "something wrong" has been creeping up her body and spreading from her stomach out to her chest and center over the duration of a past few weeks. Maybe she expected it go away after a day or two, because why wouldn't it?

Harry Styles is his worst nightmare. Her moral enemy. Her fiercest competitor.

So why the fuck does she think he looks good enough to swallow whole tonight?

He walked in with a crowd of his hockey buddies an hour or so after Y/N, Lea, Rena, and Mai had arrived. Per the pre-game hosted at Mai and Rena's place, she was already feeling a little buzzed when she got here. She was planning on taking it easy tonight — she was still diligently practicing for the spring showcase every day — but the second her eyes flitted over to the stupid backwards hat he wore and the flex of his jaw from the gum he chewed, she knew she needed more to get through the night.

And she's pleasantly tipsy when she makes a move to head to the bathroom. She hears her friends scold her for "breaking the seal," but she rolls her eyes and playfully flips them off in response. Her sneakers stick to the vodka-coated floors of the college bar as she pushes her way through the crowd, trying to make her way to the ladies' room without any tequila spillage on her top.

Harry Styles is an idiot, she thinks to herself as she walks, There's no way I could have a crush on him. What, just because he drove me home a few times and helped me when I hurt my ankle? That's stupid, he's stupid, and—

"Hey, you."

Her eyes dart up at the familiar deep voice and she wishes the ground would open up and take her right then and there. Did she somehow conjure Harry up with her thoughts? She's a little drunk, but there's no way she's that powerful.

Unless she is.

"I have to pee." she replies, pointing to the bathrooms behind his tall stature.

"Okay. Go pee, then."

She flashes a tight smile his way as she brushes past him. She thinks from the corner of her eye she sees him stand against the wall of the small hallway, crossing her arms over his chest. The last time they were in this area together, it was right after she slept with Malcolm (the stupid, prissy idiot from the opposing team who wouldn't even smack her ass). At this point, it's been months since Harry lowly waxed poetic in her ear about how he could make all her degrading dreams come true.

The memory makes her shudder as she washes her hands.

Y/N's suspicious are proved right when she exits the bathroom to see Harry still standing there. She's prepared to ignore him and walk straight past him until he reaches out to grasp her wrist, gently pulling her back. She yelps, a tipsy, unattractive sound, and it makes Harry's eyes crease with laughter.

"You good?" he asks. Y/N's vision darts down to the gum he's chewing between his teeth and she swallows.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

Harry shrugs. "Just making sure you're not too drunk."

"I have a dress rehearsal this weekend," she replies with a shake of her head. "I just came out to see the girls."

"And me." He points out cheekily, making her roll her eyes.

"I didn't even know you'd be here tonight, Harry."

"It's one of three bars in town and all the athletes come here."

He's right about that, and she knows he could double down by pointing out the obvious, too — that this is the only bar their friend groups ever frequent, and the hockey team rarely misses a Friday night out.

Luckily, he spares her the embarrassment.

"We have a game tomorrow night," he continues, "Will you come?"

"Why would I do that?"

"School spirit. Duh."

Y/N scoffs at that and shakes her head. She focuses her eyesight on anything but the cocky, beautiful, stupid man in front of her.

"I'm practicing all day. I'll be in an ice bath before your game even starts."

"Hot," he smirks. Y/N's stomach flutters.

"Stop being a douche. I thought we were past this."

"We are!" Harry exclaims, lifting his hands up in surrender. She only now realizes that he'd had his fingers looped around her wrist that entire time. "I'm just saying, you're hot."

"You must be more fucked up than I thought," Y/N guffaws.

"If I was fucked up, I'd be trying to sleep with you right now."

The words fly from her lips before she can even stop them: "And that's not what you're doing?"

She doesn't know if she says it because she wants to call him out on his bluff or she's feeling the confidence — and lust — from her the drinks she consumed tonight. But she doesn't take it back. And she certainly doesn't walk away as she watches Harry's head cock slightly to the side. His expression almost seems as if he's... impressed, in some way. The smirk on his lips makes her ball her fists at her side.

"You would know if I was trying to fuck you, Y/N."

She swallows. It's warm — she's suddenly so warm right now as she realizes their chests are nearly pressed against one another. The height difference between them makes it so her breasts are below his pecs, but she still feels the expanse of muscles through the layers of their clothing.

"I doubt that," she mutters, and he clenches his jaw. It's almost hypnotizing to watch. "I really think—"

"I think you should shut up now."

In a moment, his hand is spread over her hip and they've swapped places; her back now pressed firmly up against the wall. His tall form all but blocks any onlookers from seeing who he has cornered, but he couldn't forget it even if he wanted to. Not when he's been dreaming of this for weeks.

And really, he wouldn't do it if he didn't have some sort of prior knowledge about her hookup with Malcolm — the fact that she's somehow just depraved as him.

So he wedges his gum to the back of his molars, utters out the words, "open your mouth", and gathers up the spit behind his lips. His length immediately thickens in his pants when she sticks her tongue out. And then he spits in her mouth.

She whimpers instantly at the feeling but it's drowned out by his own groan. It's filthy and demeaning, but he can see it in her eyes how much she loves it.

"Looks so good," he mumbles, thumbing at a bit at the side of her mouth before pushing it in. "Swallow."

She does.

"You're well-behaved for a brat," he notes as he gives her hip a squeeze. She hums, eyes flickering when his hand lifts her shirt up slightly, fingertips trailing over the smooth skin of her stomach. "Did you want a prize, puppy?"

With hazy eyes, she nods.

He smirks, almost immediately stuffing his hand down her jeans. She gasps when he finds the sodden fabric of her underwear, eliciting a low chuckle from his chest.

"All this just for some spit? Maybe you're nastier than I thought."

She wishes she could reply back with something snarky but she can’t, not when he begins to roll her clit beneath his fingertips. Her eyes flutter shut as he applies a bit more pressure, pausing momentarily to collect some of the wetness accumulating at her whimpering hole.

“Finally let me play with this pretty pussy, hm?” he says mockingly, “Maybe one day you’ll let me stretch it out, too. Might take awhile for it to fit, though— I know you’ve never been with someone as big as me.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles breathily. He laughs and squeezes her clit between two of his fingers. She gasps, barely offering enough recovery time before he’s back to rubbing circles.

“What, you really think you could take my cock, sweetheart? You can barely take one of my fingers. Gonna have to train you for months, but I think you’d like that.”

“Harry—“

“I know,” he coos condescendingly as he speeds up the movements of his fingers. “You’re such a stubborn brat you’d just want me to stuff you full on the first try. Feel me in your fuckin’ stomach.”

“‘m gonna cum,” she mewls, reaching out to dig her fingernails into his chest. He hisses from the small bite of pain. “Don’t stop, please, I’m gonna cum—“

Harry wouldn’t stop touching her even if he wanted to. Especially not as he watches her fall apart beneath his grasp, her knees almost buckling from the intensity of her orgasm. He feels her pussy clenching rapidly and he swallows harshly, the sight nearly being enough to make him come in his pants.

She’s quiet and shaky as her orgasm tapers off and Harry gently pulls his hand from her pants. He helps adjust her jeans back up and over her hips, her eyes flickering up to his face.

“Oh my god,” she mutters, her eyes widening as if she’s just realized what she’s done. “Oh my god, what the fuck?”

“What?” Harry asks through furrowed brows. He’s expecting some sort of nervous response about accidentally abandoning her friends, but instead she shakes her head and lightly pushes him away.

“I can’t. This was— this was bad, so fucking stupid.” She mumbles to herself, keeping her arms stretched out in front of her so he can’t get closer. “Fuck, Harry.”

He’s left confused and nervous as she watches her leave the bar.

#bestie asks #writing #hockey h

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