Guy who is tired: so if you think about it, technically a sport season is basically a teambuilding roguelite rpg. And I could build an edit out of this somehow, which will resonate with an audience of, maybe two,
i was waiting for the tk/ivan victory hug after the game tonight and the broadcast sucks so i didn't get it, BUT i got this instead and thought u would enjoy <3
no need to apologize my dear for i know it to be true
i do think jars would have a great time with it (#enrichment), but ully does indeed kick his ass
charlie can i submit to you that i JUST realized that my icon is actually sway (#thankyoulinda) and while i do maintain that ULLY would get him, i do actually think jarry could clobber sway
To make up for the Christmas imagine being late, I’m posting this short little New Years one early! Plus I’m writing another New Years one, so.
Rating: T
Pairing: Tristan Jarry/Reader
Words:
Warnings: alcohol mention
Requested: yes/no
Summary: It’s New Year’s Eve with the Pens; can you ever expect anything to go as planned with them? (feat. excessive italics)
You’ve been friends with the Pens for, what? Five years? God, it’s been five years since you ran into Jake in the bowels of the PPG Paints Arena, when it was still the Consol Energy Center. You’d dropped all your paperwork and he’d helped you pick it up, chatting all the while. And that was it. Suddenly you were friends with Jake, and then Dumo, and then Fleury, and then you were suddenly friends with all of them. Friends to the point that you were invited to Flower’s going-away party when he got drafted to the Golden Knights two years ago.
Now it’s the end of the year, the end of the decade, and Sid has invited you to the New Year’s party he’s hosting at his place, which is where you are now. And here’s the thing-- you’re not like, in love with him, but you might have just a tiny bit of a little crush on him. Wait, not “him” as in Sid, that was bad phrasing. The one who you might have a tiny bit of a little crush on is Tristan Jarry, arguably your best friend on the team. He’s been on and off the Penguins roster, filling in for Flower and later Murray, but even on Wilkes-Barre, you’d still kept in touch. It’s looking like he might stick around this time, which you’re more than happy about. You interact with the team a lot more now that you’ve been promoted than you did when you met Jake as an intern, and Tristan makes for good content.
The point is, you’re at a party with the Penguins, and Tristan is here, and you might be a bit in love with him, and he’s been dancing with another girl all night. You’re not the jealous type, not usually, but your chest feels a bit tighter every time you see him up in that girl’s space. She’s one of Anna’s friends, you’re pretty sure, which means she’s tall and blonde and gorgeous, and you’re feeling a bit poss-- of him. He’s a good guy, sweet and funny and trusting, and you don’t want him to get taken advantage of, is all.
You do another shot at the behest of Bleuger, something that burns just enough that you forget about Tristan for a few blessed moments. But then he’s there, standing behind you when you turn around to leave the bar after tapping down your glass. You look up into his eyes, a bit surprised to see him there instead of with whatever TV star he’s been dancing with all night.
“Hey Y/N,” he greets you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and steering you from the bar. He leads you to the edge of the unofficial dancefloor, sliding his hands down to your waist and starting to sway the both of you. You dance all the time, so this isn’t anything new, but it still lights you up the same as ever, bright sparks down your spine at his touch, at the proximity.
“Hey Tristan,” you finally say, “What happened to Anna’s friend?” You have no idea why you ask that, except maybe a bit of bitterness. He’s your dance partner, not hers or anyone else’s. Tristan laughs lightly, sliding one thumb out onto your stomach. You’re long past worrying if he minds the extra softness there.
“She just would not leave me alone,” he says, dipping his head close like he’s telling you a secret, “I think she’s looking for a hockey husband.” Oh. So it was her monopolizing his time, not the other way around. Or he’s just saying that because he thinks you’re upset that he’s barely spent time with you all night. Which you are, but you’d never admit that.
“Aren’t we all,” you respond, chuckling a bit. Anyone would be lucky to marry any of the guys, what with how kind and cool they all are. Hockey Husband is too general for what you’re looking for, though, because you’re looking more for a specific husband who just happens to be a hockey player. Important distinction.
“Well, I’m right here,” he says, sending a wink your way. He always jokes that way, little chirps about liking you, about being with you. Hell, the song you guys always dance to involves the line “life is better with you”. It’s fun, and nice, and entirely heartbreaking. The way he treats being with you as a joke, treats loving you as something laughable. You know he doesn’t mean it that way, but it still sucks. But it’s fun. It’s all just good fun.
Bleuger interrupts your dancing for another shot, and you’re painfully in love, so you don’t say no. Tristan takes one too, watching you swallow yours down first. It gives you the chance to watch his throat stretch and bob through his pale skin, so you’ll let it slide. By this point, you’re feeling pretty buzzed and pretty confident. You know you look good in your little black dress, paired with your kitten heels and smokey eye. Whoever the lucky person you end up going home with tonight is, they’re in for a treat. Sure, you wish that person would be Tristan, but you can’t always get what you want, and all that.
“Dance with me,” Tristan almost-orders, dragging you back to the floor. It’s close enough to midnight that the makeshift dancefloor in Sid’s living room is packed with couples and singles trying to pick up for a night. You can’t deny Tristan anything, so you let him move you the way he wants. You can’t dance the way you like with this many people around, confined as you are, so you’re restricted to moving against Tristan. His hands guide your hips against his own, your chest pressed against him, your faces turned toward each other. You move like that for an indeterminate amount of time, so close you can feel his breathing as much as you can hear it, despite the distance created by your… extra padding.
You don’t really notice that the floor has cleared out until people start chanting numbers, counting down from ten. Oh crap, you’re gonna miss the ball drop. But honestly, you’re not too concerned about missing it if that means you get to stay here in Tristan’s arms. It seems he has the same idea, gently swaying the two of you in place as he counts down the last five seconds looking into your eyes. Five. It would be so easy to kiss him. Four. He probably wouldn’t mind. Three. You could always play it off as a joke if he wasn’t into it. Two. He probably wouldn’t be into it. One.
He’s kissing you.
He’s kissing you.
Only after a few moments devoid of response does he pull away. He looks embarrassed, ashamed, and all you want to do is wipe that look away.
“I’m sorry, that was inappropriate,” he says, backing away, “I should have asked.” He seems as though he’s going to continue apologizing, keep trying to make up for something that doesn’t need to be made up for, and you wish your brain would just get back online already so you can stop him. It reboots right around the time he starts trying to minimize it and make it seem like a friend thing, but you know what a friend-kiss is like and it certainly is not that.
“Tristan, please shut up,” you interrupt his rambling. You don’t even give him time to look too shocked, grabbing his jaw and pulling him back down to kiss again. Like you, he seems shocked for a moment, but unlike you, he kicks back into gear quickly and kisses you long and hard. One of his hands is cupping the base of your skull to tilt it just the right way, the other hand curved against your face so his thumb can stroke along the apple of your cheek.
What you’re expecting when you pull back is… not this. This being half the guys jumping all over Tristan like the biggest celly of the season, and the girls all taking turns hugging you tight. They’re all congratulating you in varying ways, from a regular “congratulations!” to an emphatic “finally!”. The girls have known that you like Tristan for a good while, but you had no idea that the guys knew about. However the hell Tristan feels for you.
“Sorry,” Tristan apologizes once the boys have calmed down, dropping another kiss on your lips, “I’ve been in love with you for like, forever, so they’re excited.” In love with. Forever. Are you fucking kidding?
“We could have been doing this before and we waited this long?” you ask, more of a shocked statement. Tristan laughs and places sweet kisses on your cheeks, nose, forehead, everywhere. It makes you giggle against your will, affection and unbridled joy bubbling up from that place deep inside you that never stopped hoping. Guess sometimes, you can get what you want.
no seriously can we talk about whatever the fuck ivan and teeks have going on because. hello.
CAN WE PLEASE??? BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE IM GOING INSANE HERE.
The bare hands the whole time. The delicate, gentle touch. Ivan’s big fucking mitts patting TK’s back and cupping his helmet. Them holding eye contact so intimately, like everything else fell away. HELLO CAN ANYONE HEAR ME
for the rarepair prompts: tanger/jarry, "how the hell did you get pasta sauce on the ceiling?"
rarepair challenge // accepting
It's Everywhere!
581 words, T for language.
Tristan steps onto the porch, and heaves a big sigh. Another loss, another weight on his shoulders, another tough media scrum. He does his best to avoid them, but it was his turn tonight, so he gritted his teeth and beared it. He hated every second, but-
Whatever. Whatever! He was home now, and Kris was waiting for him, on the mend and ready to rejoin the lineup. Just another day or two, and they’d be back together on the ice.
Tristan unlocks the front door, steps inside, and closes the door behind him. He toes his shoes off, takes a deep breath, and hums when he smells the wonderful smells of tomato sauce. “Hey, babe- are you cooking?” He calls out, curious. He tosses his gear bag into the hall closet and heads further in, following his nose to the kitchen. The lack of response makes his brow furrow, though. “Tanger?” He tries again. Still no response.
He steps into the kitchen, and stops.
Kris… was cooking. He’s not there now, but what he was cooking is… It’s everywhere. Tomato sauce is splattered all over the stove, up the wall, and on the- god, it’s on the fucking ceiling . It’s like a jar of it exploded. Tristan hurries over to the stove, worried it’s still on, but thankfully all the burners are off. He hovers his hand over the pan, and it’s cool, so it’s been off for a while. Tristan looks over at the sink, and finds a used pot, but no evidence of pasta. What the fuck happened here?
He leaves the kitchen, and heads to their bedroom. He knocks gently, and peers inside. “Kris?” He calls.
There, on the bed, is Kris. He’s laying on top of the sheets, shirtless, and face buried in a pillow.
“Babe, how the hell did you get pasta sauce on the ceiling?” Tristan asks as he steps into the bedroom fully. Kris curls further into the pillow, back to Tristan. Tristan sits on the bed behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t want to talk about it.” Kris grumbles.
“Aw, babe, c’mon- I wanna hear what happened.”
“I tried to cook something for you and I fucked it up.”
Tristan’s heart melts at Kris’ frustrated tone, and he leans down to press his lips to Kris’ hair. “Baby, I’m honored you tried. Do you want to try again, and I’ll help? Or do you just want to order something?”
Kris stubbornly refuses to turn around for another minute, but Tristan knows to just wait him out. Eventually, Kris turns around, and sits up to bury his face in Tristan’s chest. “Wanna try again.”
Tristan huffs, and cups the back of Kris’ skull. “Okay, Kris, let’s try again. Do we have more pasta sauce?”
Kris nods.
“Good, that’s a good start. What- uh, what happened to your shirt?”
Kris grumbles. “Got covered in sauce.”
“Let’s actually start with a new shirt, instead. Then we’ll clean up, then we’ll try cooking again, okay?”
Kris nods again, and sits up fully, letting Tristan get a good look at him for the first time since he got home. Tristan can barely muffle his laugh in time. The defenseman is splattered with sauce.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make fun of you- you’re just-”
“I know. I know I’m covered in it.”
“Baby, how did you-”
“I don’t know!”
“Okay, it’s okay, I’ll help you get cleaned up, too.”
