#cc13 blurb

[wannabehockeygf]

Could I request a size kink blurb with Cole? Like, he loves seeing his dick bulging in your tummy while he fucks you 😵‍💫

Love all ur writing sooooo much

nsfw blurb below

you don’t remember how you ended up facedown over his thighs—just that one second he was kissing you like he had all the time in the world, all slow and steady, hand cradling your jaw like you were some goddamn delicate thing… and the next you were stripped and squirming, ass up and legs twitching as he pushed your face into the pillow.

“jesus, baby,” cole breathes it more than says it, palm dragging down your spine, slow, deliberate. “look at you. fuckin’ perfect like this.”

he’s not huge in the way guys love to lie about. he doesn’t need to be. five-eight and built like he was made to fuck through people, legs solid from years of grinding on the ice, arms that lift you like you weigh nothing. not bulky, no. dense. all that compact power bearing down on you now as he grips your hips and spreads you open.

you gasp when he spits and rubs it in with two fingers, slicking you up like he knows exactly how to drive you crazy. and he does. he’d made you come on his tongue first, just once, to get you soft for this—lazy licks, teasing pressure, fingers curling until your thighs trembled and your voice cracked.

now he’s lining himself up, and your breath catches because you can feel him. blunt, wide, low. he’s not talking shit. he doesn’t have to. he just drags the head up between your folds, slow enough to make you whine. then a slap to your ass—sharp, more to get your attention than anything.

“breathe.”

you do, but it comes out ragged, just in time for him to start pressing in.

you feel it—every fucking inch. no rush. no jackhammer pounding. just cole’s cock pushing deeper, stretching you until your arms give out and your face is in the sheets. one of his hands slides under you, hooks around your chest, pulls you up like you weigh less than the gear he throws off between periods. he wraps his arm tight and growls into your neck, “that’s it. you’re takin’ it so damn good.”

he bottoms out. your knees nearly give. your mouth opens but no words come out, just a wrecked little sound, all throat, like the noise got kicked out of you when his hips hit yours.

and then—oh fuck—he starts to move.

not fast. just deep. deep enough you feel him against that soft spot inside, slow enough you feel him dragging through you. the pressure’s unreal. you swear you can feel his cock through your whole pelvis, like he’s punching his shape into you one stroke at a time.

then he pulls you upright, not letting you fall, not missing a beat. keeps you speared on him, hand sliding down to your belly, fingers splaying just under your ribs.

and that’s when he moans. low, real, surprised like he can’t fucking believe it either.

“holy shit,” he mutters, rubbing your stomach like he’s checking the depth on something mechanical. “look at that. baby—look.”

you glance down. fuck.

there’s a bulge right there. not massive, but it’s there. pushing up under your skin every time he rolls his hips forward, vanishing when he pulls back, appearing again—throbbing up when he shoves in hard.

you choke on it, whole body locking up. you’re shaking in his lap, legs kicking weakly, but he holds you still, chest to your back, mouth at your ear.

“you’re takin’ all of it,” he says again, almost like he’s stunned. “fuckin’ perfect little hole. made for me.”

your toes curl. the pressure, the fullness, the fucking sight of him making your body bulge around his cock—there’s nothing left in your brain but noise and static and cole’s voice.

“you see that?” he presses down gently on the bump. your pussy flutters hard, clenching so tight he groans into your skin. “look at you, baby. takin’ it so deep i can see myself.”

you nod, or try to, but you’re barely hanging on. your muscles are going all jittery, legs tensing like you’re gonna bolt and melt all at once. his free hand’s on your throat now, just resting there, not squeezing—holding you in place. like you’re something his.

he starts to move faster, still grinding, still deep, but now he’s chasing it. every thrust drives that bump higher, then lower, then up again—cole breathing ragged, saying you’re unreal, baby, and keep squeezin’ me like that, and fuck, you’re gonna come, aren’t you?

he feels it before you do. those little spasms starting up deep inside, your hips jerking like you’re trying to pull off him, or onto him, or just away from the intensity. but there’s nowhere to go. he’s got you pinned from every angle—his arm tight across your chest, palm over your stomach, cock so far inside it feels like he’s not just fucking your cunt but your whole body.

and then you break.

it rips through you—sharp, blinding, a punch of heat that starts in your belly and blows your brain clean out. your thighs spasm. your mouth opens in a scream but nothing comes out. cole’s still fucking you through it, softer now, letting you ride it out.

“there it is,” he says, kissing behind your ear. “that’s it, sweetheart. that’s what i wanted. you did so good.”

you’re still twitching when he finally lets you fall forward again, lowering you to the bed like you’re breakable. you hear him spit in his hand again behind you. you hear him stroke once. twice.

and then he’s back in.

[wannabehockeygf]

could you do cole caufield and a him meeting a girl who plays for the montreal victoire. like a meet cute of sorts

it’s the kind of morning that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. practice ran long, you didn’t sleep, and the metro was delayed just enough to fuck up your timing. your stick bag digs into your shoulder, your hoodie’s stuck to your skin under your coat, and some tourist outside the bell centre mistakes you for a team assistant and asks if you can point them to the canadiens locker room. you smile with all your teeth and say “nope.”

and then you walk right in.

you’re not thinking about the men’s practice schedule. you’re not thinking at all. brain stuck on loop, just noise, just caffeine and sore knees and the low echo of your coach telling you your breakouts need work. you turn the corner to the auxiliary gym like you own the place, because this morning, you do.

and that’s when you almost crash chest-first into cole fucking caufield. short, wide, unbelievably built like someone reassembled him from muscle and bad ideas.

he’s mid-step, hoodie rolled up to his elbows, jaw bruised like someone tagged him good last night. he smells like exertion and laundry soap and expensive gel, like someone who sweats and then goes on tv about it.

you blink. he blinks.

and then he looks you up and down, not subtle, not slow, not respectful, just—checking. stick bag. taped wrists. your team hoodie. he puts it together real fast.

“victoire?” he asks, like he already knows.

you nod once.

“fuck yeah,” he says, all teeth.

he steps aside to let you through and doesn’t do the thing. doesn’t pat you on the shoulder or call you sweetheart or make a joke about women’s hockey being real hockey. he just stands there and lets you pass, then calls after you:

“you skate that fast when you’re not late?”

you stop walking. turn, slow, eyes narrowed.

“you hit that hard when you’re not losing?”

there’s a beat. then he laughs. not big. not forced. a bark, a real one. he jogs a few steps to catch up with you, shoulder bumping yours.

“i like you.” “you don’t know me.” “nah, but you chirp like someone worth knowing.”

he’s not hitting on you. not yet. he’s not trying to charm, not laying it on. he’s just there, in your space, like it’s natural. like he doesn’t have to try. and you don’t move away.

you’ve got tape residue on your fingers, a bruise on your jaw from last week’s elbow, and a mouth that hasn’t quit since peewee. he’s got thighs like tree trunks, hair smashed under a toque, and that look like he’s been benched for fighting twice this month.

“i’m cole,” he says, even though you already knew.

“yeah.”

he laughs again, scrubs a hand through his hair, sticks it out like you might actually shake it. you don’t. you stare at it. then up at him.

“you gonna ask for my number next?”

he shrugs. “i mean… do you want me to?”

your jaw cocks left. “depends. you gonna cry when we beat you to the gym next week?”

his eyes flash—challenged, not pissed. like you just dropped a puck at his feet.

“you wish, victoire.” “bet.” “coffee on it?” “winner buys.”

he nods like it’s locked in. you walk away with a smirk he definitely sees. you don’t look back.

he doesn’t either. but he pulls his phone out as soon as you’re out of sight.

and by the time you’re halfway down the hallway, your teammate texts you: “cole caufield just asked if you were single. did you bodycheck him in the dick orrr?”

you laugh into your elbow. not butterflies. but something sharp. hungry. new.

like a clean breakaway on fresh ice.

[wannabehockeygf]

Cole Caufield and thigh riding… perchance, please and thank u :)

nsfw content below

cole sits back against the headboard, arms loose at his sides like he’s got all the time in the world, legs spread like he’s offering up the best goddamn seat in the house and you’re the only one invited.

he’s still flushed from earlier, chest blotched, lips swollen from where he bit 'em through the last round, a smear of spit drying on his collarbone.

you’ve got one knee on either side of his thigh and you’re already shaking. slick soaking the inside of your thighs, sticking to his skin, and his leg’s tense under you, thick with coiled muscle, flexed just enough to hold you up. he hasn’t moved a fucking inch.

his eyes are locked on your face like he’s memorizing every twitch.

you grind down slow at first. testing. curious. cocky for all of five seconds before it hits—the drag of him between your folds, the rough muscle and the bristle of hair and the sweat-glossed skin slipping up the mess of you and catching on your clit just right.

your hips jolt, a full-body flinch. cole huffs quiet but doesn’t laugh, doesn’t mock. just rests his hand on your hip, palm warm, wide, steadying.

“there you go,” he murmurs. “just like that, baby.”

you start rolling. not rocking—rolling. hips wide, circles drawn out with every pass of your cunt across his thigh, your ass clenched to keep control but it’s slipping fast, your breath catching higher every time you drag over that spot that makes you, every goddamn time.

he flexes once and your whole body lurches like it’s about to seize. your nails scrape up his chest.

“cole—”

“you got it.” his voice stays low, not bored, not commanding, just… there. present. like he means every second of watching you ride him raw like it’s what you were made for. his fingers spread wider on your hips, not guiding. holding. grounding. “fuckin’ beautiful.”

you jerk hard over the next pass. thighs trembling now, sweat down your spine.

your clit’s swollen, raw from friction, but you need it—can’t stop, can’t slow, every grind dragging it against the ridge of his quad, every movement sending another spike through your gut, low and mean and electric.

cole flexes again. you scream. not loud. just tight. animal. like the wind punched out of you from inside.

“ride it, baby. don’t stop now. you’re right there.”

your hands go flat to his chest, scrambling for purchase, nails catching his nipple and he groans, not loud but real, hips twitching under you. he still doesn’t move his leg. lets you do it. lets you fuck yourself stupid like it’s your prize for taking him so good earlier, like his thigh’s your personal fucking toy and he loves watching you ruin it.

“look at you,” he says, almost breathless now. “look how messy you are.”

he leans in, breath hot on your jaw, and kisses you right under the ear. soft. sweet. stupid contrast to the filthy sound of your slick grinding down his thigh, the wet slap and catch of it building faster now, your hips stuttering out of rhythm.

“you’re shaking, baby. c’mon, let go. right here. make a mess on me.”

your eyes roll back. the friction’s too much, not enough, perfect, everything clenching down low, your whole body coiling up hard—

and then it snaps.

you slam forward, gasping, nails gouging his chest, whole cunt pulsing in wet flutters over the curve of his leg while your hips jerk helpless, erratic, riding it out through the aftershocks while he murmurs low praise under his breath.

“so fuckin’ good for me. that’s it. just like that.”

he’s hard under his shorts. you feel it. see it. but he doesn’t move for it. just watches you come apart on his leg like it’s more than enough for him, like watching you hump him dumb is better than getting his dick in you.

you slump forward, chest to his, boneless, panting, twitching through the last few weak rolls of your hips as they slow.

cole presses his palm to your back. holds you. kisses the side of your face without asking.

“told you,” he says, and his voice is so fucking soft you could drown in it. “you were made for me.”

[wannabehockeygf]

okay but what about “reverse” size kink w cole #womeninmaledominatedfields……you’re like not even that into heels but he buys you a pair after asking you to be his date to the habs’ casino night. you feel like a baby deer stumbling around everywhere but he’s so obsessed. you’re sitting at his table ofc, he’s way more interested in shamelessly flirting with you than dealing blackjack or whatever. some of the guys are ribbing him for it but he’s just like who careeee my girl is hot and sexy and tall in the heels EYE bought her and the dress EYE bought her that makes her legs look insane and you’re all just jealous.

some suggestive stuff near the end but not rlly nsfw

cole picked the shoes. you didn’t even argue, didn’t even pretend to put up a fight, just let him hold your ankle in his lap while you half-sat across his couch in an old t-shirt and panties and listened to him explain the difference between “fuck-me” heels and these. how they were different. how they were classy and hot and borderline illegal on you.

“you’re gonna wear these to the habs’ casino night,” he’d said, palm warm around your calf. “and i’m gonna watch you walk around in them like a goddamn model while every guy in the room dies.”

they’re tall. really tall. tall enough that when he kisses you in the hotel room before the event, you have to duck your head down and he has to tilt his chin up. he’s standing with his hands on your hips like he’s pretending not to get hard over it.

“jesus,” he whispers against your mouth. “you are taller than me.”

you roll your eyes and kiss him again. “not my fault you’re five-eight.”

“not my fault you’ve got model legs and those fuckin’ heels.”

they make you walk like you’ve been tranquilized. like your knees and ankles don’t belong to the same species. cole watches every single awkward step you take through the banquet floor like you’re balancing on a wire, obsessed. he doesn’t help. doesn’t steady you. doesn’t offer you his arm. just watches. eyes raking up your legs like he’s trying to catalog every second.

“you’re walking like a baby deer,” he says, all dreamy, no judgment. “i’d still let you crush my fuckin’ throat.”

you’re seated at his blackjack table, fake chips stacked, people cycling through, dealers half-committed to pretending the whole thing isn’t a mess of alcohol and flirting and players with egos the size of quebec. cole’s supposed to be watching the cards. he’s not. he’s fully spun sideways in his chair, one hand low on your thigh, the other playing with the hem of your dress like he’s thinking about flipping it up over your hips right here.

“you know this dress makes your legs look illegal, right?” he mumbles, palm skating higher. “fuckin’ obscene. i picked that for you. i bought it. i knew it was gonna kill me.”

you glance around. you’re pretty sure someone just lost a game. cole doesn’t notice. his hand is now planted possessively right over your inner thigh, knuckles brushing close.

across the table, one of the guys—arber, maybe?—is leaning in with a shit-eating smile. “cole. you gonna let your girl distract you all night or you gonna let someone else sit down?”

cole doesn’t blink. doesn’t move his hand. just slides a lazy look up and down your body like he’s doing it on camera.

“who cares,” he says, half-laughing. “she looks fucking amazing. look at her. look at her.”

you feel your whole body flush, heat rising behind your ears. cole taps the heel of your foot under the table with his own sneaker.

“you see these shoes?” he says, loud now, not even pretending to keep it private. “i bought these. look at how long her legs are. she could step on me right now and i’d say thank you.”

“you are gonna get stepped on,” someone mutters, loud enough to laugh. “you’re not even the tallest one in the couple anymore.”

“don’t care.” cole beams. “you’re all jealous and short and single. my girl’s hot as shit. tall as fuck in the heels i bought her, wearin’ the dress i picked out, sittin’ next to me.”

he punctuates it with a hand on your bare thigh, thumb stroking lazy just under the hem.

“i mean, look at her,” he says again, shaking his head like he can’t believe his own luck. “fuck blackjack. i’m not wasting casino night on pretend gambling when i’ve got that.”

you swat him, laughing, and he catches your wrist mid-air, turns it, kisses the inside of your arm like a dramatic little shit.

“you feel like you’re gonna fall over every time you stand up,” he says softly, just for you this time. “and i’ve never wanted to carry you more in my life. never wanted to see you try and bend down in those shoes. wanna see how you’d look straddling me in ‘em. how your knees’d barely fit on the couch.”

you mutter something about how you’ll kill him if he tries to sneak you into a bathroom.

he smirks slow. “won’t need to. i’m gonna walk you outta here in an hour, and everyone’s gonna see you clinging to me like a tall drunk goddess, and then i’m gonna get you back home and make you stand over me in those heels while i jerk off just lookin’ at you.”

you choke on your drink. cole doesn’t care. he's already pressing another kiss to your arm, dragging it slow up to your shoulder.

“what’s that?” he says loud again, playing to the room. “sorry, can’t hear you over how fuckin’ sexy my date is.”

his friends groan. you hide behind your drink. cole kisses the top of your shoulder and bites a little, just enough to make you jolt.

“be nice,” he whispers, licking the spot. “or i’ll tell them about the way you begged me to fuck you standing up the second we opened the door. heels on.”

you don’t say a word. but you don’t stop him when his hand slides higher, either.