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content warning. fingering, squirting, munch o'clock, athlete!reader, two bitches that are obsessed with each other, cocky!vi, public sex, jealousy if you squint.
being nemeses with hockeyplayer!vi who couldn’t breathe right when she’s in your vicinity without steam puffing out through your ears. everything about her from the way she walks or when she cockily smiles when the precious puck vi believes she’s invented soars through the net. being captain of the undefeated team is all that anyone would talk about on campus — if it weren’t for you.
you on the other hand are known for being the star tennis player, a promising prodigy who turned down the big leagues to seek an education first before showcasing at your first wimbledon. violet can’t stand when she won the biggest match of her life, news of your first tournament appearance in professional tennis made headlines.
desperately vi tries to be ominous, observing from afar, her heart-shaped jaw clenching as she watches you beat the girl in front of you to the ground. with a serve that qualifies as a guaranteed ace and a backhand that has stephanie vazquez running on every end of the court — all of it is so trivial.
meaningless even, but your father who pleads that the matches matter have somehow coaxed you into it.
it’s simple the way you tear your opponents apart, overwhelming them with shots you’ve spent years perfecting. the women on campus didn’t stand a fucking chance and they knew it too.
from the first game, their fate sealed. as finite as the stars sparkling across the midnight sky.
a blissful heart and a cracked dignity is a win for your ego. ultimately, violet hates herself for understanding why there’s so many people who fawn over you. a white dove arising in the spring, the flowers blossoming with each stroke you hit.
the match point? a single ace that sends stephanie to crack her expensive racket on the clay. it’s infuriating to play you, that much you’ve been told, but you need to be this precise if you have a chance on the biggest stage in just a few weeks.
“mija, take ten and then we’ll send the next one.”
your father calls from the stands as you swiftly grab your water bottle before realizing it’s empty, excusing yourself to the locker room and past vi but you know she’ll chase you.
as you suspect, no more than thirty seconds and she’s invading your space like a moth who's been starved of a flame for months. violet can deny it all she wants but the spark she tries to hide behind the cool-oceanic blues reak of warmth when her attention sets on you.
“did you have to humiliate her like that? for what? so you could prove who—”
“i can’t be bothered to go easy on everyone you fuck, violet. might be the whole roster at this point.” once your canister is filled, you take a large swing of water as she stands there dumbfounded.
making sure to flex her bicep, she leans against the water filtration with her puppy eyes attempting to convince you violet is as harmless as she looks.
a bold-faced lie the devil himself couldn’t design as truth.
“do i need to remind you of last season? throwing your body into my ex-girlfriend so hard during the finals last year. her shoulder was fucking dislocated and her collarbone was fractured.”
“that’s not what—”
“uh huh, sure, violet.” you taunt as she dismisses you, shaking her head as you take a step closer.
violet wishes to dismiss you, act like you have no effect on her. then you’re here with your pearly-white pleated skirt and your thin long sleeve jacket that clings to your skin. even with the sweat lining your temple, you still smell of honey-soaked lemon. a hint of lavender radiating off your skin, vi nearly sinks her canines on the side of your neck just to see if she’s able to taste it.
would you be willing to bleed for satisfaction alone?
taste you through a yearning tongue that begs to touch an inch of the transgressions of her sins. iron-coated promise meant to be broken.
but then she’s reminded of just how cruel you can be. you’ll walk over anyone’s dead corpse if it means you’ll get your way.
“you get off on it, making people feel less than you, decimating them on the court until they have nothing left to give.”
“maybe but why are you still here instead of chasing your little girlfriend? she’s really upset but it seems the only one who wants to get off is you.”
“god, would just—” vi pulls at her hair, peeved at how painless it seems to be for you to bury each opponent six feet underground.
"would i just what, violet?"
self-restraint falls through fate, vi's hardened shell practically caves in on itself as her lips melt into yours, her scorching need lights brighter than ever when she feels your smooth lips glide against hers.
soft hints of cranberry and dark chocolate invades her mouth as her calloused fingertips crawl underneath your skirt to the compression shorts connected beneath. with a finger sliding along your slit, violet's delights in watching your back arch against the wall as you stabilize your body clinging onto her strong sculpted shoulders.
"be a good girl for me and take it." violet divulges, letting her skilled mouth prep you as your hips ride against her fuckable face. goddamn it, she’s too good.
you hate her for it.
a sprinkle of love lavishes against the thin spandex as you watch the entry of the locker room. this should be a sin, how heavenly you smell, limerence coating her mind any time you’re near. never could she be anything but her sugar-coated infatuation.
an impenetrable grind of someone soaking in more media attention than vi has never set well with her pride but up until now, violet couldn’t have known the rumbling ache pulling her towards you. hell be damned if anyone would get in her way.
the tips of vi’s fingers glide against your thigh, as she enjoys the tremble your body makes, a magnetic force where vi’s body pulls at your body so easily.
“so pent up, babygirl. who knew the only way to silence you is to get on my knees. are you always this needy or is this reserved for me?”
"fucking hell, would you just take off my skirt already?" you whine out in defiance and vi gets the message — crystal clear.
violet does more than take it off, she rips the thick material in half, eyes grinning as she has the pleasure of knowing how beautiful you are. even if after the two of you walk through those doors, you never acknowledge her again, you’ll never be able to take this away from her.
in a fall from grace, violet worships her enemy, falling further into temptation. a hopeful message of deliverance place maliciously between your thighs.
with a shimmering touch, she guides your leg over her powerfully built shoulder, moaning as your stomach clenches against the tidal wave of her tongue. soft, gentle even, more accommodating than any of your past lovers had ever been with you.
as much as you want to tell her to touch you differently, flatten her tongue more, or to critique her in any way that could knock her down a peg, you can’t. despite your best efforts, she does everything flawlessly and you hate her more for it. glowing, powder-blue eyes flickering up at you, watching as you fall apart. each limb becoming numb under touch.
“yeah, not just a pretty face, angel.”
“you’re so full of yourself. how do they never get tired of your weasley, impetulant, condescending—”
“oh, i’m sorry? were you gonna say something or did you still wanna get fucked by my fingers?” vi slips another inside as her tongue gets lost in your pussy once again.
all of it makes you wanna scream but you feel your voice carrying through the locker room. the rare vacancy surrounds you, moans leaving your lips echo back as she slurps every drop spilling out of you. with a vicious tongue, she won’t stop fucking your pretty little hole with her skilled muscle, thumb stroking your clit with divine purpose.
“shitttt, oh fuck me, god i— i hate you, violet.” but it’s only because you feel the band slipping, the tightly wound knot read to snap if she doesn’t stop. violet doesn’t, in fact she slips another finger in your sickening, wet warmth as she curls her fingers just perfectly.
hitting right where she needs to with a skilled flick of her wrist.
“do that again— shit, just like, oh right there.”
“c’mon prodigy, be a good girl and come for me, come all over my face and show me.”
jesus, do you serve your worst.
it felt like too much, too quickly, before you could even stop it there’s a squelching sound filling the room as you coat her scarred lip, her nose, those freckled cheeks in every ounce of cum.
chants of her name roll off your tongue before you can stop them as she sucks over your sensitive nub, coaxing you through your high, waiting until you come down before she removes her fingers from your pussy.
vi swears she hears your cunt whine her name the second she removed herself but maybe that was just you.
“suck, babygirl.”
giving into her command, you take the push of her fingers as they kiss the back of your throat, relaxing your jaw as your tongue swirls around the digits until they’re completely clean.
sliding your leg off her shoulder as the loss of her support nearly causes you to stumble.
“where do you have a spare? i know you have one, somewhere.” violet smirks, her tone anything but forgiving as she feels triumphant when it comes to you and your impending will.
“that— over um, there, the first locker. number one.”
you watch her as she puts in the combination you provide before she grabs one identical to your damaged one. lifting your leg to place you through the opening before you assist her by doing the other one yourself, sliding the material up your leg.
you thought she was being kind but you feel the mess between your thugs push up against the thin spandex, and she does the pleasure of pushing against the material again, making contact with your pussy that simply can’t stop fluttering for more.
“when you go out there, i want you to think about me. how good my fingers feels fucking you into oblivion. the way my tongue fucks that pretty hole of yours. every way you chanted my name, those hips unable to stop riding my goddamn face—” she leans down, lips pressed against your ear before she whispers, “remember that no one on this planet will ever fuck you the way i can.”
a kiss to your cheek sears you as you're too stunned to speak, tragically slumped against the wall but quickly being led out as she guides you back through the front doors, onto the court. she wishes you luck, turning her back as she heads towards the exit.
“oh, this is just the fucking beginning.”
violet smirks but holds up three fingers as she blows a kiss to you.
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ilya and hayden frequently get into twitter feuds, it doesn't even raise any eyebrows anymore. some people even suspect it's their person way of expressing affection for each other (it's not)
hayden is fielding interview questions post montreal victory and gets asked some questions about ilya's chemistry on the ice with shane compared to his own. hayden's answer ends up joking about how his chemistry with shane was unbeatable because of how well they knew each other and quips that, if you count the roadies, hayden has technically lived with shane longer than ilya has
ilya obviously cannot let this slide (especially considering that it pokes at a sore spot he tries to keep hidden about the early years of their relationship). he gets tagged in endless twitter posts about the interview and ends up responding with "oh? and which one of us literally knows the gorgeous shane hollander both inside and out? you could only dream of what i know."
this does actually make the internet break for a while, especially after a semi-popular hockey blog that always leaned towards the conservative side retweeted the clap back with "ngl ilya cooked with this one". the hashtags #LetHimCook and #IlyaCooked and #HaydenGetsCooked trend for days
ottawa wins a game a few days later and shane is on press duty. none of the reporters are sure of how much shane is aware of what's going on on twitter, especially considering his sparse social media presence. a reporter finally gets up the courage to ask shane how he feels about ilya cooking earlier in the week, and shane responds with a flat "ilya has never cooked a day in his life". cue the internet losing its hit again. #DontLetHimCook and #ShaneCooked and #IlyaGetsRoasted trend for days
half the internet is convinced that shane has the best dry humor they've ever seen, the other half is convinced that shane is the most clueless man in the nhl. ilya will flop back and forth on acting like the betrayed husband who is so hurt by shane's cruel jokes, and insisting that he can't cook for shane even if he wanted to because shane is too picky and actually he's still the victim here because his husband is so mean about his cooking! everyone is charmed by ilya's dramatics and drop the issue when they realize ilya is never going to give them a straight answer or not. ilya is just a silly little guy like that
no one realizes that ilya is also unable to tell if shane was messing with the reporter or not. ilya wasn't in the press room when the interview was going on, he wasn't able to get a good read on shane's reaction to the question. watching it over video isn't the same at all! eventually, ilya breaks and just asks shane directly if he was deliberately roasting ilya or if had responded in the literal sense. shane responded with "oh, i thought you knew me inside and out? maybe ask hayden what he thinks, since the two of you love to talk about me on twitter so much". much to shane's (and harris's) satisfaction, ilya deliberately avoids interacting with hayden for months after that
porn. breeding kink. fem reader. john walker is horny.
requests are open as always.
he doesn't have any siblings, no nieces and nephews to fawn over. hell, he wasn't sure if he had even held a baby before. and don't get him wrong, he's terrified of the thought of being a dad.
his old man, a decorated war veteran himself, was never the model image of being a dad. he never hit john, maybe a light smack to the back of his head when john did something stupid, like cried when he got yelled at when he was learning how to ride a bike. he raised his voice, yeah, but people always act before they think when they are upset.
but that didn't stop his desire to be different, to be better. it wasn't his dad that made him want to be a parent, it was his mom.
soft and beautiful, always humming something unintelligible while she cooked in the kitchen. it was the feeling of safety he'd get when he stood by her side. small fists that clutched against her skirts. the memory of how her hair smelled, how he'd watch her put her makeup on in awe. it was safety, it was comfort. gentle touches and coos of love that brought him to a sense of peace even into his adulthood.
that was the parent he wanted to be. he wanted to be a sense of comfort for his child. he wanted his child to have comfort from both of his parents.
so when he fucks you, it's with a purpose.
he gets hard at just the thought of you being pregnant. a glow, hair softer to the touch, a small hand that would surely rest against your bump that he had caused. it was a sign that he had done something good, that he had put a baby inside of you.
it was a sign that you were his. him and you, forever embedded in your veins and a pair of eyes that he could picture matching your own.
he knows it's not normal. how badly he wants to get you pregnant. he doesn't bring it up very often. not until you bring it up, he always waits until you bring something up.
every kink. every toy. every new position. john waits like a dog waiting for a command, the cue that he's allowed to go. he's always been like that with you, because he can't risk making you uncomfortable with what goes on in his head. he'd rather sit with his thoughts and never indulge in what turns him on than see a scrunch across your face.
someone had shoved a chubby baby in his face one day during a press event. it reminded him of people giving babies to the pope to bless them, but john has no real connection with god, and there are still parts of him that believe he shouldn't hold a baby in case he fucks it up.
but he can sense a shift beside him, you, always beside him. the loving father ushers you to join the photo, and you do. you stand near him and smile brightly, the baby babbling in his arms as he props it up.
he thought nothing of it in the moment. maybe a flash of 'what if that was our baby' appeared in his head, but he doesn't say anything or think anything afterwards. going through the motions of meeting fans.
back in the tower, you speak first, your phone in his face. "look! i found the photo of the baby!" you smile so brightly that he almost doesn't focus on the screen in front of him. but when he does, jesus christ, it does something to him.
your face beaming with pride and happiness like it's your baby. the baby even had your hair color, which was doing nothing to help the thoughts that kept appearing in his mind.
"you ever thought about being a dad?" every single day for as long as he could remember.
"once or twice, guess i’m getting to that age,” he stares at you like you’re the center of his universe, because you are. life and joy back into is world and heart, you at the center of it all. “you ever thought about being a mom?”
annoyingly, a repeated mantra of please say yes, please say yes, please say yes repeats through his head. you shrug your shoulders, like it’s nothing, slowly climbing onto the bed that has become yours instead of his with the amount of nights you two of spent together there. “of course,” you nod, moving to lay on your stomach, propped up on your elbows as you look at him. “i always thought we’d have really cute babies.”
he feels his cock twitch. just those words alone were already stirring something inside of him. he chuckles, hand coming out to briefly run through your hair. “you think so? think we’d have a cute baby?” he does, he thinks your baby would be the cutest thing to ever grace the earth and probably any of the other planets since aliens did exist, for some reason.
“never said anything before, didn’t want to come off as a crazy girlfriend,” you hummed, his heart aching in his chest. not because he felt bad, it just ached with need. "but having a baby with you would be nice.”
the green light had gone off, a command, an answered prayer.
the digits of his fingertips trace down to the plush of your cheeks, then down to your lips. the lips that he has kissed so much, he has begun to believe that it would forever be seared within his memory. it felt silly sometimes, the love he had for you that could only be seen in a disney film (a soft, guilty pleasure of john, mostly inspired by his mother). “you want a baby?” he sounded hopeful, a deep desire that he never believed could come true.
it should have stayed a fantasy.
you nod your head, jaw slacking as his thumb brushes against your mouth. his heart swelled, but he felt the sweats he had adorned for comfort after the long day begin to do nothing to hide his growing desire. “let me give you a baby. a baby for my baby.”
and he was on you. he had flipped you onto your back so swiftly that all you could do was smile and giggle, head hitting the pillow as he was on top of you. it hadn’t hit you yet how serious he was. he’d fuck you as many times as it took to get you pregnant, even then, he’d fuck you more times just to be sure that there was no way you weren’t full of him.
you tried to speak, but he was kissing you. john always kissed you with so much love, but tonight, he was hungry. you felt it instantly, the raw hunger in his kiss. it was sloppier than normal, almost like he was a teenager having his seven minutes in heaven session. his hand had moved to the back of your neck to hold you in place. the noises that left him were deep and breathy at the same time.
you had never seen him get so worked up just from a short conversation like this.
you moaned against his lips, grateful that his shirt had already been discarded in his haste to get into bed with you. he was between your legs, large hands underneath your shirt that did once belong to him, but had come into your rotation of looks better on you than it does on me clothes from john.
“shit. you like that?” you breathed when he had pulled back to nip at your jaw and kiss down your neck. your words were a broken record in his mind: having a baby with you would be nice. “you’re hard just from — oh my god.” his hand had slid down your sleep shorts, a soft gasp leaving you.
he wasn’t wasting any time. two fingers are already curling inside of you at just the right angle. like he had planned how he was going to prep you just fast enough for him to be deep inside of you. your hips are already bucking into his fingers, his breath warm against your neck as he lets out a ragged groan.
“i think you like that too.” disregarding the rapid beating of his heart, he still finds the nerve to smirk. because he knows he’s right. he’s getting you pregnant, if it’s not tonight, he’ll just have to try again tomorrow.
it’s pornographic, the sounds you’re already making. a whine and a gasp and a wetness from just that thought. you want it. the man who protects you with unbridled loyalty should be able to do the same with a child of his own. you knew you would be the one to give him that baby, shit, maybe a part of you always knew.
he slides his fingers out, your lips parting to complain at the loss, but the words die in your throat as you watch him instantly lick his fingers clean, his eyes only growing darker with desire. “can’t imagine how good you’re gonna taste when you’re pregnant.” do women taste different when pregnant? he didn’t know, but he was sure as hell going to find out.
your clothes were gone soon enough. john needed to feel your skin against his, needed to feel the swell of your breast against his chest as he held you against him while he fucked into you. as much as he liked a quickie, this was not going to be quick. tonight would be a reverent act of worship, a man giving an offering to an altar.
he didn’t have much of a connection to god, but he asks humbly and gratefully: let me be a father.
“you have no idea how bad i want to see you pregnant.” word vomit, not john’s typical symptom when he rambles, but it tends to come out when you’ve unlocked a new kink inside of him. he has been holding it back for so long that he can’t help but yearn to let it out. to tell you everything that he’s been pondering and picturing each time you come into his field of vision.
“you’re gonna be the prettiest mommy, fuck.” you don’t need to see his cock to know that he’s leaking and hard. but you see it anyways, the way he pumps himself unconsciously as he lines himself up with you. “every time i fuck you, i think about it. you’re —” a noise so choked and hot leaves him. it sounds like a whimper, but it’s muffled against the skin of your neck.
his face won’t be there for long; he needs to look at you.
“you’re gonna be perfect. my perfect girl, carrying my perfect kid.” each time he enters you without giving you much time to adjust, it always makes you feel like the air has been sucked out of you. you feel him everywhere. but you clench around him, a moan in his ear instantly, which only makes him shiver.
he fits inside of you like you were made just for him. maybe you were. just like how he knew you were made to carry his babies. you weren’t even pregnant, and john was already picturing how many times he could get you pregnant. he was sure that the rest of the team wouldn’t go a day without seeing you with a bump of some kind, because now that he knew you wanted a baby, he’d give you as many as you wanted.
reasonably, there was always a limit, but john never knew limits. unless they were yours.
he had always convinced you that fucking you raw was better for the both of you. his original excuse had been because it was easier that way — quicker, doesn’t take time to put a condom on, he’d argue, i like feeling close to you, he’d say. which he did. he meant all of those things. if he had been candid, it was because he didn’t mind the risk of getting you full of his kids. he liked the image of seeing him drip out of you when he was done. in the past, he’d have to physically hold himself back from shoving his fingers in you and keeping himself in there.
he wouldn’t have to do that tonight.
“tell me you wanna be a mom.” you had already said it, but he needs to hear it again. “lemme hear it.” he groaned, his head picking up from your neck as he moved, an arm around your back to bring you flush against his body.
he acts like you can even form a coherent sentence right now. but you try anyway, try like the good girl for him that you are. “i wanna be a —” a choked moan, he’s really fucking you tonight. “be a mom. make me a mommy.”
the words are like honey in his ears, his lower belly already hot and tightening at the sound of it. his stamina is wonderful and he has used it to his advantage more times in the past than he can count, but right now, he’s thinking about cumming like a pure white virgin.
and he wants to speak, but he can’t. john walker is always full of words and rambles, whether prompted or unprompted, but he finds himself speechless. not entirely, he’s moaning louder than you have ever heard him before. he’s usually not very vocal in the bedroom. not because he cares whether or not the tower hears him (he doesn’t), but that’s just not him.
it might be him though. because you have given him a blessing. what he’s always wanted. permission to get you pregnant. “‘m gonna fill you up.” he gasped. his thrusts were almost feral, his hand coming up to your jaw, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “watch me while i do it.”
and you do. he’s moving now, your hips elevated, like it’s going to make his cum go inside you faster. he’s not a scientist, just a believer that he’s going to get everything his heart has always wanted.
your moans are loud, and his are almost primal. his chest heaves as he lets everything spill out. he’s going to savor every last drop, going to make sure that you keep every drop of him inside of your pretty cunt.
he’s leaning down to kiss you, not yet removing himself from inside of you. he doesn’t want to, not yet, not when he can still feel himself hard inside of you. this wouldn’t be the last round tonight, not by a long shot.“you with me still?” he finally found his voice, his grip on your face softening as you nod your head. he nods with you, placing a kiss to your temple, watching as you catch your breath. “good, because once isn’t gonna be enough.”
