Discover Top Posts Tagged with #mt19 x reader

Popular Recent

Matthew Tkachuk and Quinn Hughes js fucking reader like crazy like multiple orgasms, breeding kink, spit kink and um this might be new but maybe a balls kink like reader js wants to touch and massage them constantly

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x Quinn Hughes x Fem!reader

Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v × 2, breeding kink, spit kink, balls kink, handjob, begging, praise kink, kissing, light choking, finger sucking, cum eating, biting, marking, rough sex, plug usage.

Stance on Team USA

hi… my smutty request is matty tkachuk breeding kink 🫣🫣🫣

nsfw blurb below - p in v, degrading, breeding kink

#nhl imagine #nhl x reader #nhl blurb #hockey blurb #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk blurb #matthew tkachuk smut #mt19 #mt19 imagine #mt19 x reader #mt19 blurb #mt19 smut #florida panthers imagine #florida panthers blurb #nhl smut #hockey smut

Could you write Matt Tkachuk x younger reader? Like big age gap, with a breeding kink. Maybe he had a bad game and reader was there, he doesn’t even take her home to get his anger out he just fucks her in the locker room. Thankssss❤️

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x Fem!reader

Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, rough sex, kissing, younger!reader, mentioned age gap, daddy kink, breeding kink, locker room sex, hair pulling, choking, praise kink, ass smacking, dirty talk.

Stance on Team USA

#yapping #hockey #asks #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl x reader #nhl blurb #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl smut #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk smut #mt19 #mt19 x reader

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) | Matthew Tkachuk

"The smoke cloud billows out his mouth Like a freight train through a small town The jokes that he told across the bar Were revolting and far too loud"

*** Request: "i heard you were looking for requests!!!!! i’m always a sucker for like “runaway bride” stories if that makes sense where someone is getting married to another character and it’s a last minute confession or like right person wrong time things like that if you were just looking for inspo OR!!! right before getting married or engaged and it’s like again there have been all these feelings and it’s the big confession but it’s too late"

Summary: Picture perfect, but you can't handle him not being in the frame.

Word Count: 8.8k

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW! unprotected sex, smoking (cigarettes), and then just angst/pining

Notes:

I haven't written for ratthew in so long so yayyyy

I love him I fear even tho he's a dick

I barely proof read this so ignore if it's repetitive af for now I'll go back in later.

italics symbolize flashback

***

CALL ME TONIGHT? | M. Tkachuk

part of kinktober -> 3377 words, 18+ only - contains smut. -> warnings; praise, explicit talk abt sex.

***

2:17 AM.

That was the time when you were supposed to be sleeping, but weren’t. You were trying to—really, you were. You had closed your eyes, willing yourself to drift off because tomorrow wasn’t going to be forgiving if you didn’t. But of course, the universe had other plans.

Your phone buzzed, glowing like a beacon on the nightstand, and you instantly regretted not muting it. A sigh slipped out before your eyes even opened, but there it was—his name. Full, bold, unmistakable. Matthew Tkachuk. You never changed it, though you had told yourself a dozen times you would. Seeing his full name pop up was like an unspoken rule between the two of you—a reminder that this was supposed to be casual, detached, no strings.

But here you were, stomach flipping as you stared at his message. You up?

You groaned, rolling onto your back, phone hovering above your face. Really? This man was halfway across the country, and he still knew exactly when to get under your skin. It was impressive, if you were being honest.

Seriously? What are we, sixteen? You typed it out, smirking at the thought of leaving him on read, but of course, you didn’t. You never did.

And sure enough, the three dots popped up almost instantly. Damn, he was fast.

Come on, babe. Miss me yet?

Your heart did a little traitorous flutter at that, and you had to bite your lip. Why did he always have to be so smooth? You could practically hear his voice, that low, confident drawl that always managed to make your knees weak, even when you weren’t physically in the same room. Damn him for being so good at this.

Nope. Busy sleeping, actually.

Another lie. You weren’t sleeping, not even close. You were wide awake now, nerves buzzing just from this little back and forth. It was pathetic how easily he got to you.

The dots again. You could almost picture him on the other end of the line—probably lounging in some hotel bed, shirtless, his lazy grin plastered across his face as he typed. He always had that effect on you, even through a screen.

Liar.

There it was. No pretense, no beating around the bush. Matthew knew exactly how to cut through the bullshit, and you hated how much you loved that about him.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You should tell him to go to bed, or better yet, turn your phone off and actually sleep. But no. That wasn’t going to happen. Not when you knew where this conversation was headed. And deep down, as much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, you were into it. Every damn time.

Fine. Maybe I’m not sleeping. What do you want?

You hit send, already knowing the answer. He was on a road trip, miles away, and yet somehow, it didn’t matter.

You.

That one word sent a shiver down your spine, as predictable as it was. It always started the same way, with him teasing, pushing, seeing how far he could go before you caved. And it always worked.

You chewed on your lip, feeling the heat spread through you as you typed back.

Yeah? And what exactly do you want to do about that?

The pause was longer this time, but not by much. Matthew had always been good at this, at building tension just enough to leave you hanging before he reeled you back in.

You know exactly what I want, baby. Tell me what you’re wearing right now.

Of course, that’s where he’d start. You rolled your eyes, even though your heart was pounding. He didn’t have to know that, though.

Pajamas. Super sexy, I know.

You kept it short, trying to sound unaffected, but your body was already betraying you. The mental image of him—those strong arms, that stupidly irresistible smirk—was enough to send a pulse of heat straight to your core.

Bet you’d look even sexier without them.

You stared at the message, biting your lip harder now. Why did this always get to you? Why was it always him?

Too bad you’re not here to find out.

You wanted to play coy, keep it light, but you knew where this was going. You always did. And you knew you weren’t going to stop him.

The next message came quicker than you expected.

FaceTime?

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t done that before—not in that way, anyway. Normally, these late-night texts stayed in the realm of words, teasing, flirting, maybe some dirty pictures exchanged. But this? This was new territory.

Are you serious right now?

Always.

Damn him. Damn him for knowing exactly how to push your buttons, for always managing to get under your skin no matter how hard you tried to keep him at arm’s length. You hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen again.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you tapped the video icon.

His face appeared, pixelated for half a second before clearing up, and there he was—Matthew, in all his messy-haired, smug-smiling glory. He was lying in bed, just as you’d imagined, shirtless, his hand resting casually on his chest like he had all the time in the world.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and warm, like he was sitting right next to you instead of halfway across the country. His eyes raked over you through the screen, and even though he couldn’t actually see much of anything—just your face and the collar of your oversized shirt—you felt exposed.

“Hi,” you replied, hating how breathless you sounded already. You were supposed to be playing it cool, keeping your distance, but one look at him and your resolve was crumbling.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “God, you look so damn good right now. Wish I could see more of you.”

Your heart stuttered, and you knew you were blushing, the heat creeping up your neck. This wasn’t new—his teasing, his dirty little comments—but something about this moment felt different, more charged. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your cool.

“Well, too bad. You’re not here, remember?” you shot back, hoping the sarcasm would mask how badly you were shaking inside.

“Mmm, I know. Fuck, I hate that. Could’ve had you under me by now, making those sweet little noises I love so much.” His voice was a slow drawl, his words dripping with confidence, and you bit your lip, your body reacting instantly. How did he always do this? He wasn’t even in the room, and yet your skin felt hot, tingling in all the right places.

“Matt,” you warned, though it lacked any real heat. It was half-hearted at best, and you both knew it.

“What?” His grin widened, the playful glint in his eyes unmistakable. “I know you like it when I talk to you like this, babe. You can’t tell me otherwise.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes, but the flutter in your stomach betrayed you. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“And yet here you are, still talking to me. What does that say about you?” His voice was a soft tease, and before you could think of a retort, he added, “Come on, baby. Let me see you. Just a little. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Your breath caught again. He was too good at this. Too smooth, too damn charming. You hated how easily he broke down your defenses with just a few words. And the worst part? You loved it.

You hesitated, glancing at the camera. “You first,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.”

His smile turned wicked. “Oh, you wanna see me, huh?”

You nodded, biting your lip, trying to look more confident than you felt.

Without another word, Matthew’s phone shifted, and suddenly the view expanded. He held the camera out, giving you a full view of his bare torso. Your mouth went dry at the sight of him, the definition in his muscles, the way his skin gleamed in the dim light. He was ridiculously attractive, and he knew it.

“Like what you see?” he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

You swallowed hard, biting down on your lip to stop the whimper that almost escaped. There was no point in pretending anymore. Not when you were already this far in. “Yeah,” you finally managed to say, the word coming out in a shaky breath. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him, your pulse racing as the image of his hand gliding lower teased your mind.

His smirk widened, and even through the screen, it felt like he was right next to you. “Good. Now, be a good girl and show me what you're wearing.”

The words sent a jolt of heat straight through your body, and you had to remind yourself to breathe. His voice alone had you unraveling, but that praise? That did things to you, made your mind go fuzzy and your body respond in ways you weren’t ready to admit yet. The oversized shirt you were wearing suddenly felt too heavy, too suffocating. You weren’t even wearing a bra underneath, and the thought of him knowing that, seeing that, made your skin tingle.

“Matt...” You hesitated, nerves creeping in, but his gaze on the screen was so intense, so steady, it was impossible not to get caught up in the moment.

"Come on, baby. Don’t get shy on me now." His voice was soft but commanding, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “I want to see you. Just lift it up for me. Let me see those perfect tits.”

Your breath caught at how blunt he was, the dirty talk flowing so effortlessly from him, and yet, that little part of you—the one that always melted at his praise—couldn’t resist. You swallowed again, your hand trembling slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt, inching it up slowly. Your nipples were already hard, the cool air of the room hitting your bare skin, making you even more aware of how turned on you were.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice thick with hunger. “Look at you, baby. God, I wish I was there to touch you. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

The praise hit you like a wave, sending warmth pooling between your legs. You couldn’t help the soft sound that escaped your lips, and the second it did, his eyes darkened.

“Touch them for me. Come on, baby, let me see how they feel in your hands. I know they’re sensitive. Bet you’re already dying for more.”

Your hand moved before you even realized it, your fingers grazing your breasts, the sensation sending a sharp pulse straight to your core. A soft gasp escaped your lips, your eyes closing for a moment as you pinched your nipple, feeling the tight bud between your fingers. It felt electric, like your whole body was humming with need.

“That's it, just let me hear those pretty noises,” Matthew’s voice encouraged. “Just like that, baby. Fuck, I can hear how much you like it.”

You weren’t even aware of the soft moans slipping from your lips, but the sound seemed to spur him on, his voice growing even more intense.

“God, I wish I could feel them. I’d suck on those pretty nipples until you were soaking wet for me. I know you’d be dripping, baby. You always are when I talk to you like this.”

Your throat tightened at how easily he could read you, and without thinking, your hand drifted down over your stomach, your fingers teasing the waistband of your shorts. He wasn’t even physically in the room, and yet he had you completely under his control with just his voice.

“Bet you’re clenching those pretty thighs together right now, huh? Touch yourself for me,” he murmured, his tone dropping even lower. “I want to see how wet you are.”

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. You slid your hand beneath your shorts, fingers slipping between your thighs, and sure enough, you were already drenched. A soft gasp left your lips as you touched yourself, your hips arching into the sensation. It was like every nerve in your body was on fire, and the sound of his voice only made it worse.

“There you go,” Matthew praised, his eyes glued to the screen. “Take ‘em off. I wanna see.”

You hesitated, thumb grazing the waistband of your shorts, the fabric feeling too tight against your skin now that you were hyper-aware of every breath, every pulse in your body. Your mind was racing, a million thoughts all colliding at once. You’d never actually done this before—not like this, anyway. You were used to the teasing texts, the flirty exchanges that left you restless, but this? This was different. This was raw, unfiltered. And Matthew had a way of making you feel so exposed, even from miles away.

His voice cut through the haze in your head, low and coaxing, “Come on, baby. Don’t make me wait. Take ‘em off for me.” That tone of his, so smooth, had you melting, and the way he said baby? It was like your body was hardwired to respond to it, no matter how much you wanted to pretend otherwise.

You swallowed, trying to regain some semblance of composure. But your hand moved on its own, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts, and slowly, you tugged them down, the cool air hitting your bare skin like a jolt of electricity.

“Good girl,” Matthew’s voice came through the phone, thick with praise. “Fuck, look at you. Just look at how perfect you are for me.” His words made your stomach flip, a deep warmth spreading through you. You weren’t even naked yet, but it was like every inch of your skin was on fire, burning under his gaze.

You tugged the shorts the rest of the way off, tossing them aside. The screen flickered slightly as you adjusted, angling the camera to show more of your body, your legs spread just enough for him to catch a glimpse of what was hidden between them. And God, the look on his face—his eyes darkened instantly, that lazy grin turning downright predatory.

“Shit, baby,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. “You’re so fucking wet already, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched, heart racing at the bluntness of his words. He always had a way of being so direct, so unashamed in the way he talked to you. And you loved it. You hated how much you loved it. The praise in his voice, the dirty edge—it went straight to your head, making you dizzy with need.

“Touch yourself for me,” he urged, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Let me see those pretty fingers between your legs.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, fingers sliding down between your thighs, brushing over your slick folds. A soft gasp escaped you at the touch, your body lighting up at the sensation. The thought of him watching you, of him seeing how desperate you were, only made the heat in your belly burn hotter.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, his voice rougher now, edged with hunger. “God, I wish I was there to fuck you with my fingers. I’d have you dripping for me, soaking the sheets.”

A moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it, your body responding to his words as if he were physically there, his fingers working you over instead of your own. Your hips arched off the bed, and the wet sounds of your fingers sliding through your slick filled the air.

“Fuck, you sound so good,” Matthew growled, his hand disappearing from the screen for a moment. You heard the faint rustle of fabric, followed by a low grunt, and you knew exactly what he was doing. The thought made you even more breathless.

“Wish you could feel how hard I am for you right now,” he continued, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “You make me so fucking hard, baby. All I can think about is how tight you’d feel around me, how good you’d look with my cock buried deep inside you again.”

Your breath hitched again, a whimper escaping you as your fingers circled your clit, your body reacting to every filthy word that fell from his lips. The tension was building fast, that familiar heat coiling tighter in your belly with every stroke, every soft sound you made.

“I can hear how much you like it, babe,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you? Touching yourself like that, getting all worked up just from my voice.”

Your mind went hazy at the praise, that stupid little phrase good girl doing things to you that you didn’t even want to admit. He always knew exactly what to say to make you unravel, to make you desperate for him, and it was infuriating how easily you folded under his words.

“Matty,” you breathed, your voice trembling, your fingers speeding up as you chased that release, your body on the edge of something intense. The tension was unbearable, every nerve in your body thrumming with need.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “I’m so fucking hard just from watching you. God, I wish you were here to suck me off. You’ve got the perfect mouth for it, baby. I’d fuck your throat until you couldn’t talk.”

Your whole body burned at his words, the filth spilling from his mouth sending wave after wave of heat crashing through you. You couldn’t stop the moans that escaped now, couldn’t stop the way your fingers moved faster against your clit, chasing the release that was building inside you.

“Let me see you come, baby,” he groaned, his own breath ragged now. “I want to watch you fall apart for me. Fuck, you always look so pretty when you come. I’d have you screaming my name if I was there.”

And that was it. His words were all it took to send you spiraling, your body arching off the bed as the orgasm tore through you, a strangled moan escaping your lips as your fingers pressed harder against your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, intense, and all-consuming, and you could barely hear Matthew’s voice over the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Fuck, that’s it. Look at you, baby. So fucking beautiful when you come.” His voice was thick, dark with desire, and you could see the strain in his expression as he watched you through the screen. “I’m close, too. You wanna watch me come?”

You nodded, still breathless, your body trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Matthew’s hand moved faster now, his grip tight as he stroked himself, his eyes locked on yours.

“God, I wish it was your mouth on me right now. You’d take it so well, wouldn’t you? Swallow every last drop.”

You shuddered at his words, the dirty talk still sending pulses of heat through you even in the aftermath of your orgasm. Matthew’s hand moved faster, and you watched, entranced, as his body tensed, his jaw clenching as he reached his peak.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he groaned, his voice low and rough. “You’re so fucking hot, baby. I’m gonna come all over your pretty face next time.”

And with that, he came, a deep, guttural moan escaping his lips as his body shuddered, his release spilling over his hand. You watched, mesmerized, as his chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

For a moment, the two of you were silent, the only sound the soft hum of the phone and the lingering echoes of your heavy breathing. Then, finally, Matthew spoke, his voice soft but full of that familiar smugness. “Call me tomorrow night?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as the reality of what just happened started to sink in. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you keep coming back for more.” His grin was wide and unapologetic, and despite yourself, you smiled back.

Yeah. You did.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey fanfiction #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk x you #mt19 #mt19 x you #mt19 x reader #nhl smut #kinktober #wannabehockeygf kinktober

cut my hair - matthew tkachuk

part of the think later fic series

"Just wanna cut my hair Lose myself Make you sweat Go out and get messed up Find myself in your bed"

***

request: “heyyyyy me again. Would you be able to do another Matthew Tkachuk for cut my hair? a lil angsty and smuty with a happy ending. Thank you!”

summary: after being dumped, you make it your mission to have him regret everything. word count: 9.2k pairing: matthew tkachuk x fem!reader warnings: 18+ NSFW! Unprotected sex, talk about sex in the past, a lot of slightly kinky shit (biting and stuff like that, not too crazy), creampie, alcohol, sex in public (but sort of hidden?) degradation & degrading talk, toxic relationship. notes: - i actually started this a few days ago & then i got a request for something similar so i tweaked it. girl u read my mind.

-^ my loyal requester. please don’t worry about sending too much in, trust me I love you for it, but don’t expect things too quickly ❤️ - ^^ this is barely edited or proof read. i tried but there's gonna be repetitive shit & i'll probably end up tweaking it but here it is yayyy - haven't written smut in a while 😋 - guys as much as i love chucky & quinn i really would like to write about people from the team i support the most...(the leafs if you somehow couldn't tell?) so i'm gonna be focusing on them for a bit & if you would like to request one (or clayton keller, he's my exception) please do! - ^ that being said, i will start working on qhxga pt.3 soon. - in light of everything going on, i would like to clarify matthew has not drinken anything in this despite him being in a bar & this being fiction. PLEASE don't drink and drive. ***

You’re mad.

You’re mad about a lot of things. Which is weird, because usually, you’re not mad, you just bask in your misery all day.

You’re too touchy-feely for your own good. The sad girl act is getting old, and you know it.

At least, that’s what he told you.

“You’re so fucking dramatic! Like, holy shit, can you just let go for once and have fun? Because that’s it. That’s all we’re doing, we’re having fun. I don’t give a fuck about your feelings, I’m not the guy you’ll marry!”

The lump in your throat seems to grow by the second as you try to speak. “So what, you’re saying we should break up?”

Matthew scoffs over the line, and you can basically imagine him pacing his apartment, tugging at the curly strands of his hair as if it could make him think more clearly. “We were never dating! But if you really want to see it that way, then, fuck yes, let’s break up.”

The phone call ends with a click, but the sound echoes in your head like a slammed door. Matthew’s words hang in the air, and for a second, you just stand there, staring at your phone screen as if expecting an apology to pop up. But it doesn’t. Because he never does that.

You feel the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not this time. His voice still rings in your ears, mocking you. You’re so dramatic. Maybe he’s right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You chew your lip, pacing your small apartment. Your reflection catches your eye in the hallway mirror—your long hair falling in waves past your shoulders, the way Matthew always said he liked it. Suddenly, the sight of it makes your stomach twist with resentment.

He doesn’t care about you. He never did.

The anger rushes through your veins, fueling you, pushing you towards the scissors in your bathroom drawer. You grip them tightly, the cool metal biting into your palm as you lift them to your hair. He liked it long, huh? A bitter laugh escapes your throat. Without giving yourself time to overthink, you hack off the first chunk, watching it fall into the sink. It feels… freeing. With every cut, it’s like you’re snipping away the pieces of yourself that he’s picked apart. The version of you that wanted him to love her. Gone. The version that begged for scraps of his attention. Gone.

When you’re done, you barely recognize yourself. The hair that once framed your face is gone, leaving behind a sharp, choppy cut that makes you look fiercer, harder. It feels good.

The little black dress hangs in the back of your closet, practically taunting you. You haven’t worn it in months—Matthew hated it. Said it was too much, too revealing, that it would draw attention. But tonight, that’s exactly what you want. You pull it on, the soft fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places. You glance in the mirror once more, a smirk curling your lips. Let him see what he’s missing.

“Let’s see who’s too dramatic now,” you mutter, grabbing your purse. The night is still young, and you know exactly where he’ll be. The bar on 5th Street, right near your apartment—his favorite, your least favorite. It always smells like spilled beer and desperation. Fitting, considering that’s where you met him.

Your heels click against the pavement with each determined step outside. You’re buzzing with anticipation, nerves, and spite. It’s like electricity under your skin, the kind that makes your hands shake but your heart pound in excitement. There’s something so satisfying about this, about showing up like this, looking like you don’t give a damn when, really, you give so many. Too many.

You try not to think about what he’ll say when he sees you. You can already imagine his eyebrows shooting up, that condescending smirk tugging at his lips. “What the hell did you do to your hair?” he’d say, because that’s Matthew—always focusing on the superficial, on the surface, never diving deeper. But tonight, you don’t want him to dive. You want him to drown.

The bar looms ahead, its neon sign flickering like some kind of cheap welcome–you know he’ll be here. You hesitate for only a second before pushing the door open, the familiar smell of alcohol and sweat hitting you like a wave. Your eyes scan the room, searching, until you find him. He’s leaning against the bar, laughing with some girl, unopened Corona in hand. He doesn’t see you at first, but you see him.

Your stomach twists in knots, anger and nerves swirling together. For a brief moment, you wonder if this was a mistake. If you’re being too... well, dramatic. But then his voice from earlier echoes in your head: “I don’t give a fuck about your feelings.”

Your spine straightens, resolve hardening like steel.

You walk toward him, every step feeling like an eternity. He turns, and there it is—his eyes widen, confusion flashing across his face before that stupid smirk settles in. He looks you up and down, taking in the dress, the hair, the new you. You can feel the anger bubbling up again, but there’s something else lurking beneath it—a twisted satisfaction at the way his mouth hangs open slightly, like he doesn’t know what to say. You arch a brow, waiting for the inevitable comment. He doesn't disappoint.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

There it is. Just like you predicted, and somehow, it still stings. Of course, he’d focus on that first. Not the fact that you showed up here looking like a goddamn queen in the dress he hates, not the fact that you’ve changed in a way he can’t even begin to comprehend—no, it’s always the surface with him.

You cross your arms, throwing every ounce of defiance into your stance. “I cut it,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for noticing.”

Matthew’s eyes narrow, his smirk faltering just for a second before he recovers. “Yeah, I noticed. What, you having a meltdown or something?”

There’s the laugh. The one that makes you feel small, like you’re just a joke to him. Your blood boils at the sound, but you force yourself to keep your expression steady, hiding the tremor in your voice as you reply. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending to be the version of me that you liked. Ever think of that?”

He blinks, thrown off by the venom in your words. For a second, you wonder if he’ll apologize, if he’ll say something that softens the sharp edges of this moment. But no. Matthew is Matthew, and his pride won’t let him back down.

“Jesus, you’re really something, huh?” His smirk deepens, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes now—something like recognition, like maybe he’s starting to see the version of you he never bothered to notice. The one that’s done waiting for him to care. “You don’t have to get all dramatic about it. We were just having fun, that’s all.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat like a drum, loud and insistent. He’s standing there, smug and arrogant, as if he still holds some kind of power over you. Like you’re a joke. Like you haven’t just hacked off your hair and thrown on the dress that makes you feel like a goddess in defiance of everything he’s ever said.

And yet, despite the burn of his words, you can’t deny the pull. That stupid, magnetic draw that he has over you. You hate it. You hate him. But there’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you now, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. Something you recognize all too well.

“I’m dramatic?” Your voice rises, thick with sarcasm, but the pain seeps through, like a tear you can’t stitch up fast enough. “You’re the one who just broke up with me—or, sorry—broke up with me from the relationship that apparently never existed. So excuse me if I’m a little dramatic, Matthew.”

He leans back against the bar, taking another sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving yours. There’s that look again. You know it well—half-annoyed, half-amused, like you’re entertaining him somehow, like this whole mess is just another game to him. His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smirk. "Well, if you're gonna throw a tantrum every time something doesn’t go your way, maybe this is for the best.”

Your hands ball into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as the anger bubbles beneath your skin, ready to burst. You want to scream at him, to tell him he’s an asshole, that he’ll never deserve you. But the words lodge in your throat, tangled up with the hurt, and instead, all you can do is glare at him. God, you hate him. You hate how he knows exactly what to say to get under your skin, to make you feel small, even now.

But as much as you want to storm out, to prove that you’re better than this, you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, locked in place by the storm brewing between you. The air feels electric, like something is about to snap, and you can feel it—this pull between the anger and something else, something darker and heavier.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. The smell of his cologne—woodsy, warm—hits you, and it pisses you off even more because it brings back memories you don’t want. Late nights tangled in his sheets, the way his lips felt against your neck, the stupid, tender moments that don’t match this Matthew standing in front of you, smirking like none of it mattered. Like you don’t matter.

“God, you’re such a prick,” you mutter, your voice low, barely more than a whisper. But he hears it. His smirk falters for just a second, and in that moment, you see it—something cracks behind his eyes. A flicker of uncertainty, maybe even guilt. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Oh, I’m the prick? That’s rich coming from the girl who’s been throwing herself at me for months,” he fires back, his voice dripping with mockery. His words sting, but you don’t flinch. You’re done letting him hurt you. Not tonight, but then he keeps then talking. “You wanna know why I never saw this as anything more than fun? Because you pull this shit. Every time. You get all clingy and needy, and it’s fucking exhausting."

You stand there, staring at him, his words a knife twisting deeper and deeper into your chest with every syllable. Clingy. Needy. Exhausting. They echo in your head, bouncing around like cruel little taunts, each one sharpening your anger until it feels like it’s going to spill out of you, red-hot and uncontrollable.

Clingy? You’ve been "clingy?"

You almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, but instead, the sound that escapes you is more of a strangled scoff. How dare he? How dare he act like you’re the problem? Like you’ve been the one hanging on too tight, when all you ever did was try to be close to him. All you wanted was to feel wanted by him, but apparently, that made you exhausting.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier, like the world’s closing in on you. Or maybe that’s just your body’s way of processing the tidal wave of rage, hurt, and—goddamn it—desire that’s pulling you in too many directions at once. You can barely think straight, your heart pounding in your ears as his smirk only deepens, like he knows he’s hit a nerve and is more than happy to twist the knife in further.

Exhausting? You can feel your blood boiling beneath your skin, heating you from the inside out. No, you’re not exhausting—you’re furious.

He has the audacity to stand there, cool as ever, his gaze sliding down your body as if this entire thing is nothing more than a minor inconvenience for him. You want to slap him. You want to scream at him. You want to walk out of this bar and never see him again. But instead, you’re rooted to the spot, because there’s something else simmering beneath the rage—a sick, twisted pull that’s keeping you here, stuck in this toxic mess of a situation, and it’s only getting harder to ignore.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to compose yourself before you lose it completely. “Clingy, huh? Is that what you call wanting a fucking relationship? Needing someone to actually give a shit about you?”

Your words are sharp, biting, but there’s a tremor beneath them, the anger barely masking the hurt that’s been clawing at you since the phone call. Matthew doesn’t miss it. His eyes flicker, just for a second, like he almost feels bad, but then his expression hardens again, that irritating, cocky grin sliding back into place as if he’s made of stone.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t act like the world’s ending every time I don’t text you back, we wouldn’t be here,” he retorts, his voice laced with mockery. He takes another step closer, his body towering over you, the heat of him pressing into your space, but you stand your ground, refusing to be the one to flinch first. “You get so goddamn dramatic about everything. I didn’t sign up for that shit.”

His words should make you snap, should make you storm out of this bar with your dignity intact, but instead, you’re frozen. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but not just from anger. No, it’s that stupid, horrible, unbearable attraction. The one that makes you want to punch him and kiss him all at once. The scent of his cologne strengthens, the same one that used to cling to your sheets after he’d sneak out in the morning. The same one that’s tied to every bad decision you’ve ever made where he’s concerned. And God, you hate him for it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, voice low and tight, but your throat is closing in around the words. “I’ve been throwing myself at you? Right. Like you weren’t the one showing up at my place at two in the morning, wanting to ‘hang out’ when we both know what that meant.”

His smirk falters again, but not for long. He steps even closer, close enough now that you can see the flicker of something darker in his eyes. A spark that you know all too well. The same one that got you into this mess in the first place. You shouldn’t still be here, you shouldn’t still be entertaining this bullshit, but it’s like your body and mind are at war, and your body’s starting to win. Your fists clench at your sides as he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin when he speaks.

“You loved every second of it,” he says, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “Don’t act like you didn’t. Like you didn’t beg for it.”

That’s it. That’s the final straw. Something inside you snaps, and before you can think better of it, your hand lashes out, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely stumbles, but the shock in his eyes is enough to make you feel a small, fleeting victory. “Fuck you, Matthew,” you spit out, your voice trembling. “I didn’t beg for shit. You’re the one who kept coming back, like some... like some goddamn parasite!”

The second the words leave your mouth, you expect him to snap back, to yell, to argue. But instead, his eyes darken, his jaw clenches, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s two seconds away from either tearing into you or kissing you. And you hate that you can’t tell which one you want more.

The air between you is thick, suffocating. You’re breathing hard, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and he’s right there, barely inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. And then, as if some invisible thread snaps between you, he moves.

In an instant, his hands are on you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you forward, and before you can protest or even think, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate, angry, a mess of teeth and tongues and heat. You want to push him away, to scream at him, to throw something, but instead, you find yourself kissing him back just as hard, your body betraying every rational thought in your head. It’s like everything inside you is on fire, all the rage and hurt and lust combusting into one reckless, overwhelming need.

His hands are rough as they grab your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the front of his shirt as if you’re trying to ground yourself, to keep from getting swept up in the tornado of emotions swirling around you. But it’s no use. You’re already lost in it.

The kiss deepens, and you can taste his signature mint gum on his breath, can feel the urgency in the way he’s touching you, like he can’t get enough. Like he needs you as much as you hate needing him right now. Your back hits the bar, and he presses into you, his body solid and warm, and it feels so familiar, so maddeningly familiar that you could scream.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

But you don’t stop. Neither of you do. Because even though you know this is a bad idea, even though you know you’ll regret this in the morning, right now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tightly, and you moan into his mouth, your body arching against his. The sound makes him groan, low and rough, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild, his lips swollen from the kiss. “You wanna get out of here, princess?” he whispers, his voice rough, “Or did you want to put on a show for everyone? You were obviously planning on it, with this slutty little thing.” he punctates his last words by snapping your visible bra strap against your shoulder, making you gasp.

Your breath hitches at the sting of his words, but there’s a part of you that thrills at the edge of humiliation, at the way he’s using your vulnerability against you. It’s twisted, but it’s like a key unlocking something deep inside you. You’ve been fighting so hard, trying to stay in control, but with him so close, with him touching you and talking to you like this, everything unravels.

“Get a grip, Matthew,” you manage to snarl, though the tremor in your voice betrays you. “You don’t get to act like you’re above this when you’re the one who dragged me into this mess.”

His eyes flash with something dark, almost predatory. “Dragged you? You came running. Don’t pretend you didn’t want this, didn’t want me to notice you. This whole act—” he gestures vaguely at your dress and hair, “—is just you trying to get me to see you. Well, guess what? I see you. And you know what? I don’t fucking care.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you can’t back down now. You’re in too deep, and the anger mixing with your lust makes you reckless. “I don’t need you to care,” you snap, grabbing his collar and pulling him closer. “I just need you to fuck me right now. Show me how much you don’t care.”

His lips are on yours again before you can even think, stealing your breath and your sanity all at once. You hate him for it. God, you hate how easily he can undo you, how quickly he makes you forget why you’re angry in the first place. But even as the thought crosses your mind, you’re kissing him back, harder this time, as if the sheer force of it will somehow knock sense into both of you. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Your body presses up against his, the heat between you almost unbearable, and you can feel him smirking into the kiss, the bastard. You want to wipe that cocky look off his face, but at the same time, you want to see just how far he’s willing to push you. It’s like every nerve in your body is buzzing, caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to strip him down and ride him until neither of you can remember your own names. The worst part? You’re not sure which one you’ll end up doing first.

He bites down on your bottom lip, sharp and deliberate, and you gasp, the pain only fueling the fire inside you. "That all you got, princess?" he mutters against your mouth, his voice a low, mocking growl. It’s the same tone that’s always driven you insane, always made you want to throw something at him—and now, it’s making you wet. Great.

You narrow your eyes, wrenching yourself away from his mouth long enough to glare at him. “Don’t call me that,” you spit, hating how breathless you sound, hating how much you’re giving away with every ragged inhale.

He just grins, the kind of grin that makes you want to slap him, but instead, you find your hand curling into the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. “What, don’t like your cute little nickname? I thought you loved attention, baby.”

“I don’t need your fucking attention,” you shoot back, though the lie burns your throat on the way out. “I just need you to shut up and make yourself useful for once.”

He chuckles darkly, his fingers digging into your hips with bruising force, and something about the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. You hate how easy it is for him to get under your skin, how quickly he can strip away all the walls you’ve built up around yourself. “Useful, huh?” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Funny, I don’t remember you complaining the last time I had you screaming my name.”

Your breath catches in your throat, but you refuse to let him see how much that rattles you. “That was a fluke,” you mutter, though your voice wavers. “Let’s not pretend it meant anything.”

That was a fluke? Did you really just try to sell that lie? The memory of his name leaving your lips—no, leaving your throat in a desperate, pleading gasp—burns behind your eyelids. You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the way he pulled sounds from you that you didn’t even know you were capable of making. And now, here you are, trying to convince him, and yourself, that it didn’t mean a thing.

Pathetic.

The silence stretches for a beat too long, your throat tight with the effort of holding back all the things you want to say, all the venom you want to spit right in his smug, infuriating face. He’s just standing there, practically vibrating with amusement, like he knows he’s won this round. And that—that’s what sends your anger spiking again, turning into something molten.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, and you shiver despite yourself. “Fluke, huh?” His voice is low, dangerous, and you hate that it sends a ripple of something dark and wanting straight through your core. “So, if I touched you right now—if I slipped my fingers under that pathetic excuse of a dress—I'd find you soaking wet by accident?”

You hate him. You hate him so much, it hurts.

Without thinking, you pull back just enough to whisper, “Let’s get out of here.” Your voice is rough, breathless, and you hate that he’s the reason for it.

His eyes flash with something dark, something feral, and he smirks down at you, his lips swollen and red. “Yeah?” he taunts, his hands still tight on your hips. “You want me that bad?”

You grit your teeth, hating how he twists everything, how he always knows exactly where to hit. “Fuck you,” you bite out, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Take me somewhere, or I’ll find someone who will.”

His grip on you tightens dangerously, his eyes flashing with anger and something else, something possessive. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Before you can blink, he’s pulling you away from the bar, his hand gripping yours tightly, practically dragging you through the throngs of people. You stumble after him, your head spinning, your body still buzzing with adrenaline and anger and lust. The music pounds around you, the heat from the crowd suffocating, but all you can focus on is the way his hand feels in yours, the way your heart pounds in your chest like it’s trying to break free.

It’s reckless. It’s insane. And it’s exactly what you need.

The air outside should be cooler–but it’s not. It’s humid, sticky, and uncomfortably warm, Florida summers coming into full effect. The night threatens to swallow you both whole as he hauls you down a side alley, the noise of the club fading but the adrenaline still roaring through your veins. Every step you take feels like it’s leading you further into the eye of the storm, and even though you know there’s no going back now, you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

“What’s the rush?” you sneer, yanking at his hand, though not hard enough to actually break his grip. “Afraid I’ll change my mind?”

He glances back at you, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his swollen lips. “Nah, princess. I’m just getting us somewhere quiet so I don’t have to listen to your whining while I fuck the attitude out of you.”

Your throat tightens, a hot flush crawling up your neck as you realize where this is headed. A dingy alley behind a club, dimly lit and reeking of stale beer and cigarette smoke—this is where it’s going to happen? Your body is screaming at you to care, to turn around and leave, but your legs keep moving forward, drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

He pulls you into a narrow alcove, barely wide enough for both of you, and the second you’re tucked inside, he’s on you. His body presses against yours, firm and demanding, and it’s all you can do to keep your knees from buckling as his hands grip your waist like he owns you.

This is ridiculous. How did you end up here? Again. Every damn time. You swore after the last time that you were done—that you wouldn’t let him crawl back into your space, under your skin, and wrap his filthy, bruising grip around your heart. But here you are, yet again, like some stupid moth drawn to the inferno that is Matthew Tkachuk.

You want to shove him away, to scream in his face that you’re not the girl who falls for this. Except, you know better. You are exactly the girl who falls for this. The one who caves when he looks at you with those maddening blue eyes. The girl who lets him wreck her in alleyways behind clubs in the sticky heat of a Florida night, knowing damn well how this will end: messily.

“Still pretending, huh?” His voice rumbles low against your ear, mocking and sharp. He’s pressed so close you can feel every word vibrate through you, igniting your nerves like a lit fuse. "You keep telling yourself you hate this, but you're so fucking obvious. Look at you—" he pauses, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls your body tighter against his, "—practically melting into me. If you were any more desperate, you’d be begging."

The insult should sting. It should make you slap him, curse him out, anything—but instead, a fire blooms in your chest, fierce and hot, because the bastard’s not entirely wrong. And isn’t that just the worst part? He knows how to press every button, dig under your skin like it’s his damn playground, and worse yet, you let him. Every. Single. Time.

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?” Your voice is breathless, each word shaky and ragged, but at least you still manage to get them out. “You think you’ve got me figured out? Please. The only reason I’m here is because no one else in this godforsaken place knows how to shut you up.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you regret them—not because you don’t mean it (you do)—but because it only serves to fuel him. That cocky grin spreads across his face, slow and deliberate, like he knows he’s won something. His eyes flicker with amusement, the kind that makes you want to punch him in the throat.

“Shut me up?” he repeats, one brow arching. He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice low and dripping with arrogance. “Funny, you didn’t seem so eager to shut me up the last time I had you moaning my name loud enough to wake up half the fucking city. So, what’s the plan this time? You gonna play hard to get until you’re dripping for me again?”

Heat rushes to your face, your pulse racing at the way he’s goading you. The memory of that night comes rushing back with startling clarity—the way he made you unravel piece by piece, the sounds he dragged out of you, your body shaking in his hands. No. Not again. You grit your teeth, fighting back the whirlwind of feelings that threatens to consume you.

“God, you really are delusional,” you bite out, shoving at his chest, though it’s mostly for show. His body barely moves under your weak attempt to push him off. “I’m not here because I want you. I’m here because I pity you. You always need someone to tell you what a good job you’re doing, don’t you, Tkachuk? Can’t go five minutes without being validated.”

It’s a low blow, you know it. But you’re playing dirty, because that’s what this is—dirty, ugly, and twisted beyond recognition. His expression darkens for a split second, and you think maybe you’ve gotten through that thick skull of his. But then his grip on your waist tightens painfully, and suddenly you’re pinned against the wall, your back pressing hard against the brick harder, the air punched out of your lungs by the force.

“Oh, I don’t need validation from you, princess,” he snarls, his face inches from yours now. His lips curl in that infuriating smirk, all teeth and malice, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I get that plenty from everyone else. You’re just the one who can’t seem to keep your legs closed when I’m around.”

You hate that his words stirs something in you, some deep, primal urge you’d rather ignore. He can see it too, the way your breath catches, the faint flush that creeps up your neck. Every scathing insult, every venomous remark felt like a bruise that you both pressed harder into because neither of you could seem to stop. And worse, some traitorous part of you doesn’t want to stop. You’re furious—at him, at yourself, at how easily you let him turn you into someone else entirely. Someone who gets off on the ugly, spiteful mess you make together.

But what do you do when that mess feels so fucking good?

Your thoughts swirl, a chaotic storm, as his eyes bore into yours, dark and predatory, daring you to do something—anything. God, how do you always end up here? You swore you were done. You told yourself that the last time he fucked you against a wall like you were something to be used and discarded. You’ve never been able to stay away, though, and the worst part? He knows it.

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, the words tearing from your throat as if that could somehow free you from the pull he has on you. “You think you can talk to me like that and I’ll still—” But your words die in your throat as his hand slides up your side, fingers pushing over the straps of your dress. The sensation makes you jump, a sharp gasp escaping before you can bite it back. Goddamn him.

His lips curve into a wicked grin, eyes narrowing like a predator who’s caught the scent of blood. “Still pretending you don’t like this?” he breathes, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl that rakes over your skin. His other hand trails lower, brushing the inside of your thigh, and your body betrays you—your legs quiver, and he feels it. Of course, he does. “Tell me again how much you hate this,” he mocks, his lips grazing your ear, the words sending a shudder down your spine. “Go ahead. Convince yourself you don’t want my hands all over you right now.”

I hate this. I hate him. You keep repeating it, as if the words could solidify and become truth, as if you could convince your traitorous body to listen. But no matter how hard you try to summon any real anger, all that rises is a wave of heat that feels like it's going to swallow you whole. You feel him smirk against your skin, his breath hot on your neck, and it makes something in you snap.

"God, you're so fucking predictable," you sneer, even though your voice trembles. "Always gotta prove you're the big man, huh? Does it get tiring, being this pathetic?"

You’re trying, trying so hard to dig your heels in, to maintain some sense of power in this wretched game you’ve both played a hundred times before. But you know—he knows—it’s crumbling fast. His hand is already inching higher, under your skirt, rough fingers ghosting along the inside of your thigh, and every ounce of resolve you cling to feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

Don’t react, you tell yourself. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But then his fingers brush the edge of your panties, and your whole body jerks involuntarily, a shuddering gasp escaping your lips before you can stop it. And there it is. The crack in your armor, the proof that despite all your sharp words, your body is already begging for him.

"Still got that smart mouth, huh?" His voice is velvet laced with venom, a dangerous drawl that makes your skin tingle. "It’s funny, you talk such a big game, but I’m pretty sure I can feel how much you want this. You’re soaked."

His words slam into you, making your cheeks burn with humiliation, but there’s no denying it. You can feel it—the heat pooling between your legs, the dampness that betrays everything you’ve been trying to deny. It’s pathetic, really. How he can reduce you to this, turn you inside out with just a few touches and that goddamn voice.

“I fucking hate you,” you hiss, pushing at his chest again, but the movement is weak, half-hearted. You’re shaking—whether from rage, lust, or some twisted cocktail of both, you don’t even know anymore. But he doesn’t move, not even an inch. Instead, he presses closer, so close you can feel every inch of him against you, hard and insistent.

“Yeah?” His lips curl into a smirk, eyes dark and glinting with amusement. “Funny how hate looks a lot like you grinding on me, sweetheart. You sure you don’t want to rethink that?”

Your body answers before your brain can. Without meaning to, your hips roll against him, just a slight shift, but enough to make his breath hitch. And God, the satisfaction that flares in your chest at that tiny victory is intoxicating. But it’s short-lived, because suddenly you’re hyper-aware of where you are—pressed against a brick wall in the sticky heat of a dimly lit alley, where anyone could walk by at any moment.

Your pulse spikes with a new kind of anxiety. “Wait,” you breathe, suddenly feeling exposed, raw. You push at him again, harder this time. “Not here. Someone could—”

But Matthew doesn’t even blink. If anything, his grin widens, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he leans in closer, his breath hot on your ear. “Oh, what’s this? Now you’re getting shy? That’s cute.” His fingers rub your thigh, a deliberate, maddening slowness that makes you want to scream. “Don’t tell me the idea of someone catching us is what’s really got you worked up.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, a dizzying mix of arousal and panic swirling in your veins. You’ve never been this close to losing control in public before, and the idea of someone seeing you like this—needy, desperate, coming undone under Matthew’s hands—it sends a jolt of fear straight to your core. Although you’d deny it, there’s a tiny part of you, buried deep, that doesn’t hate it.

“Matthew, I’m serious,” you manage, though your voice is strained, shaky. “We can’t—”

“Oh, now you care about getting caught?” he cuts you off, amusement dripping from every word. “Come on, don’t act like this is the first time we’ve done something reckless. Admit it—you like it.” His hand slips underneath your panties, pressing against the heat there, and your knees nearly buckle. “You like knowing someone might see what a filthy mess you are for me.”

A soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. His grip tightens, his body pressing harder against yours, pinning you firmly in place. You can feel him—all of him—and it only makes the ache between your legs worse. Your body is betraying you at every turn, no matter how much your mind is screaming at you to stop.

“Filthy mess?” You force out a bitter laugh, your chest heaving, trying desperately to regain some sense of control, but your body is betraying you at every turn. You can feel the wetness between your legs, undeniable, a humiliating testament to just how much he affects you. “Coming from the guy who begged to get his dick sucked the last time? Please. You’re so easy, Matthew. One touch and you’re practically falling apart like a teenager.”

His eyes darken at the insult, that dangerous spark flaring behind them, and you know you’ve hit a nerve. But instead of backing off, he leans in, his lips grazing your ear as he speaks, his breath hot and ragged. “Keep running that mouth, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal. “Let’s see how long you last before you’re begging me to fuck you.”

Your pulse quickens, your stomach twisting at the way his words seep into your skin like venom. You hate that he’s right—hate that he knows exactly how to unravel you with just a few touches, a few sharp words. His hand moves again, slipping further down, his fingers sliding over your slick folds, and you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips. It’s involuntary, humiliating, and the satisfaction that flickers in his eyes makes your blood boil.

His fingers press harder, slipping inside you, and a sharp jolt of pleasure surges through you, your knees nearly buckling from the intensity of it. You bite your lip, hard, refusing to let him hear how much it affects you, but the way your body trembles against his tells him everything he needs to know.

His lips curl into a wicked smile as he watches you fall apart, his thumb brushing over your clit with a gentle, almost mocking pressure. The sensation sends a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you, your knees buckling under the weight of it.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You're all bark, no bite. Always talking like you're too good for this, but look at you. Practically fucking yourself on my hand."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps now, your body shaking with the effort to hold back the moans threatening to spill out. The shame and arousal twist together in a tangled mess, leaving you dizzy and disoriented.

“I fucking hate you,” you spit again, but the words sound weak, hollow. You’re losing this battle, and you know it.

“I know, baby,” he coos, his voice soft and patronizing, fingers curling inside you just right, and fuck, you can feel yourself slipping. “You hate me so much you’re about to come on my hand.”

Your vision blurs, the world around you narrowing down to the feel of his fingers, the press of his body against yours, and the way every filthy, degrading word he speaks sends heat pooling low in your belly. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of something dark and all-consuming, and you know—God, you know—you’re not going to last much longer.

But Matthew isn’t done with you. Not yet.

His free hand slides up your body, fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress, tugging it down just enough to expose the curve of your breasts. His mouth is on you in an instant, teeth grazing your skin as he sucks a bruising mark into the delicate flesh. The sensation is enough to send you over the edge, a sharp, desperate moan ripping from your throat as your body convulses around his fingers.

“There it is,” he growls, his breath hot against your skin as he presses you harder against the wall. “There’s my good girl. You can pretend all you want, but this is who you are. Mine.”

The word echoes in your mind, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re nodding, breathless and trembling under the weight of his touch.

“Yes,” you gasp, barely able to form the word, your body still trembling. “Fuck, yes.”

You’re still reeling from the orgasm he ripped out of you, your legs barely able to hold you up as Matthew unbuckles his belt with that smug smirk never leaving his face. The sound of the metal clinking should send alarm bells through your mind, but all you can focus on is the throbbing ache between your legs, the way your body is still trembling in the aftershocks of what just happened. You can feel your own wetness on your thighs, sticky and undeniable, and it’s infuriating how much you want him again already.

Your breath is still ragged, and there’s a knot of panic building in your chest as you realize what’s happening next. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before—Matthew getting you worked up, wrecking you with just his fingers or his mouth, then leaving you raw and aching. But this? This is different. It’s so public, so reckless, and you’re spiraling, caught between the shame and the all-consuming need that makes you feel like you’re drowning.

His hands are rough, impatient as he slides the leather through his belt loops, and the sight of him makes something inside you twist. “What, can’t wait to get your hands on me?” He mocks.

“Shut up,” you snap, the words sharp, but your voice is ragged, breathless. You’re trying so hard to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through your fingers faster than you can catch it. “Just—do you have a condom?”

For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve managed to cut through that smug, self-satisfied exterior. His hand stills on his belt, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you, and then he snorts, a low, condescending sound that makes your stomach twist. “A condom? Really?” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he speaks, voice dripping with arrogance. “I don’t give a fuck.”

You blink, taken aback by how blunt he is. The rational part of your brain is screaming at you to push him away, to tell him to go to hell, but the rest of you—the messy, broken part that always falls for his shit—is already caving. There’s something dangerous about the way he says it, like he knows you won’t stop him. And God, isn’t that the worst part? He’s right.

“Of course, you don’t,” you hiss, trying to muster up some semblance of dignity even as your body betrays you, heat pooling low in your belly again at the thought of what’s coming. “But we both know you don’t want me to have your demon babies.”

His laugh is low, dark, and filled with derision. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers working the zipper of his pants. “You’re still going to let me fuck you raw in this goddamn alley, though.”

Your mouth opens to protest, to tell him he’s wrong, that you’re not some pathetic, needy thing desperate for his attention, but the words die in your throat when his hand slips back under your skirt, gripping your thigh and hooking your leg around his hip–then pushing your panties to the side. You bite back a moan, your body trembling with the need for more, and the smug look on his face tells you he knows exactly how close you are to breaking again.

Before begin to think anything else, he’s lining himself up, his breath hot against your skin, and without warning, he thrusts into you, hard and fast, burying himself to the hilt. The sharp, overwhelming sensation rips through you, a gasp tearing from your throat, and for a moment, all you can feel is him—filling you, stretching you, claiming every inch of space you swore you wouldn’t give him again.

It hurts. It always does with him, at first—he’s too rough, too insistent, too much—but you’ve always liked the pain, haven’t you? That’s the sick, twisted truth of it. The burn, the way he takes without asking, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the brink—it all leaves you breathless, dizzy with need.

You dig your nails into his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, anything, but you’re unraveling, piece by piece. His hips slam into yours with a brutal, unrelenting pace, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the narrow alleyway. You can feel the dampness of your sweat mixing with the sticky night air, your skin slick against his, and it’s filthy. All of it. Filthy and wrong, but God, it feels so good.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you spit out between breaths, voice trembling from the force of his hips slamming into yours. His pace is punishing, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body, and you can’t help the way your nails dig deeper into his skin, leaving angry red lines in their wake.

Matthew grunts in response, his breath ragged against your neck. His lips skim over your ear, and his teeth nip at your skin, making you shiver despite the oppressive heat. “Says the girl getting fucked against a wall like a desperate little slut.” He’s ruthless with his words, throwing them like knives that slice straight through you, but the sharpness only spurs you on.

You bare your teeth and bite down hard on his shoulder, not holding back, feeling the satisfaction of his skin giving way beneath your teeth. It’s a desperate, feral reaction—your body’s twisted way of regaining some control. He hisses, his muscles tensing as your bite sends a shockwave through him. You know it hurts, and you want it to. You want him to feel a fraction of the chaotic mess he’s making of you.

But it only makes him rougher.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough that it stings. “Oh, you like playing rough now, huh?” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous. His grip tightens painfully on your leg as he slams into you harder, forcing you to choke on your next breath. “Biting me, clawing me like a desperate little whore—pathetic. You’re just pissed ‘cause you know how much you want this.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you lie, gasping as another wave of pleasure courses through you, your body responding despite your brain screaming at you to stop. It’s pathetic, truly—how your body betrays you, how you’re falling apart in his hands, coming undone at the same pace that he’s pulling you tighter against him.

He laughs, breathless and cruel. “Liar.” His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles, and you’re instantly undone by the sensation, your hips bucking against his despite yourself. “You’re squeezing me so tight, it’s like you’re trying to keep me inside you.” The smugness in his voice makes you want to slap him, but you can’t even think straight, not with his body driving into yours, his fingers working you over like you’re nothing but a puppet on strings.

Your response is unintelligible, more of a broken moan than actual words. You try, desperately, to hold on to some part of yourself, to remember who you are beneath all this anger and lust, but it’s slipping, unraveling with each thrust, with each word he spits at you. Your nails drag down his back again, harder this time, drawing a hiss from his throat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter.

“You can keep trying to hurt me, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, “but it just makes you tighter for me. Keep going—I can take it.”

You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying to stop the sounds that are escaping you. The alleyway feels suffocating, the heat of the night clinging to your skin, making everything feel more intense, more raw. The smell of sweat and sex mingles in the air, and you’re hyperaware of every sound—the way your bodies slap together, the wetness between your legs, the soft, desperate gasps that you can’t control.

“You’re going to regret this,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try, for the millionth time, to regain some semblance of control. It’s a weak threat, and you both know it. Matthew’s grin stretches wider, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“I’ve never regretted a thing with you,” he growls, his pace quickening. He’s relentless now, hips snapping into you with a force that makes your head spin, his thumb working over your clit faster. "Keep biting, sweetheart," he says through a tight grin, his pace never faltering, "I’ll make you scream for it."

And God help you, you do. Every thrust has you trembling, gasping, barely able to think beyond the white-hot pleasure searing through you. It’s too much, too fast, but you can’t stop yourself—you’re pushing against him, meeting every punishing stroke like you’re trying to match him in this sick, twisted game of dominance.

Your breath hitches, your body arching against his as that familiar, unbearable pressure starts to build low in your belly. You can feel it—feel yourself slipping, unraveling, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. His name slips from your lips, ragged and broken, and you want to hate yourself for how desperate you sound.

"Already?" he taunts, his voice low and dripping with condescension. "Didn’t take long this time, did it? Always so damn easy for me."

"Fuck you," you manage to gasp out, but it’s weak, barely above a whisper, because he’s right. You’re already falling apart around him, your body betraying you in the worst possible way.

"Too late for that," he growls, thrusting into you harder, and the sharp slap of his hips against yours sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. "You’re already fucked, baby."

And that’s when it happens. That tight, coiling knot inside you snaps, and you fall—hard. Your whole body clenches, thighs shaking as a violent orgasm tears through you, your head tipping back against the brick wall as a choked, guttural moan rips from your throat. You’re shaking, barely able to breathe, and he doesn’t stop. Not even for a second.

Matthew’s grip tightens on your hips, bruising, and he’s still moving, driving into you with a brutal intensity that makes your whole body ache. "God, you’re such a fucking mess," he mutters, his voice rough and breathless, and you can hear the strain in his tone, the way his own release is close, just out of reach.

Your fingers scramble against his back, your nails raking down the muscles there in a desperate attempt to hold on to something solid as your mind spirals. You can feel the raw scratches your nails leave behind, but it’s not enough—it’s never enough to satisfy the gnawing need to make him feel this too. You can feel him, hard and throbbing inside you, and somewhere in the haze of it all, you hear him grunt, low and rough. “Where do you want it, huh?” His voice is breathless, but there’s still that edge of arrogance in it. “Tell me. Where should I come?”

You should tell him to pull out. You should tell him you’re not that stupid, that you know better. But the words that come out of your mouth aren’t the ones you intended.

“Inside,” you gasp, before you can stop yourself. “I don’t care. Just—fuck, Matt, do it. Please.”

His eyes darken at your words, and you swear you feel him twitch inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as he slams into you one more time, burying himself deep. With a rough, guttural groan, he lets go, his body tensing as he spills inside you, the warmth flooding your core in a way that makes your already oversensitive body shudder.

For a moment, neither of you move, both of you breathing hard, the sticky heat of the night settling back in around you. You’re still pressed against the wall, your legs trembling, his body heavy against yours, and for a second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’ll say something that makes this less horrible. Maybe he’ll apologize or admit that this is as fucked up for him as it is for you.

"Need a ride home?" he asks, his tone almost casual, like he’s offering you a lift after a night out with friends and not after he just fucked you against a wall without even a second thought.

You blink at him, still too stunned to answer right away. "Are you serious?" you snap, your voice laced with disbelief. "After everything, that’s what you say?"

He shrugs, unbothered by your tone. "What? You wanna walk?" His eyes flick over you, taking in the disheveled state of your dress, your mussed hair, and the bruises already forming on your hips. "Thought you might want to clean up a little before you try to get into an Uber looking like that."

The nerve of him, acting like this was nothing, like he didn’t just wreck you in every possible way. "You’re such a piece of shit," you hiss, shoving him hard in the chest, though it feels more like an afterthought than anything else. You’re drained, physically and emotionally, but of course, Matthew doesn’t care.

He just laughs, low and dark, brushing off the shove like it’s nothing. "Yeah, well, you still let me fuck you, so what does that make you?"

You hate him. You hate him so much you can barely breathe through the anger, but all you can do is be dragged by him out of the alley, with a promise of nothing.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey fanfiction #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #matthew tkachuk x you #matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk fic #florida panthers imagine #mt19 #mt19 x you #mt19 x reader #Spotify

calgary - matthew tkachuk

part of the think later fic series

“I’m drunk, oh wow,

All my habits came back around.”

***

this has two parts!

part 2

***

request: “could you do calgary with matty tkachuk?? maybe something fluffy, and him being overprotective?”

summary: an attempt to relive your highschool glory days turns into a night of drunken confessions.

word count: 7k

pairing: matthew tkachuk x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol, unnamed pills

notes:

- ty for requesting! fun to write! keep ‘em coming <3

- ^ you guys already knew your girl had to go all out for her hometown, because calgary natives fuck it up the best!

- the plot is basically the lyrics of the song

- some friends to lovers because it makes me feel so lonely and I have to make y’all suffer too

- not super proof read

***

At some point in every Calgary native’s life, those wild, reckless nights of stumbling down Stephen Avenue after too many shots morph into something that feels suspiciously like maturity—like finding yourself sipping ritzy, overpriced cocktails on Seventeenth at six-something pm, wondering when your life turned into a scene from a yuppie rom-com.

The moment you realized this was your new reality, you spiraled. The “Oh my god, I’m so old, I can’t have fun anymore” pit of despair opened up beneath you, and you were falling fast. You had your shit together—no, scratch that, you have your shit together. You’re a bona fide adult. But still, you can’t help but yearn for the glory days of sneaking into clubs with a fake ID at fifteen, batting your lashes at some guy named Jason in a cowboy hat just to get him to buy you a drink.

But then, just as you’re about to spiral further, you remember tonight’s mission. Matthew, one of your closest friends, is back in town. The guy is practically a legend in your life—a hockey player sent off to South Florida but always makes his way back to Calgary for Stampede. You met him in the most random way—some Tinder date with a different Flames prospect gone awry. Who could have guessed that a failed date would lead to one of the most solid friendships of your life?

Matthew is that rare breed of guy—fun, charming, and completely non-threatening in the “someone’s gonna catch feelings” department. At least, that’s what you’ve always told yourself. But let’s be honest, there’s something about him that’s always felt…different. You’ve sworn up and down that, it’s not you, that you’re just friends, but there’s always that little nagging thought in the back of your mind. Could there be more? Should there be more?

Nah, you shake it off. Tonight isn’t about overthinking. Tonight is about channeling your inner fifteen-year-old, if only for a few hours. You’re on a mission to relive the glory days, and Matthew—well, he’s the perfect partner in crime.

The pulsating bass of the club thunders through your veins, the kind of beat that makes your heart race and your feet move, even if you didn’t want them to. But you do. Oh, do you ever. You’re dancing like you’re possessed, limbs flailing in a way that’s somewhere between “I just got electrocuted” and “I’ve been training for this moment my entire life.” You’re definitely more of a mosh pit person than a rhythmic dancer, but tonight, it’s all about the vibe, not the technique.

The lights are flashing wildly, casting everyone in an array of colors—red, blue, green, pink. It feels like you’re inside a kaleidoscope, everything spinning and twirling and making your head buzz in the most exhilarating way. The crowd is a sweaty mess of bodies, a hotbed of random hookups and questionable dance moves, but you’re right there in the middle of it, soaking it all in like the club’s ambiance is your life source.

“Another one?” someone yells over the music, thrusting a shot glass in your face. You don’t even see who it is, but hey, free alcohol is free alcohol. You down it in one go, the burn of the tequila (or is it vodka? Who even knows at this point) sliding down your throat and settling warmly in your belly.

You’re officially shitfaced. You can’t even remember how many shots you’ve had, but counting stopped being a priority after the third one. Or maybe it was the fourth. Whatever. You’re having fun—so much fun that you’ve completely lost track of time. How long have you been here? Is it still tonight? Did you miss Matthew’s arrival?

No, you tell yourself. There’s no way you could miss him. Matthew Tkachuk is not the kind of person who goes unnoticed, even in a crowded club like this. He’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and makes heads turn, who laughs so loudly you can hear him over any DJ set. You’d know if he was here.

Still, a small part of your brain—a part that isn’t totally soaked in alcohol—reminds you of tonight’s mission. You try to channel your inner teenager, that reckless, carefree girl who did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. And right now, what you want is to dance. And maybe make out with someone. Or eat a greasy cheeseburger. The list is long, okay?

It’s in this haze of euphoria that you notice him—a man with a slicked-back ponytail that’s trying too hard to be edgy but just comes off as greasy. He slides up next to you, his cologne almost as overpowering as his confidence. You give him a half-hearted smile, not really paying attention, too busy reveling in your own carefree abandon.

“Hey,” he shouts over the music, leaning in too close, his breath warm against your ear. “You want something to really get the night going?”

You blink, trying to focus on his words through the fog of alcohol. His hand is outstretched, palm up, and there, sitting innocuously in the center, are two little pills. Your mind stumbles, trying to catch up with the situation. Pills? Like, drugs? The room seems to tilt slightly, the strobe lights throwing everything into sharp, disorienting relief.

The room seems to spin faster as you stare down at the tiny pills in the man's hand. They look so innocent, like candy, but you know better. Your brain, soaked in alcohol and barely clinging to reality, tries to do the math. Pills equal bad. Very bad. But you're also floating on a cloud of recklessness, and there's a small voice in your head whispering that maybe, just maybe, these little white ovals could make the night even crazier.

You can't quite decide if that's what you want or if you're just drunk enough to think it's what you want. Your vision blurs, the man’s face morphing into a smudge of colors and cologne. He leans in closer, his greasy ponytail brushing your cheek like a wet mop. “Come on,” he urges, his voice slicing through the booming bass, “just one, for old time’s sake.”

Old times? You’re pretty sure you’ve never seen this guy in your life. But then again, you’re also pretty sure you saw a unicorn prancing through the dance floor five minutes ago, so who knows what’s real at this point?

Just as you're about to reach for the pills—because why not?—you feel a hand grip your arm, firm and unmistakable. You whirl around, nearly losing your balance, and there he is: Matthew Tkachuk, your knight in a tight-fitting black tee that clings to his shoulders like a second skin. Even in your drunken haze, you can tell he’s pissed. Like, really pissed.

You’d seen him mad before, like that time when someone cut him off on the Deerfoot trail and he laid on the horn for so long that you thought it would get stuck that way—or, that one time when a ref made a call that had him throwing his helmet at the glass, shattering it. This feels so different, especially since he just got here.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matthew’s voice is like a thunderclap over the music, his eyes narrowing at the greasy-haired guy who suddenly looks a lot less confident. There’s something about Matthew when he’s angry—a fierce, protective energy that’s as magnetic as it is intimidating. He’s not the tallest guy in the room, but he doesn’t need to be. He’s Matthew Tkachuk, for god’s sake.

You blink, trying to process the scene. This isn’t the carefree, dancing-like-you’re-on-fire vibe you were going for. This is… something else entirely. The man with the pills tries to pull a sneer, but it’s more of a grimace. “Hey, man, just offering her a good time,” he slurs, attempting to puff up his chest in a way that’s more pathetic than threatening.

Matthew’s grip on your arm tightens, and you can feel the tension radiating off him like a furnace. “Yeah, well, she’s not interested,” he snaps, stepping between you and the guy, effectively cutting off your view of the man’s greasy face.

And for a moment, you’re glad. You’re glad Matthew’s here, glad he’s taking charge, glad he’s keeping you from making a possibly life-altering mistake. But then, that little rebellious streak in you flares up. Who is he to tell you what to do? You’re a grown-ass woman, a bona fide adult, remember? You don’t need a babysitter.

You yank your arm out of Matthew’s grasp, wobbling slightly as you do so. “I can handle myself,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. It sounds stronger in your head, but the words come out slurred and weak. Matthew’s eyes flicker with something—concern, frustration, maybe a mix of both.

“Yeah, it sure looks like it,” he says dryly, and even in your intoxicated state, you can catch the sarcasm. You want to snap back, say something witty and sharp, but your brain is moving in slow motion, and the words get tangled in your throat.

The greasy-haired guy takes a step back, clearly not wanting to get into it with Matthew. “Whatever, man. Just trying to help,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Who even are you, anyway?”

Matthew steps forward, blocking your view of Ponytail Guy entirely. The energy in the air shifts from fun and carefree to something sharp and heavy. The club’s lights seem harsher now, flashing in sync with the tension bubbling between them. Matthew is all broad shoulders and clenched fists, the muscles in his neck taut like he’s seconds away from doing something reckless.

And as for you? You’re swaying slightly, blinking like you’re trying to remember where you are—or maybe why you’re here in the first place. The tequila haze is doing you no favors, and all you can focus on is how intensely Matthew is glaring at Ponytail Guy. It’s like watching a lion size up a gazelle, except you’re the one caught in the crossfire.

“Who am I?” Matthew’s voice drops, low and dangerous, a tone you’ve only ever heard him use when talking about losing a game he should’ve won. “I’m the guy who’s about to ruin your night if you don’t get the hell away from her.”

Oh, god. Oh, no. You can already feel this heading toward disaster, but your reaction time is slower than usual. The alcohol has turned your brain into mush, and you’re having a hard time deciding whether you’re more turned on by Matthew’s sudden intensity or mortified by the scene unfolding in front of you.

Ponytail Guy, to his credit (or lack thereof), doesn’t back down. “Relax, man,” he sneers, taking a step forward like he’s trying to prove something. “She’s not your property.”

It’s a bold move, considering the sheer size difference between him and Matthew. And judging by the dark look in Matthew’s eyes, you’re not sure this is going to end well for Mr. Ponytail.

You should probably intervene. You should definitely say something, do something to diffuse the tension before Matthew decks this guy in the middle of the club. But you’re still trying to figure out why the room keeps spinning, and why your feet feel like they’re glued to the floor.

“I’m not anyone’s property,” you slur, finally finding your voice. It’s not as commanding as you intended—it’s more of a drunken mumble, but hey, you’re trying. Matthew glances back at you, his expression softening for a split second before snapping back to hardened fury as he turns toward the guy again.

The guy doesn’t seem to take the hint. “She said she can handle herself,” he repeats, puffing out his chest like some budget version of an alpha male. “Why don’t you back off?”

There’s a pause, and for a split second, you think maybe—just maybe—Matthew’s going to back down, let it go, and this whole thing will blow over without anyone throwing hands.

But then, Matthew steps forward, closing the gap between him and the guy with a terrifying calm. “Listen carefully,” he says, his voice so low you can barely hear it over the pulsing music. “If you don’t walk away in the next five seconds, I’m going to make sure you regret ever coming here.”

Okay. Yep. This is escalating.

Your drunken mind is slow to react, but you know one thing for sure—this is not going to end well if it keeps going. You need to say something, anything to stop this from turning into a full-blown fight in the middle of the club.

“Matty, come on,” you say, stumbling a little as you step forward, reaching out to grab his arm. Your fingers barely graze his sleeve before you lose your balance and fall right into him. Smooth. So smooth. “Let’s just—let’s just go get a drink or… or something.”

Matthew catches you with ease, his hand steady on your waist as he looks down at you. “You’re drunk,” he mutters, his voice softer now. “You don’t need more drinks.”

You blink up at him, trying to focus on his face, but everything’s a little fuzzy. He’s so close—close enough that you can smell his cologne, a mix of something woodsy and clean, like he just stepped out of a forest after a fresh rain. God, why does he always smell so good?

“I’m not that drunk,” you protest weakly, even though you totally are. The tequila haze is thick, clouding your judgment, and you’re still thinking about those little pills in Ponytail Guy’s hand. It would be so easy to take one. Just one. You’d feel amazing, right? Invincible, even.

But Matthew’s grip tightens slightly on your waist, grounding you. “Let’s get out of here,” he says firmly, his eyes flicking back toward Ponytail Guy, who’s still lingering like a bad smell. “Before I do something stupid.”

Ponytail Guy seems to get the message this time. He mutters something under his breath—something about how you’re not worth the trouble—and slinks off into the crowd, disappearing in a sea of bodies and strobe lights.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The room still feels like it’s spinning, and your head is buzzing, but you’re suddenly grateful that Matthew’s here. Even if he’s being overprotective, even if you’re still mad that he’s acting like your personal bodyguard.

Matthew keeps his arm around your waist as he leads you out of the club, guiding you through the sweaty, writhing crowd. The cool night air hits you like a splash of cold water when you step outside, and you sway slightly, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you. The bass from the club still thrums in your chest, an echo of the chaos inside, but out here, the world feels quieter, slower.

“Okay, you’re definitely done for the night,” Matthew mutters, more to himself than to you, as he helps you toward a bench near the entrance. You plop down, the wooden slats cool against the backs of your legs. Your head tilts back, and you look up at the sky, where the city lights drown out most of the stars. The world is spinning, a slow, lazy carousel, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself.

Matthew kneels in front of you, his hands firm on your knees as he tries to get your attention. “Hey,” he says softly, and even in your drunken haze, you can feel the concern radiating off him. “You okay?”

You open your eyes and blink down at him, the edges of his face blurring slightly as you struggle to focus. He looks so serious, so worried, and it tugs at something deep inside you. You don’t want him to worry. Matthew’s supposed to be your fun, carefree partner in crime, not your babysitter.

“I’m fine,” you slur, trying to wave him off, but your hand misses the mark and flops uselessly against his shoulder. “Just… spinning. Everything’s spinning.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he replies dryly, his brow furrowing as he studies you. “Let’s get you home.”

Home. The word sounds nice, comforting, but also distant. Like it’s miles away instead of just a short walk. You lean forward, resting your forehead against Matthew’s chest, and he stiffens for a moment before wrapping his arms around you, holding you steady.

His heartbeat is strong and steady against your ear, a comforting rhythm that contrasts with the chaotic whirl in your head. He smells so good, like fresh pine and clean linen, and you take a deep breath, trying to anchor yourself to him, to the solidness of his presence.

“You’re so nice, Matty,” you mumble into his chest, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Like, really nice. And hot. Why are you so hot?”

You feel his chest rumble with a quiet laugh, but there’s a tension in the way he holds you, like he’s trying to keep his composure. “You’re drunk,” he says gently, one hand coming up to stroke your hair. “Let’s focus on getting you home, okay?”

You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes wide and earnest. “No, seriously. You’re like… you’re like a hot lumberjack or something. All rugged and… and strong.”

Matthew’s lips twitch into a smile, but his eyes are still filled with that soft concern. “I think you’re mixing me up with someone else. I’m not that rugged.”

“You are,” you insist, your fingers fumbling to grip his shirt. The fabric is soft under your fingertips, and you run your hand down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath. “You’re… you’re like… if a grizzly bear was also a teddy bear.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “That makes no sense.”

“It does,” you argue, though your voice is thick and sluggish. “’Cause you’re big and strong, but also… also soft and warm. Like, I just wanna hug you forever.”

You press yourself closer to him, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His skin is warm, and you can feel the faint prickle of stubble against your cheek. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you sigh contentedly, your body relaxing into him.

“Come on,” Matthew says, his voice a little strained now as he tries to coax you to your feet. “Let’s get you home.”

But you don’t want to move. You’re too comfortable here, wrapped up in his scent, his warmth. It’s like being swaddled in a blanket made of pure safety and affection. Why would you want to leave that?

“Nooo,” you whine, your arms tightening around his neck. “Wanna stay here. With you.”

Matthew sighs, though there’s a hint of a smile in his voice. “You can stay with me, but let’s at least get you up.”

He stands, pulling you up with him, and you stagger slightly, your legs unsteady. He keeps a firm grip on you, one arm around your waist as he starts guiding you down the street. The city is a blur of neon lights and passing cars, and you lean heavily into him, your head lolling against his shoulder.

“Okay, but do you know how hot you are?” you ask, your voice soft and dreamy. “Like, I’m pretty sure you’re the hottest guy in Calgary. And Miami, or… wherever it is you’re playing now.”

“You’re definitely drunk,” he says, though there’s a faint blush creeping up his neck. “And talking nonsense.”

“I’m not,” you insist, pouting up at him. “You’re so sexy. And nice. And I bet you’re really good at kissing.”

Matthew clears his throat, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “Let’s not talk about that right now.”

“Why not?” you press, your eyes half-lidded as you gaze up at him. “’Cause I bet you’re amazing at it. Like… like you know exactly what to do with your hands and your tongue and…” Your voice trails off into a giggle as you try to imagine it, but your thoughts are too jumbled to form a clear picture.

Matthew doesn’t respond, his jaw clenched as he focuses on getting you down the street. You don’t notice the tension in his shoulders, too lost in your drunken haze to pick up on the way he’s fighting to keep his composure. All you can think about is how close he is, how solid and warm he feels next to you.

Matthew unlocks the door to your apartment with one hand, the other still holding you steady against his side. The hallway is dim, the faint hum of the city outside seeping through the walls, and the familiar smell of your home—clean linen and a hint of vanilla—greets you as you step inside. But you’re too lost in the comforting haze of alcohol and the warmth of Matthew’s body to notice much else.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” you mumble, your words slurring together as you nuzzle closer to his neck. “Like, really amazing. And hot. So, so fucking hot.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek as he guides you through the living room and toward your bedroom. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that a few times,” he says, but there’s a tightness in his voice, like he’s trying to keep his emotions in check.

Your head spins as you lean heavily into him, your body swaying with the remnants of the alcohol coursing through your system. The room seems to tilt slightly, and you cling to Matthew, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He helps you sit on the edge of your bed, kneeling down in front of you as he starts to untie the laces of your shoes. The motion is gentle, almost tender, and you watch him through half-lidded eyes, your vision blurry and unfocused. But even in your drunken haze, you can see the concentration on his face, the way his brows knit together as he works to loosen the knots.

“You’re… you’re the best, Matty,” you mumble, your voice thick with affection. Your words come out slurred, but the sentiment behind them is clear. “So good to me. Always so good.”

Matthew lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s something strained in the sound, like he’s trying to hold back a flood of emotions. “Just trying to make sure you don’t sleep in your shoes,” he says, his voice low and calm as he pulls off your first sneaker, setting it aside before moving on to the next.

Your head lolls to the side as you watch him, your gaze tracing the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. He’s so close, so solid and warm, and you feel an overwhelming surge of affection well up inside you. It’s like a tidal wave, crashing over you and drowning out everything else.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur, your fingers trailing down the side of his face, clumsily brushing against the stubble on his cheek. The texture sends a shiver through you, a spark of electricity that ignites something deep in your chest. “I don’t deserve you, Matty.”

Matthew’s hands still for a moment, the laces of your shoe halfway undone. He looks up at you, his expression soft but serious, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your heart squeeze. “You deserve the world,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper, as if he’s afraid of saying it too loud. “And more.”

Your chest tightens at his words, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the fog in your mind. It’s like he’s seeing right through you, straight to the core of who you are, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. You’re not used to being seen like this, not used to someone looking at you with such raw, unfiltered care.

He keeps moving, finishing with your shoes and gently lifting your legs onto the bed, his touch careful and precise. He doesn’t respond to your words, but there’s a tenderness in his actions that speaks louder than any reply. He’s taking care of you, making sure you’re comfortable, and that’s all you can ask for right now.

“Let’s get you ready for bed,” he says softly, his voice soothing as he reaches for the hem of your shirt. “You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.”

You let him lift the fabric over your head, your arms limp and uncooperative, but he’s patient, guiding you through the motions with practiced ease. You’re left in your underwear, feeling oddly vulnerable but also safe in his presence. There’s no judgment in his eyes, no discomfort—just pure, unadulterated care.

He’s trying to focus, to keep things as platonic as possible, but your touch, your words—they’re making it difficult. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for your pajamas, and you can’t help but notice the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush against his.

“Matty, you’re so warm,” you mumble, your voice thick and slurred. You cling to his arm, burying your face in the crook of his elbow. “And soft. Like… like a big, comfy pillow.”

His chuckle is soft, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s trying to keep himself from reacting too much. “That’s a new one,” he says, his voice a little strained as he helps you into your pajamas. “Never been compared to a pillow before.”

You giggle, your fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt as you try to pull him closer. “But you are! So warm and nice. And you smell so good…”

He’s trying so hard to keep things light, but your words are cutting through his defenses, making him acutely aware of every little touch, every breath you take. He knows you’re drunk, knows you won’t remember half of this in the morning, but that doesn’t stop the way his heart clenches in his chest at your every compliment.

“Let’s get you into bed, okay?” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You need to sleep this off.”

But you’re not ready to sleep, not yet. There’s too much you want to say, too much you’ve been keeping bottled up. The alcohol has loosened your tongue, and you find yourself blurting out things you’d never have the courage to say otherwise.

“I love this shirt,” you mumble, nuzzling into the fabric as he helps you pull it over your head. “Smells like you. No matter how much I wash it, always smells like you…”

He freezes, his hands stilling on your shoulders as your words sink in. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, your vision blurry but your heart full of unspoken emotions. “It’s yours,” you admit, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I took it before you moved away. Couldn’t… couldn’t stand the thought of not having you with me, so I… I took it.”

The room feels like it’s holding its breath, the air thick with the weight of your confession. Matthew’s grip on your shoulders tightens slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you’re joking, but all he sees is the raw honesty in your gaze.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, his voice rough. “I thought I lost it.”

His hands tighten on your shoulders, a grounding touch as he steadies himself. He can’t dwell on that now, not with you looking at him like that—soft, bleary-eyed, and so heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he helps you finish pulling the shirt over your head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Your arms flop uselessly as he tugs the shirt down, your drunken limbs not cooperating, but Matthew’s hands are steady, guiding you with a gentleness that makes your heart swell.

“Matty…” you mumble, your voice trailing off as he helps you stand, one arm wrapped securely around your waist. The world tilts slightly, and you grip his shirt, your fingers curling into the soft fabric as you try to steady yourself.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures, his voice a steady murmur against your ear. He’s so close, so solid, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves, soothing the edges of your spinning thoughts.

He leads you to the bathroom, each step slow and careful as he supports your weight. The cool tiles under your bare feet send a shiver up your spine, and you lean more heavily into him, your head lolling against his shoulder. His scent wraps around you like a blanket, and you close your eyes, savoring the comfort of his presence.

Matthew lifts you up onto the counter with ease, standing between your legs. His fingers brush your cheek, tilting your face up so you can meet his gaze, and even through the fog in your mind, you can see the worry etched in the lines of his face.

“I’m just going to help you clean up, okay?” he says softly, his thumb stroking your cheek in a soothing rhythm. “Then you can get some sleep.”

You nod, the motion making your head spin, but you don’t care. All you want is to be close to him, to feel his hands on you, gentle and caring. You let your eyes flutter closed as he reaches for a makeup wipe, the cool cloth sliding over your skin as he carefully removes the remnants of the night. “God, why do you even wear all this gunk anyway?” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

Matthew’s fingers move with such tenderness, tracing over your skin with the makeup wipe, and you can’t help but giggle softly as the cool cloth sweeps across your cheek. The sensation is oddly comforting, like he’s erasing more than just makeup—he’s wiping away the stress, the insecurities, the fear that’s been knotted in your chest for far too long.

You blink up at him, watching through half-lidded eyes as his brows furrow in concentration. His touch is so delicate, so reverent, like you’re something fragile that he needs to take care of. The thought makes warmth bloom in your chest, spreading through your veins until it tingles in your fingertips. You can’t resist reaching out, your hand finding his on your face, and you let your thumb rub along the edge of his wrist. The soft, steady thrum of his pulse under your fingertips makes you sigh, content and drowsy.

"You're so... nice," you slur, even though you’ve said it about a million times tonight. "Like, really nice. And strong. And... you smell good."

Matthew doesn’t say anything, just hums softly in acknowledgment as he moves on to brushing your teeth. He grabs your toothbrush, carefully squeezing the toothpaste onto it like he’s done this a thousand times before. The bristles hit your teeth, and you wrinkle your nose, the minty taste sharp against your tongue. You attempt to brush, but your hand is wobbly, barely cooperating, and soon enough, Matthew’s hand covers yours, guiding the motion in slow, methodical circles.

You close your eyes, letting him take over, and your mind drifts again, this time to all the little things you’ve never said, all the feelings you’ve buried because they’re too big, too scary to voice. But now, with him here, being so sweet and careful, the words come tumbling out before you can stop them.

“I think about you all the time, you know,” you confess, your voice muffled by the toothbrush still in your mouth. “Like, all the time. It’s... it’s stupid. But I do.”

He pauses, his hand stilling for just a moment, and you blink up at him, your gaze fuzzy but earnest. His eyes meet yours, and even through the haze of alcohol, you can see the way his expression softens, something tender and raw flickering across his face.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I think about you too.”

The admission settles over you like a warm blanket, comforting and soft, and you can’t help the dopey smile that stretches across your face. “Good,” you mumble, your words slurring together as the toothbrush is finally taken from your mouth. “’Cause I’m crazy about you, Matty. Like, really crazy. Like... I wanna marry you, crazy.”

Matthew’s breath catches in his throat as your words hang in the air, the room suddenly feeling too small, too warm, like the very walls are leaning in to listen. “I wanna marry you, crazy,” you’ve just said, and the words are like a punch to his gut—equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

He forces himself to focus, to stay grounded in the moment, because you’re here, drunk and vulnerable, and he can’t afford to lose his head, even if his heart is racing like it’s trying to break free from his chest.

You’re still smiling up at him, your eyes droopy but sparkling with the kind of affection that only comes when the alcohol strips away every last ounce of inhibition. He can’t help but smile back, his heart squeezing at how utterly adorable you look, all soft and pliant, just a little messy around the edges.

“Marry me, huh?” he teases, trying to keep his voice light as he puts away the toothbrush and reaches for the hairbrush. “Didn’t know you were planning on proposing tonight.”

You giggle, a sound so sweet it sends a shiver down his spine. “Mmmm, maybe…” you mumble, swaying slightly as you lean forward, your hands finding purchase on his chest. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and you let out a contented sigh. “You’d say yes, right? You… you love me, right?”

The question is so simple, so innocent, and yet it carries the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Matthew swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and he’s thankful you’re too drunk to notice the way his hands tremble slightly as he starts to brush your hair.

He feels like his heart might burst from the sheer force of how much he adores you, and he has to blink back the sudden sting of tears that threaten to well up. You’re so open, so honest in this state, and it’s both a blessing and a curse. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you—but God, he wants you so badly it hurts.

The brush catches on a small tangle, and you whimper, the sound so pitiful that it pulls him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, quickly working the knot out with his fingers before continuing. He can feel you relaxing more and more with each stroke, your body leaning into his as if you’re trying to meld into him.

You’re so beautiful to him, even like this—especially like this. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy from the alcohol. You’re vulnerable, open in a way that makes Matthew’s throat tighten. He’s never seen you like this, not really, and he’s terrified that if he blinks, you’ll disappear, or worse, that this version of you will be gone by morning.

He’s trying so hard to keep things platonic, to not let his feelings slip through, but every brush of your fingers against his skin, every slurred word of affection, makes it harder to keep the walls up.

His thumb brushes against your cheek again, and he can’t help but smile at the way you nuzzle into his hand, like a cat seeking warmth. “You’re gonna feel so embarrassed in the morning,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “But you’re lucky I’m such a good friend, huh?”

You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in a way that makes his chest tighten. “I’m not embarrassed,” you say, words slurred but insistent. “I’m just being honest. You’re amazing, Matty. The best friend ever.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that rumbles in his chest, and he can’t help but shake his head. “Yeah, well, I try,” he says lightly, though his heart is heavy. “Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

You whine, a soft sound that tugs at his heartstrings. “Don’t wanna sleep yet,” you mumble, your hands fisting in his shirt. “Wanna stay with you. Wanna… talk.”

Matthew sighs, but it’s more fond exasperation than anything else. “You can talk to me all you want tomorrow,” he says gently. “Right now, you need to rest.”

But you’re not having it. Your grip on his shirt tightens, and you look up at him with those big, glassy eyes that make his resolve waver. “Please, Matty,” you whisper, voice so soft and pleading it makes his heart clench painfully. “Just… stay with me a little longer. Please?”

And damn it, how can he say no to that? How can he say no to you, when you’re looking at him like that, like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded in the spinning world around you?

“Alright,” he relents, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just for a little bit, okay? Then you really need to sleep.”

You nod eagerly, a bright smile spreading across your face, and he can’t help but mirror it, his own smile soft and adoring. He guides you back to the bed, helping you sit down gently, and you tug him down beside you, your hands still clutching his shirt like a lifeline.

You can feel the world spinning in slow, lazy circles as you nuzzle into Matthew’s shoulder, your hands weaving through his messy curls. They’re soft and unruly, just like you imagined. You’ve always wanted to do this, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he looks like some sort of Disney prince that got lost on his way to a ball.

“I love your hair,” you mumble into his shoulder, your words slurring slightly as the alcohol works its magic. “’S..so fluffy, like a… like a golden retriever.”

Matthew laughs, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rests on his shoulder, and you smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the sound. You’ve always loved his laugh—how it’s deep and rich, like dark chocolate, and makes your heart do weird, fluttery things that you’re definitely not thinking about right now. Nope, not at all.

“You’re crazy,” he says, but there’s no bite to his words. If anything, he sounds amused, fond even, like he’s secretly enjoying this, watching you unravel and spill your guts like you’re auditioning for some tragic role in a romance movie.

You let out a contented sigh, your fingers still tangled in his hair as you turn your head slightly to look up at him. He’s so close, his face just inches from yours, and you can see every detail—the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the way his lips quirk up at the corners, and that stupid little dimple that only shows up when he’s genuinely smiling. It’s not fair how pretty he is. It’s not fair that he gets to be your best friend and also make your heart do that weird, fluttery thing you’re definitely not thinking about.

“Why are you so pretty?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not fair. You should be illegal.”

Matthew’s eyes widen slightly, and you can see the faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck. “Pretty?” he repeats, his voice a little strained, like he’s not sure if you’re serious or just really, really drunk. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me pretty before.”

“Well, they should,” you insist, your fingers curling tighter in his hair as if to emphasize your point. “You’re like… like a prince or something. A really hot prince who’s also really nice and sweet and—”

Matthew clears his throat, his face turning a deeper shade of red, and you giggle, the sound light and airy. You don’t know why he’s so embarrassed. It’s not like you’re saying anything that isn’t true. He is pretty. And nice. And sweet. And also really, really hot, which you’re definitely not thinking about right now. Nope, not at all.

“Okay, okay,” he says, cutting you off before you can go on another drunken tangent. “I think that’s enough compliments for one night.”

You pout, your bottom lip jutting out in a way that you know drives him crazy because he’s always telling you to stop doing it. “But I’m not done,” you protest, your voice whiny and petulant. “You’re… you’re the best, Matty. The best friend ever. And I just… I just love you so much.”

The words are out before you can stop them, and you immediately feel a flush creeping up your cheeks, hot and mortifying. Did you really just say that? Did you really just blurt out your deepest, darkest secret like it’s no big deal? God, you’re an idiot. A drunk, stupid idiot who can’t keep her mouth shut.

Matthew is silent, his gaze soft as he watches you, and you can feel your heart racing in your chest, the thump-thump-thump almost deafening in the quiet room. You want to crawl under a rock and die, or maybe just pass out and pretend this never happened. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

But before you can make your escape, Matthew reaches up, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he tilts your head up to look at him. His thumb brushes against your skin, soft and warm, and you shiver at the touch, your breath catching in your throat.

“I love you too,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right? You’re my best friend, and I… I care about you a lot.”

You blink up at him, your vision swimming slightly as you try to process his words. He loves you. He cares about you. But… does he love you like you love him? Does he feel that weird, fluttery thing in his chest when you’re around, or is that just a you problem?

Before you can ask, Matthew is guiding you back down onto the bed, his touch gentle as he tucks you in, pulling the covers up around your shoulders. You’re too tired to protest, your eyelids suddenly feeling heavy, and you let out a soft sigh, your head sinking into the pillow.

“Sleep, okay?” Matthew murmurs, his hand brushing a stray piece of hair out of your face. “We can talk more in the morning.”

You want to argue, to tell him that you’re not done, that there’s so much more you need to say, but your body has other plans, and before you know it, you’re drifting off, the sound of Matthew’s steady breathing lulling you to sleep.

As you drift off, you can feel his hand resting on your head, his thumb brushing softly against your temple. The last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under is his voice, quiet and filled with something you can’t quite place.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, crazy girl,” he whispers, and then everything fades into darkness, his touch the only thing anchoring you to the world.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk x you #florida panthers imagine #mt19 #mt19 x reader #hockey fanfic #Spotify

LOVE IS A COWBOY - Matthew Tkachuk

"It makes your heart feel like wild horses in your chest, Trying to catch, it's like tryna tame a wild, wild west, And when I'm with him, it's like ropin' the wind, Love is a cowboy, mm-mm"

***

this is a part 2!

part 1

*** summary: unresolved feelings & cowboy boots are always a heady mix.

pairing: matthew tkachuk x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k

warnings: alcohol

notes:

guys... i miss home. i miss stampede.

also this is so cute yayyyyyy

a lotta time skipping

not very proof read

***

Your head pounds like a goddamn jackhammer, and the first thing that registers is how dry your mouth is, like you’ve been chewing on cotton all night. You let out a long, pitiful groan, the kind of sound that says, I’m dying, this is it, goodbye world, and roll over, half hoping that some new position might magically relieve the hellfire that is your skull. As you shift, your face presses into something warm, and for a split second, your hungover brain can’t comprehend what it is. A pillow? No, pillows aren’t warm. A blanket? No, not heavy enough.

And then the scent hits you—familiar, warm, and distinctly Matthew.

Wait, Matthew?

You blink rapidly, wincing as the sunlight assaults your sensitive eyes. Slowly, you manage to pry your lids open, and that’s when you see it. Him. Oh. My. God. Matthew is lying next to you, half under the covers, his chest bare, his tan skin on full display. You feel like you’ve just been hit with a sledgehammer, and suddenly, the hangover is the least of your problems.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, your brain working overtime to process this very unfortunate reality. Your best friend—your shirtless best friend—is in bed with you, and there’s absolutely no explanation in your brain for how this happened. Did you… did you sleep together? No. No way. You’d remember that, right? Even drunk, you’d remember something that monumental. Wouldn’t you?

Oh my god, what if you don’t?

Your heart races as you slowly, slowly peel back the corner of the blanket, terrified of what else you might find. Is he… oh god, is he naked too? No, he’s wearing boxers, thank the heavens, but that still doesn’t explain why the hell you woke up in the same bed as your best friend who you apparently love. Love. The word echoes in your mind, and a fresh wave of mortification rolls through you.

The scream that was building up finally breaks free, a full-throated shriek that would wake the dead. Matthew bolts upright at the sound, eyes wide and hair sticking up in every possible direction. “Jesus Christ!” he yells, flailing for a second before he seems to realize where he is. His gaze locks onto you, and you’re staring back, both of you frozen like deer in headlights.

“What the hell happened last night?!” you manage to squeak out, your voice an octave higher than usual. You’re clutching the blanket to your chest like a lifeline, your eyes darting around the room, trying to piece together the puzzle that is your memory, but all you’re getting are blurry fragments. You remember being drunk, very drunk, and you remember Matthew… brushing your hair? Oh god. Did you confess your feelings to him? No, no, you wouldn’t have. But you did, a nasty little voice whispers in the back of your mind. You totally did.

Matthew blinks at you, still groggy, rubbing a hand over his face. “Why are you screaming?” he mutters, his voice rough with sleep. Then his eyes widen as if he’s only now realizing the predicament. “Wait, why are you screaming?”

“Because you’re in my bed!” you exclaim, your heart still racing a mile a minute. “And you’re half naked!”

“I’m always half naked when I sleep,” he says, as if that’s somehow supposed to make you feel better, “Okay, and, you wouldn't let me leave, drama queen. You practically latched onto me like a koala when I tried to go sleep on the couch. Then you begged me to stay and kept mumbling about how cold you were, so I took my shirt off. That's it. No big scandal."

Your brain short circuits for a second, but you force yourself to focus. “Did we…?” You gesture between the two of you, your cheeks flushing as you say it. “Did we… you know?”

Matthew’s face scrunches in confusion, and then, as if a lightbulb goes off in his head, his expression softens. “No,” he says, and you can hear the amusement creeping into his voice. “We did not sleep together.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but your relief is short-lived because there’s still the matter of how he ended up in your bed. “Then what are you doing here?!” you demand, your voice still high-pitched and panicked.

He stretches, his arm going behind his head as he leans back, completely unbothered by your hysteria. “You were drunk off your ass last night. Like I said, I put you to bed, but you wouldn’t let me leave.”

“I… I wouldn’t let you leave?” you echo, horrified. “Why?”

Matthew’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. “Once again, you were being clingy. Kept telling me not to go, that you ‘needed’ me,” he explains, clearly finding this whole situation more amusing than alarming.

Your mortification deepens, a deep flush spreading from your cheeks down to your neck. “Oh my god,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m so sorry.”

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and familiar, and when you peek out between your fingers, he’s giving you that stupidly fond look that always makes your stomach flip. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice gentle. “Honestly, you were kind of cute.”

“Cute?” you repeat, incredulous. “I was a drunken mess.”

“You were,” he agrees with a grin. “But in a cute way. You kept complimenting me. Like, a lot.”

You groan again, the memory of last night slowly starting to trickle back. Compliments? Oh god, the compliments. You vaguely remember calling him the best friend in the world, telling him how much you loved him. And now, looking at him, you’re not sure if you’re going to die from the hangover or the embarrassment.

“Matthew, please tell me I didn’t say anything too stupid.”

His smile widens. “Well…”

“Matthew!”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, you didn’t say anything too incriminating. Just that you love me, which, I mean, I already knew. You were very emphatic about it, though.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open, trying to decide if it would be appropriate to scream again. Why? Why, of all the things you could have drunkenly confessed, did it have to be that? Your face burns, mortification settling into every bone in your body. “Why would you let me say that?!”

He shrugs, the casual, easy gesture infuriating in the face of your emotional collapse. “You were drunk. I wasn’t going to argue with you.”

You want to die. Right there. In the bed. Just sink into the mattress and never resurface. “I’m never drinking again,” you mutter, pulling the blanket over your head like it might protect you from the overwhelming embarrassment.

Matthew’s laugh is muffled through the covers. “Yeah, sure. You say that every time.”

You peek out from under the blanket, glaring at him. “This time, I mean it.”

His grin softens into something warmer, gentler. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know.” He pauses, looking almost thoughtful. “I love you, too.”

You freeze, your heart doing a weird little flutter in your chest. Wait, what?

Before you can ask him to elaborate, Matthew stretches his arms over his head and rolls out of bed, clearly done with the conversation. “C’mon, we’ve got Stampede today. Better get moving.”

You blink at him, still reeling. “Wait—what?”

“Stampede? You know, that thing we planned to go to today?” he says, giving you an exaggerated eyebrow raise. “The one with cowboy hats and booze, and where you promised not to make me ride the mechanical bull?”

“Right, Stampede,” you mumble, your mind still stuck on his earlier words. He loves you. He loves you.

Matthew crosses the room, tossing you a sweater from your closet and heads toward the door. “I’ll make breakfast. Get your hungover ass out of bed.”

As he disappears into the hallway, you flop back against the pillows, your head still spinning. Stampede or not, you can’t help but replay his words over and over in your mind. I love you, too.

Well, Stampede just got a whole lot more complicated.

***

You don’t know how you managed it, but somehow, you survived breakfast, a shower, and getting dressed without spontaneously combusting from mortification. Your brain is still stuck on those three words—I love you too—even as you pull on your denim shorts and cowboy boots, trying to mentally prepare for the chaos that is Stampede. It’s like your brain has been hijacked by a looped recording of Matthew’s voice, playing those words over and over again, each time more confusing than the last.

Does he mean it the same way you do? Or is he just saying it in that best-friend, casual way he’s always so damn good at? You’ve been mentally dissecting every possible meaning behind I love you like you’re preparing for a thesis defense, but no amount of overthinking is giving you the clarity you need. You’re trapped in this emotional limbo, your stomach doing weird flips that have absolutely nothing to do with your hangover.

Matthew, of course, is acting like everything’s completely normal. He’s been whistling around the apartment all morning, flipping pancakes and offering you Advil like you didn’t confess your deepest, most well-guarded feelings to him less than twelve hours ago. How can he be so fine? How is he just…okay with everything, while your world feels like it’s on the verge of collapse?

You groan inwardly as you apply some lip gloss, your fingers slightly shaky. You told yourself last night was no big deal, that maybe it was just a slip of the tongue, but deep down you know that’s not true. You meant it. And now you’ve got to spend the entire day at Stampede, of all places, with Matthew, the human embodiment of emotional confusion. Great. Just great.

By the time you step outside, the sun is high in the sky, blazing down with the kind of intensity that makes you wish you’d worn a hat. Matthew’s already waiting for you by your car, a stupid cowboy hat perched on his head, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He looks ridiculously handsome, of course—like some rugged movie star with his rolled-up sleeves and casual lean against the truck. God, you’re doomed.

“Finally,” he says, grinning as you approach. “I thought I was gonna have to come drag you out.”

You roll your eyes, trying to act normal, like your heart isn’t hammering in your chest. “It takes time to look this good, Tkachuk.”

He chuckles, pushing himself off the truck and walking over to you, his arm swinging casually around your shoulders as if nothing in the world has changed. But for you, everything has. His touch feels different now, heavier, like every brush of his hand against your skin is laced with some unspoken truth. You try not to stiffen under the weight of his arm, but your body betrays you, tensing ever so slightly.

He doesn’t seem to notice—thank god—and before you know it, you’re on your way to the Stampede grounds, Matthew’s stupid country music blaring through the speakers like he’s preparing for a rodeo. You stare out the window, half listening to him ramble about the day’s events, but mostly just lost in your own thoughts.

Why did I have to say it? Why couldn’t I have just kept my mouth shut? You want to rewind time, take back everything you said, because now things are…weird. Or maybe they’re not weird and you’re just overthinking it, which honestly feels worse. Either way, your stomach is tied in knots, and the closer you get to Stampede, the more you want to jump out of the moving car and run far, far away.

When you finally arrive, the sheer chaos of Stampede hits you like a freight train. The smell of deep-fried everything fills the air, and the sound of carnival games, country music, and people shouting is almost overwhelming. It’s hot, sticky, and there are cowboy hats as far as the eye can see. Matthew’s grinning like a kid in a candy store, clearly in his element, while you feel like you’ve stepped into some alternate universe where the world is just a little too…country for your taste.

You try to focus on the here and now, on the throngs of people milling about, on the mechanical bull you’ve already sworn you won’t ride, on the funnel cakes you know Matthew’s going to make you eat. Anything to distract yourself from the fact that you’re still obsessing over what he said earlier. I love you, too. The words are a thorn in your side, poking at you every time you try to relax and enjoy the day.

“Where to first?” Matthew asks, his voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd. He’s got that familiar gleam in his eye, the one that says he’s ready to drag you through every corner of this place.

You force a smile, trying to match his energy. “Anywhere that doesn’t involve me on a mechanical bull.”

He gives you a mock pout, nudging you with his elbow. “Aw, c’mon. It’d be fun.”

“Fun for you, maybe,” you retort. “I’d probably break my neck.”

Matthew laughs, throwing his arm around your shoulders again, and this time you can’t help the way your body stiffens. You hate that it feels different now, that your stupid feelings are ruining what’s supposed to be a carefree day. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he does, but he’s pretending he doesn’t—because his smile is as wide as ever as he pulls you toward the midway.

The next hour or so is a blur of games and rides, Matthew goading you into competing with him at literally everything. He wins a giant stuffed animal at one of the booths—some obnoxious thing that he insists you carry around because, direct quote, “You look cute with it.” You roll your eyes, but secretly, you kind of love it. It feels like the old days, before your feelings got all tangled up, when things were simple and easy between you.

But even with all the distractions, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’re hyper-aware of Matthew’s every move, of the way his hand lingers on your lower back when you’re walking, of the way he glances at you from time to time, like he’s checking to see if you’re okay. It’s like there’s this invisible line between the two of you now, and you’re terrified of crossing it, of saying or doing something that will change things forever.

Matthew’s definitely planted a seed you can’t get rid of.

Brady and Taryn's arrival is the perfect distraction. You’re instantly pulled into their infectious energy, chatting, laughing, and playing more games than your competitive side can handle. Brady’s got an arm around Matthew, teasing him about his cowboy hat, while Taryn’s dragging you toward the food stalls, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You’ve gotta try these,” Taryn says, pointing at some deep-fried monstrosity that looks like a heart attack waiting to happen.

You stare at the fried blob in her hand, unsure if you’re brave enough to try it. “That… doesn’t even look like food, Taryn.”

She grins, nudging you with her elbow. “That’s what makes it so good. Trust me.”

You raise an eyebrow, but take a cautious bite. To your surprise, it’s actually pretty tasty—if you ignore the fact that it’s probably clogging every artery you have. Matthew appears next to you just as you’re finishing the bite, grinning like he’s caught you doing something embarrassing.

“Wow,” he says, crossing his arms. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you’d eat deep-fried butter.”

You glare at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “It’s not butter. I think.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” He winks, and your stomach flips. Damn him and his stupid charm.

The rest of the day blurs into one long, chaotic mess of laughter, competition, and more fried food than you care to admit. You lose count of how many games Matthew drags you into, or how many times you roll your eyes at Brady’s jokes, but by the time the sun starts dipping low on the horizon, you’re exhausted. Your feet hurt, your stomach’s uncomfortably full, and the heat of the day has drained the last bit of your energy.

But through it all, there’s Matthew. His laughter, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. It’s maddening, really—how everything feels both perfectly normal and completely different at the same time.

Eventually, you all end up sitting in the grass, surrounded by a sea of cowboy hats and half-empty beer cans. Brady’s telling some story that’s got Taryn in stitches, and Matthew’s lounging beside you, his leg casually brushing against yours. You try not to overthink the contact, but of course, your brain immediately jumps to all the wrong conclusions. Does this mean something? Is he doing this on purpose? Why does everything have to feel so complicated?

“Y’alright?” Matthew’s voice breaks through your thoughts, and you realize he’s watching you, a curious expression on his face.

“Yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

He nods, accepting your answer, but there’s something in his gaze that tells you he’s not entirely convinced. Before you can spiral into another pit of overthinking, Brady’s voice cuts through the moment.

“We should head out,” Brady says, glancing at his watch. “It’s getting late.”

You glance at the sky, noticing for the first time how dark it’s gotten. The festival is still going strong, but you’re grateful for the excuse to leave. Spending the day at Stampede has been fun, sure, but the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been on is starting to take its toll. And besides, there’s the looming fact that Matthew’s flight back to Florida is in just a few hours.

By the time you all make your way back to the parking lot, the exhaustion has well and truly set in. You bid a quick goodbye to Brady and Taryn, who are heading off in their own direction, leaving just you and Matthew standing by your car.

The ride back to Matthew's hotel is quiet, the kind of silence that feels heavy and loaded, like there’s too much left unsaid between you. You’re both so exhausted that words would probably come out garbled anyway, but still, you can’t shake the sense that there’s something looming just beneath the surface. The hum of the car’s engine is the only sound, along with the occasional shuffle as Matthew adjusts himself in the seat next to you, his cowboy hat now tossed carelessly into the back.

You’re replaying the day in your mind, a hazy montage of laughter, sweat, and Matthew’s stupidly perfect smile, all set against the chaos of Stampede. Somehow, despite your mental spirals, you managed to survive. You even had fun. But now, with the sun barely beginning to rise, you’re bone-deep tired, both physically and emotionally, and you know the hardest part is yet to come.

When you finally pull up to the hotel, the parking lot is eerily empty. It’s barely four a.m., and whatever light there is casts long shadows across the pavement, painting everything in soft pinks and oranges, and for a brief moment, you think about how beautiful it all is. Then you remember that you’re here to drop Matthew off, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

“I’ll just grab my stuff,” he mumbles, his voice gravelly with exhaustion as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

You nod, watching as he steps out of the car, his movements slower than usual, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the day. He disappears into the hotel, leaving you alone in the silence of the car, and you immediately sink into your thoughts. This is it. You’re about to say goodbye, and you have no idea when—or if—you’ll see him again. Sure, he promised to keep in touch, but now everything feels up in the air, like the ground beneath your feet isn’t as solid as it was before.

You lean your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to gather yourself. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve said goodbye to him—he flies back and forth between Calgary and Florida all the time—but something about this feels different. He kissed your cheek last night when you said you loved him. I love you too. The words echo in your mind again, as if mocking you, reminding you that nothing has been resolved.

Before you can spiral any further, Matthew is sliding back into the passenger seat, a duffel bag thrown carelessly over his shoulder. His movements are slow and tired, but he still manages to flash you a half-smile as he buckles up again.

“Airport time,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, starting the car again and pulling out of the hotel lot. The drive to the airport feels like a blur, the city barely waking up as dawn breaks through a little more. There’s still a quiet tension between you, though, the kind that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Matthew hums along to the music playing softly through the radio, his voice low and tired, and for a brief moment, you wonder if this is how things will always be between you—comfortable, but with this undercurrent of something unspoken.

The airport is only a short drive away, and before you know it, you’re pulling up to the drop-off zone. Your heart sinks as the realization hits you: this is it. You’re about to say goodbye, and you have no idea what’s going to happen next. You park the car, turning off the engine, and for a few moments, neither of you moves. The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, and you feel like you’re on the edge of some invisible cliff, teetering dangerously close to falling.

“Well,” Matthew says, breaking the silence as he grabs his bag. “I guess I’ll see you… whenever.”

You force a smile, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. Whenever.”

You both step out of the car, the early morning air cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the truck. You stand awkwardly by the side of the vehicle, feeling like there should be more to say but not knowing what it is. Matthew slings his bag over his shoulder, looking at you with that same easy smile that you’ve known for years, but now it feels different. You feel different.

He steps toward you, arms outstretched, and for a moment, you think this is going to be one of those quick, awkward hugs that leaves you even more confused than before. But as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, the world seems to slow down. You breathe him in—sweat, cologne, and a hint of that lingering Stampede smell—and your heart aches with how much you don’t want to let go.

His embrace is tight, warm, and for a second, you let yourself relax into it, even though it feels like goodbye. When he pulls away, you half expect him to just wave and walk off, leaving you standing in the early morning light with a whole heap of unresolved emotions. But instead, he pauses, his hand lingering on your arm, his eyes searching yours for something you can’t quite name.

And then, before you can process what’s happening, Matthew leans down and kisses you. His lips press against yours, soft but insistent, like he’s trying to say everything that neither of you has had the courage to say aloud. It’s not some quick, casual peck—it’s the kind of kiss that makes your heart stutter and your knees go weak, the kind that tells you this, whatever this is, is far from over.

You barely have time to register the warmth of his lips, the way his hand cups the back of your neck, before a loud honk breaks through the moment. Someone behind you is getting impatient, and Matthew pulls away, a grin spreading across his face as he glances toward the source of the noise. “Fuck off, I’m trying to say goodbye to my girl!” he yells.

You blink, breathless, your lips still tingling from Matthew’s kiss. Did that just happen? Your brain feels sluggish, like it's struggling to catch up with what just occurred. For a moment, you just stand there, dumbfounded, staring at him. His grin widens, his eyes sparkling with amusement, and you realize he’s waiting for you to say something—anything—but your brain is still buffering.

The driver behind you lays on the horn again, longer this time, clearly impatient with your impromptu airport romance. Matthew flips them the bird without breaking eye contact with you, and you can't help but burst into laughter, the tension of the moment unraveling like a tightly wound thread. It feels like a release—like everything that had been unsaid all morning just floated away on a cloud of giddy exhaustion.

"Your girl, huh?" you manage to tease, raising an eyebrow, but your voice is softer than you intended. There's a question lingering beneath your words, one you're too scared to ask directly. Is this real? Are we real?

Matthew’s smirk falters for a second, just a split second, before he catches himself. “Yeah,” he says, softer now, as if he’s testing the words on his tongue. “My girl.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, you think you might actually melt into a puddle right there in the drop-off lane. How did you get here? One minute, you’re friends attending Stampede, navigating muddy fields and fried food, and the next... this. Your heart swells, a tangled mix of joy, confusion, and hope all battling for dominance.

“I’ll call you when I land,” he says, his voice more serious now as he grabs his duffel from the ground. “Promise.”

Your heart gives an involuntary little flutter at the sincerity in his tone. He’s not just saying it to make you feel better—he means it. Matthew might be many things, but he’s never been the type to break a promise. You try not to make a big deal out of it, but you know this is a turning point. Something is changing between you, and for once, it’s not terrifying. It’s exciting.

You nod, feeling the flutter of nervous excitement in your chest. "Good. I’ll hold you to that."

For a moment, you both just stand there, the early morning light painting the world in soft golds and pinks, making the whole scene feel dreamlike. It’s that in-between time where everything is quiet, like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. And in that silence, you feel it—how much you’re going to miss him, how much you already do.

"Hey," he says softly, his hand brushing against yours. "Don’t overthink it, okay? We’ll figure it out."

You blink up at him, caught off guard by how easily he seems to read your mind. He always does that—sees right through the layers of sarcasm and banter to the heart of what you’re feeling.

"I’m not overthinking," you lie, and he snorts, clearly not buying it.

"Sure you’re not," he says, and before you can respond, he’s pulling you into one last hug. This time, it’s softer, more like a promise than a goodbye. His chin rests on top of your head, and for a moment, you let yourself melt into him, memorizing the feeling of his arms around you.

"I’ll miss you," you mumble into his chest, barely loud enough for him to hear. But he does.

"I’ll miss you too," he replies, his voice equally quiet, like the words are just for you and no one else.

Eventually, you both pull away, and this time, you know it’s really goodbye. He gives you one last smile, that easy, stupidly charming grin that’s been driving you crazy all day, and then he’s walking toward the terminal. You watch him go, your heart feeling heavier with each step he takes away from you.

Just before he disappears through the doors, he turns around, waving with a goofy, exaggerated flourish that makes you laugh despite yourself.

"Bye, crazy girl!" he shouts, loud enough that a few people glance over in confusion, and you can’t help but shake your head.

"Go catch your flight!" you yell back, still laughing as you wave him off.

When you finally get back into the car, you sit for a moment in stunned silence. Did he just call you his girl? Did you just kiss him goodbye like it was the most natural thing in the world? You giggle to yourself, slapping the steering wheel like a giddy teenager. Yeah, you did.

As you pull away from the curb, heading back into the city, you can’t stop the smile spreading across your face. The morning sun is rising higher now, casting everything in a golden glow that feels almost surreal, like the universe is giving you a thumbs-up for finally getting your shit together.

Your phone buzzes with a text, and you glance down at the screen.

Matthew: Told you I'd call.

You roll your eyes, but your heart does that stupid little skip again. Maybe this isn’t as complicated as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, things are actually going to be okay.

Sure, there’s still a lot to figure out, but for now, you’ve got a promise. A promise to call, a promise to figure it out, and the memory of that kiss still buzzing on your lips.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe it.

#nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #matthew tkachuk fanfiction #matthew tkachuk x you #matthew tkachuk x reader #matthew tkachuk fic #matthew tkachuk #florida panthers imagine #florida panthers #hockey fanfic #Spotify #mt19 #mt19 x reader #mt19 x you