𝐜𝐰 — profanity, innuendo, matthew’s filthy mouth and lack of morals, cheating (not on matty or the reader), outdated/incorrect information about having sex for the first time, borderline too much degradation, some objectification to add a little spice, unprotected sex w a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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so like, i see a lot nhl imagines putting reader’s job as a corporate professional/actress/model/something kinda glamorous -  but i can’t help but want to see an nhl imagine where reader is some kind of athlete too, but something unexpected. 

so say like theres some kind of filmed challenge event. eg the penguins on penguins live tv doing a different sport challenge for charity (like those ice hockey vs figure skater or ice hockey vs red bull ice crash challenges) that comes about after ppl on the internet make jokes about all the fist fights and body checks after a particularly rough game. specifically, they point out sidney crosby’s tendency to either 1) grab a player by the back of the neck to push them face down on the ice or 2) do some kind of ridiculous spin throw-esque to literally toss other players right off their feet and into the boards

so twitter is like, hey, since ice hockey is a sport well known for its fights, what if they tried to learn some actual martial arts moves? Who would suck at it? Who would be a beast at it? Would it be funny as hell? Hell yeah. 

cue the penguins meeting y/n, their judo teacher for the day who they meet at her mma gym that she co-runs with an old colleague, and it’s already kinda off to a ridiculous start because, well, geno is 190cm/6’3, sidney is 180cm/5’10, and you’re objectively tiny in comparison, coming in at, what, 5’5? probably? Like, yes Sidney can throw a whole damn adult into the boards, but that’s hockey. And this is, uh, this is definitely not hockey, and you are definitely not a hockey player. 

Y/n is fairly young too - she’s just turned 26 - petite in the graceful way she holds herself, large, dark doe eyes that don’t show a shred of nervousness.  It’s hard for sidney to wrap his head around the fact of you being able to throw adults twice her size over her shoulder on the regular, and to be paid to do it too. 

Sidney’s used to tall, glamorous women with legs that stretch for days, and even when he collaborates with the Women’s hockey leavue from time to time, they’re all wearing bulky hockey gear, built for an entirely different sport. sidney vaguely recalls the details from the PR briefing before about you - black belt judoka, the national women’s champion in your weight category 2 years in a row, and you’ve recently moved to pittsburgh to work with an old colleague at their new martial arts academy. 

he has no idea what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this.  Still though, she is a professional athlete and that means she’s built like one - a brick shithouse of a judoka. y/n’s got a strong set of broad shoulders, legs and arms made of corded muscle hidden under soft skin decorated with a smattering of freckles, face unblemished without a single bruise or scar, paradoxically dainty hands with well weathered calluses and thick, strong joints, and quite frankly the smallest waist and tightest ass Sidney has ever seen. 

you greet everyone with an ease and friendly professionalism that leaves him a bit envious, your handshake firm and smile wide and genuine. Without even realising it himself, he takes note of all the little things that showcase the breadth of your character - the delicate lines of your tattoos, the flex of your forearms when you adjust your gi, the way you quickly braid up your midnight black hair, dyed on the inside with a deep, royal purple that makes you glow. 

sidney is struggling to maintain his professional facade, but it’s hard to do because he’s watching y/n showing geno how to position his hips to execute an osotogari. he can’t help but question how in the hell you’d sweep anyone geno’s size off his feet (and sidney’s not the only one glancing around in quiet disbelief.) 

but the rest of the session goes well since the penguins players are paired up with each other to practise a few of the basic throws you demonstrated with your assistant. 

it’s kinda funny, really fun, and a bit awkward as they’re all trying to throw or trip their teammates on to the crash mats without stumbling themselves. geno gets an exasperated earful from y/n because he keeps defaulting to “hug my opponent and throw him like sack of potatoes, is easy and fastest!” “Mr malkin, hugging requires both arms, and last I checked you usually need both hands on the hockey stick!” 

In the background, the camera pans over to focus on graves and rathbone descend into a goofy wrestling match on the ground. 

Either way, sidney finds himself distracted enough trying to keep his attention on throwing his practice partner correctly, and he eventually finds himself relaxing into the routine of following a pattern. he just manages to snicker out a sorry to karlsson, who goes ass over head when sidney pulls off an elegant ogoshi. 

karlsson rolls over and groans, swatting at sidney’s outstretched hand. 

“no fair, man! of course sidney’s going to be the best at this,”karlsson grumbles in jest, crawling back on his feet. “Now fucking come here, it’s my turn.”

“Judo is all in the core muscles - the stronger your hips, pelvis, abdomen and chest is, the better your technique,” y/n’s voice rings out from across the floor. 

pettersson chirps in from where he is on the floor, “well that’s why sidney’s finding all this the easiest-“ 

“- because he have biggest ass in all NHL! Can see from space, like great wall of china!” geno finishes with a whoop and holler, and everyone finds themselves breaking out into laughter. even y/n giggles, hand coming up cover her mouth too late to hide the snort that escapes. 

sidney grins, ducking his head a little to hide the flush across his face. He’s more than used to chirps about his gigantic caboose now, but for some reason having it pointed out in front of y/n is making him more shy about it than usual. 

y/n glances over at sidney with a trailing chuckle. Her eyes take their time to scan down sidney’s body, taking note of his form with an intense, analytical eye. it makes sidney tense,, his heartbeat thumping jack rabbit hard in his chest. he knows there’s nothing but curiosity in your gaze (he too is an athlete obsessed with numbers and stats and so on’s) but he swears he can feel a spark of heat from where your eyes look over his chest, the dip of his hips, the width of his large thighs, and he doubly swears that he sees your eyebrows quirk up when your eyes linger of his impressive ass. 

he just manages to resist the urge to preen in front of you. 

he loses that battle when you look back up at him, all cheeky with your lopsided grin, “well then, mr crosby, I don’t see a hint of a lie, so I’m expecting great results from you.” 

(He’ll have to bake karlsson a loaf of banana bread as an additional apology after this. is it, as shakira herself has said, the hips do not lie. And he knows he’s unnecessarily flexing his muscles every time he moves, shut up.) 

right at the end though, that’s when the producers make the suggestion for y/n to do the basic throws on some of the nhl players themselves, just so they get a feel for how it’s actually done from an elite professional. 

there’s good ol’ natured groaning from the team, some hollering and chirping - “i wanna see potash, or, or dana-!” 

Geno volunteers, drags a few others in (kessel, letang,) and of course, sidney himself because sidney “is captain, with biggest ass and best throw, haha, of course you need to do!” 

but then you surprise them all by jerking your head at everyone and saying “we can do the whole line. it’ll be quick and easy, promise.” 

is that a challenge? that *sounds* like a challenge, and crosby feels his competitive spirit flare up inside. 

“if you say so, y/n,” he calls back, a little arrogant and cocksure. “Just let us know whenever you need a break from these guys, I’m told that they’re heavy without the momentum of skates on ice.” There’s a little chorus of gasps and oooo’s and laughs in response. 

he takes in the sight of your eyes narrowing at the blatant chirp, going sharp and dark like steel and flint. his tongue darts out to lick his suddenly dry lips when you bite your bottom lip in annoyance.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr Crosby,” y/n says as she prowls (yes, prowls,) over to the crash mat, her eyes never once breaking contact with sidney’s. It feels like being caught in the eyes of an apex predator, a tiger getting ready to circle closer, closer, ever so carefully closer to their prey. 

Too bad for y/n though, because sidney crosby is “sid the kid”, “the next one”, and he’s always had a yawning hunger for victory that has never been satisfied.  

“I’ll make sure to treat my elders just as kindly in return,” you shoot back, your tone aloof and cool. it’s the blatant disregard in your voice, another sign of you stepping out of that distant professional you’ve adorned because of sidney’s actions. Sidney did that, sidney did that to you. It makes his grin morph into something wild and borderline feral, his goddamn teeth itching in response to your attitude. It’s a feeling that he’s only felt on the ice, during a face off, during a power play. 

it makes sidney’s chest pound, and there’s a growing heat in his belly that makes his breath come out a little quicker, a little warmer. you’re not just y/n yl/n anymore: black belt judoka who’s getting in some PR with the pittsburgh penguins for an hour. 

You’re becoming more and more you in sidney’s eyes, and goddamn does he know a brat when he sees one. 

if there’s one thing sidney loves more than anything else, it’s winning. Taming. Dominating. 

You turn away, dismissing him from your mind and you clap your hands to gather everyone’s attention. The team lines up, Geno up first, Sidney bringing up the rear. While the cameras and mics rearrange themselves to best capture this last section, you busy yourself with getting ready yourself. Standing barefoot on the mat, you tighten your belt and take a moment to roll out all your joints and stretch everything out (it gives sidney a prime view of the gorgeous arch of your back. Maybe he bites back a whimper when you drop into the splits, who knows. You certainly don’t pick up on it.) 

Out of habit, your mouthguard pops out, your jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically around it in concentration. You tongue your mouthguard back in and settle into a soft, wide stance on the mat, ready to do what you do best. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sidney has been watching your every movement, eyes laser focused on your soft, pink lips, all plush and wet when you were adjusting your mouth guard. He has a sudden vision of those lips wrapped around something else, and he audibly swallows. 

“Nervous, Sidney?” Karlsson says, jostling his shoulder lightly. 

Sidney manages a tight, controlled smile as he subtly shifts the waistband of his pants. “Euh, just a little. I’m used to getting thrown around on ice, not so much this, haha.” 

Geno steps on to the mat, grinning wildly down at y/n. You give him a stern look and he jokingly raises his hands up in mercy. 

“No hugging, I promise,” he says. “I am a good student!” You laugh and roll your eyes and now they’re all staring at you, watching you confidently squaring up to a man who’s a whole 6 inches taller than you, and sidney thinks “this can’t end well” as reader grips the collar of his gi tightly and brings her other hand to grip the back of his tricep. 

And you know what? He’s right.

Not even three beats later, geno’s been whipped around off his feet, and all of you hear is the is resounding slap of his back hitting the mat hard, the wind knocked right out of his lungs. y/n is standing cooly and triumphantly over geno, who is just wheezing, eyes wide in shock. 

“you okay there, mr malkin?”

Geno gives a shaky thumbs up and a happy little gasp that sounds like “holy fuck”. y/n nods in response and helps geno to his feet. then, she looks over at the rest of the line and yells “next!” 

kessel goes down equally as hard (“oh jesusssh-!” even though he’s 207 pounds and you can’t be more than 169, 165. letang goes flying, long legs practically cartwheeling through the air (sidney can hear everyone crying with laughter in the background.) Jarry’s next - he too lands with a wounded “ooft!” and again, y/n politely asks if he’s alright before her assistant ushers him off the mat. 

in no time at all, it’s sidney’s turn.  “best one, eh, for last! yes captain! go captain!” Geno eggs on, and sidney is. Well. Being last means he’s had some time to watch and some time to. Hm. Think. 

nhl hockey involves a lot of bodily contact, but not usually so face to face. Plus, hockey has padding, layers, headgear and gloves and all sorts of protection. It also has speed and a team of more than two, opponents of more than two. It’s a team sport, and that means there’s usually plenty of space between players, pucks and sticks. 

Even when they are up and close (in around above on top of each other in scrimmages for the puck) they’re all adult men roughly his height and weight. not…not a tiny, young 20 something year old girl woman that he has to tilt his head down to keep eye contact with. 

“Saving the best till last, Mr Crosby?”

Sidney doesn’t say anything in response, just smirks and shifts to plant his feet firmly and bending his knees slightly. He likes how his non-response has obviously irked you somewhat when he feels more than hears you huff in disbelief. 

You may be a 2 time national champion, but Sidney’s a 3 timer, 10 years your senior, and has absolutely no reason to make this easy for you. He braces himself hard, ready for you to move in tight and grab his lapels. 

however, y/n stands just slightly out of an arm’s reach, her hands gently floating in front of her chest. 

“I thought I might showcase a different throw for our star student and captain,” She cocks her head at the producers. “Would that be alright?” 

“Yes.” 

The producers are surprised at Sidney’s instant response. 

Sidney peers down at y/n and bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to let anymore of his eagerness bleed through. 

“Well then, thank you, Mr Crosby, I’ll definitely make it worth your time.” You smile back, your eyes peering back up at him from underneath your dark lashes. It’s a very cute look on you and Sidney breaths out steadily, ignoring the tightness in his groin. 

God. God. This close up and he can see the lone beauty mark on your neck, just under your chin, the slight sheen of sweat decorating the pale column of your throat. He fights hard against the impulse to just lean in and lap kittenish at your skin, chasing that sweet saltiness, to drag his teeth against the jut of your clavicle and follow it down, down, down underneath the collar of your rashguard, to press his lips and tongue against your bare sternum, to rub his face against your taunt belly, the v lines of your hips, and watch it burn blush pink from his stubble. 

“Please, y/n, call me Sidney.”

And then he’s airborne. 

One second you’re both upright, the next second y/n has ducked forward, grabbed both his arms, twisted, shoved your ass right up against his crotch (oh god, oh god, did she feel his erection? she must have, oh my god-) and sent sidney crosby, captain of the pittsburgh penguins, somersaulting over her shoulders like a wet fucking rag. 

The resulting slam as y/n pulls off a double arm ippon seoi nage on sidney sends everyone leaping to their feet, cheering so wildly and so gleefully that it wouldn’t be remiss to think that he had just scored a hattie. 

he’s breathless - figuratively and literally. all sidney can do is lie there, dazed and winded, staring up at you with pupils so wide and blown from desire that his irises are just a ring of burnished gold-brown. 

 y/n is crouched directly above him. Some of her hair has fallen loose from her braid, framing her face like an oil painting in an art gallery. The shine of the overhead gym lights form an artificial halo. How fitting, Sidney thinks, noting the twinkle in your eye and the smug, self satisfied grin that you know only he can see. 

What a little brat, he thinks viciously, gleefully. 

Y/n leans down close, closer than she has with any of the others until Sidney swears they’ll bump their noses, and he watches as your mouth parts and his mouth mirrors it in return, and you duck your head to the side at the last second, just letting your voice brush the shell of his ear as you murmur to him, so coy and cute he nearly blanks out: 

“You alright there, Mr Sidney fuckin’ Crosby?” 

⠀⠀⚞⠀⠀𝟡𝟴⠀⠀𝄂⠀nhl⠀,⠀chicago blackhawks⠀,⠀hockey⠀,⠀⠀⬚

happy birthday connor bedard!! omg.. i thought he was lowk younger huh... 🤔 VERY BERRY RUSHED IM SO SORYRYRYY IF IT LOOKS BAD