Back from yet another hiatus!
I will be quite honest that I have no idea who's in anymore (fortunately seems like Seguin's a classic), so please, please, please send requests!
In my inbox, I do have oldies that are of Seguin, Tom Wilson, Morgan Rielly, Roman Josi, Auston Matthews, Michael Latta, Jason Demers, Johnny Gaudreau, Henrik Zetterberg, Andre Burakovsky, Aaron Ekblad, some AHL players, etcetera. Again, I have no clue who's in/fans are interested in anymore! So let me know either through inbox or messages!
Would you please write one where Tyler Seguin's wife is a hot mess, forgot some key ingredients, and is making a mess of most of the dishes for the first Christmas dinner she's cooking for Tyler and his family. Tyler doesn't care and is very sweet about everything. In the end they figure out her forgetfulness and temporary insanity is because she's pregnant.
"Breathe in ... and out... In... and out." Tyler straightened in his stance and narrowed his eyes at you, feigning annoyance. This man only knew how to annoy, not to be annoyed, so his eyes gleamed with playfulness. "I see no breaths coming in or out of you when you're glaring at me like that."
With your knuckles turning white from gripping the edge of the counter, not feigning annoyance, you chided, "Because you chanting 'in and out' for the past two minutes isn't going to breathe life back into the ham I left burning in the oven."
His eyebrows shot up instantly, and he retorted, "Well, I sure hope not. That'd be one terrifying zombie pig, in my opinion."
"Tyler," you groaned, head dropping between your outstretched arms in defeat. You stared at the floor below, where out of the corner, you spot a splatter of mashed potatoes from the bowl you managed to knock over earlier that distracted you from pulling out the ham in the first place.
When Tyler's rested his hand on your back, you felt at the tip of your tongue the urge to snap at him to not touch you right now, but there was a reason this man married you not too long ago: He knew you better than yourself (or at least close enough).
He gently moved his hand up your back and over to your left shoulder then slipped his other hand to your right shoulder and began to give your back a small massage. For the years of massaging sore or tense muscles, whether for injury or anger, for himself and teammates, Tyler learned which muscles and pressure points were needed to help relax a person.
A sigh involuntarily escaped your lips, and you found yourself straightening into a standing position. You melted into his hands that consumed your body, yet were surprisingly (but also not) delicate along your skin.
You bit your lower lip to hold back a smile when his lips grazed the lower part of your neck that met your back before moving left to where your neck met your shoulder and finally up your neck to right below your ear. His breath tickled the sensitive skin over there, and a shiver ran down your spine.
"Ty," you murmured, any sort of anger or frustration as lost as the cinnamon sticks you misplaced for the mulled wine. "This isn't exactly the time or place for this."
Tyler's hands slipped away from your shoulders and down to wrap around your waist, drawing you against his toned body where you can faintly feel his muscles underneath his buttoned flannel long-sleeve pajama top. His family tended to love wearing matching flannel pajamas for Christmas, which you were not left out of the tradition by wearing your matching flannel sweatshirt.
Not deigning you a verbal response, Tyler instead nibbled on your earlobe and squeezed you a bit tighter against his --
"Do you need help in there?"
You jumped at the sound of Tyler's mom and immediately sent an elbow into his hard stomach. Even though he gave a loud "oof," you knew better than anyone that an elbow from you was nothing compared to an elbow from a 190-plus-pound hockey player. He chuckled, as he loosened his grip on you.
"Behave, sir!" you scolded, narrowing your eyes at him but this time feigning annoyance like he did to you earlier.
He raised his hands in defense, struggling to maintain an innocent pout when he clearly wanted to burst laughing. "I've been a good boy this year, Santa, I swear!"
You snorted. "More like a naughty boy, if I'm not mistaken."
His pout turned into a sinister, seductive smirk, as he immediately wrapped his arms around you again and pulled you into his chest, your hands resting on his pecs. "If that's what you prefer," he purred, capturing your lips with his in a painfully slow, sensual kiss.
You couldn't resist this kiss and found yourself standing on the tip of your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck, and drawing him closer.
"Tyler Paul Seguin!" Tyler instantly groaned and pulled his head away, leaving you now pouting for more, even though you should've been the one to stop him from tempting you. "Stop distracting your wife please!"
"Yeah, Tyler Paul Seguin," you echoed with a playful push to his chest, though he unsurprisingly didn't budge. "Stop dis--" A wave of nausea hit you, and you immediately clasped your hand over your mouth, as a rapid tingling sensation climbed up your throat.
With a step back, Tyler popped out a hip and slapped his hands on both his hips. "Now that's just rude. My kisses aren't that gro--" Before he could finish that word, you bolted out of the kitchen and into the hallway bathroom where you ran past his sister, Candace, who watched you in alarm.
"Are you okay?" Candace asked, automatically following you into the bathroom and catching your hair before it was caught in the crossfire of your vomit.
Unable to respond, you focused your attention on puking into the toilet. You vaguely heard Tyler calling out your name and felt his hands on your back again.
"What's going on?" either his sister or mother asked in the background of you hurling up your guts while Tyler's deep, concerned voice responded, "Not sure. Y/N's been like nearly every day for the past week."
"Every day?" whomever asked, and Tyler provided confirmation. A muffled "I'll be back" was the last thing you heard of their conversation.
By the time your stomach calmed and you successfully flushed the toilet without feeling an urge to throw up again, you rested your back against Tyler's legs, as he sat against the lip of the bathtub. You closed your eyes while he switched from massaging your shoulders into rubbing gentle circles behind your ears.
When you opened your eyes again, you found a white stick with a white screen and a blue tab shoved before your face. You absentmindedly accepted it and kept holding it in front of you before you processed what you were holding.
Eyes growing like saucers, you immediately sat up and away from Tyler, only to turn around and meet his dark brown eyes that were just as wide as yours. Smiles creeping on both of your faces, you uttered at the same time, "No way."
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